A Wolf called Ring

By A. W. Sibley

Dub Sibley, a farm boy growing up in pre-WWII Louisiana, raises a half-wolf pup and names it Ring. The black wolf dog with the white ring around its neck becomes Dub’s best friend, and together they work on the farm, explore the woods nearby, and hunt for squirrels and other animals that are vital to the Sibley family’s survival. No one understands the bond between the boy and his dog, not even Dub’s parents or his sisters and brother.

When Ring’s talent for hunting and treeing squirrels shows up a wealthy rival in a well-publicized contest, the rival wants more than revenge: he wants to own Ring. But Dub isn’t selling his prized dog, no matter what the man offers, because Ring isn’t his possession—he’s Dub’s best friend. The wealthy man finds he must use other, illegal means to ensure the wolf dog never again hunts for anyone but him.

Finding himself a prisoner, alone, confused, and far from home, Ring the wolf dog must seek a means of escape so he can head back home to his friend Dub. His cross-country journey from his kidnapper’s home in Massachusetts to Dub’s farm in Louisiana will be long, arduous, and filled with challenges that only a wolf can survive. Does he have the strength and courage it will take to find his way back to Dub? Along the difficult trek, Ring must decide whether to be a dog or a wolf—and his decision will affect not only his own survival, but the also the life or death of the she-wolf he meets along the way.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brighton Publishing LLC
• Release date: Apr 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9781621831969

A. W. Sibley

Dr. Sibley was born and raised in the small town of Negreet, Louisiana. After serving in the U.S. Army he attended McNeese State University in Lake Charles, Louisiana, and Loyola University in New Orleans where he obtained his Doctorate in Dentistry. Dr. Sibley spent his career working as a country dentist in rural Louisiana. When not at the dental office, he enjoyed spending his off hours in the pursuit of various activities included farming, raising horses, cattle, developing land, hunting, fishing, and raising kids. Raising four children with his wife Margaret, he retired from dentistry and resides in Merryville, Louisiana and enjoys farming and writing. His first published work “A Wolf Called Ring” was released in 2014, receiving much acclaim in the literary market, and even hailed as a modern day Mark Twain. His second work “A Filly Called Honey Gal” was released in 2015, followed by “A Wolf in God’s Country” in 2016, “Dub’s Misadventures” and “Home Again” in 2017. Hawgs, Dawgs and Freedom is a departure from The Wolf series. A heartfelt story of a man’s life. A story that shows life is what man makes of it, not what life makes of man. A story of how despair can be set aside with laughter. A story about the class of people who made the United States of America the land of the free and the home of the brave. Visit Dr. Sibley. at: https://www.docsibley.com

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A Wolf called Ring

Dr. A.W. Sibley

Brighton Publishing LLC

435 N. Harris Drive

Mesa, AZ 85203

www.BrightonPublishing.com

ISBN13: 978-1-62183-196-9

Copyright © 2014

eBook

SMASHWORDS EDITION

Cover Design: Tom Rodriguez

All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction based upon real life experiences. The characters in this book are fictitious and the creation of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to other characters or to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Acknowledgements

I want to thank my wonderful wife, Margaret, for all the proofing and correcting of my grammatical errors (repeatedly) which took her hours and hours. She must really love me.

I want to also thank my youngest daughter, Lisa, for patiently teaching me how to use a computer and using that internet thing to look things up for me.

For my good friends, Professors Charles Nichols and Barry Gray, I want to say that I appreciate every bit of help and constructive criticism that they could supply.

Preface

The following is about a different time and place in history; a time and place that exist no more. It was a time when we were not in danger from the thought-police, a time when one could walk through the woods without a neighbor suing for trespass. A time when I could walk out of my house without the sky-police reporting me to the racially divisive president in Washington. A time when my wife could have her mammogram in private and not have her picture reported around the world. A time when kids could pray in school, a time when I could dig a mess of worms for fish bait without the Defenders of Worms having me arrested. A time when I could build a fire in my fireplace and warm my hands without being arrested for using too much energy, a time when the president’s wife could not dictate what I ate for breakfast.

Names have been changed to protect privacy. I have used hyperbole to enhance stories that otherwise would be so humdrum they wouldn’t be of interest to anyone. Let’s call the whole book enhanced autobiography, or, if you prefer, we’ll call it autobiographical fiction. Whatever you call it, I still say, after seventy-nine years—Ain’t life a hoot?

It is May 2013, and I sit here in the early morning in my shirt sleeves. I watch for the sun in the east, just coming over the trees. The moon may not be full, but it’s close to it. Maybe it is full, because my sweet wife has been restless and did not sleep well this past night. It has been the same, these past fifty-five years. She has wild dreams in the time of the full moon, and her rest is uneasy. Is it the call of the wild in her blood? But if that call is from the wild, is it for me?

The moon falls below the horizon, with the promise of another spectacular day that the Good Lord, in His infinite mercy, has given us. I have almost reached eighty years and have so many things that still need doing. The red-eye bass call me from the Sabine River, but I’m too tired this day to launch my little tunnel boat. Son-in-law Robert needs to clean the carburetor anyway. Maybe I’ll go the next warm day. I wanted to take my two pointer dogs to the Black Kettle National Grasslands in search of the fierce bobwhite, but I didn’t do that little thing, either. Where has my get-up-and-go gone?

This is a good time of year on our old country place. My sweetheart and I built this house forty-eight years ago with money we earned, not borrowed. This was practically wilderness then, with just one or two vehicles per day passing our nest, but now there is constant traffic. Not this morning—everything is peaceful and quiet. My good friend, Charles and I maintain that noise is an abomination before the Lord. But my thoughts stray.

I smell the sweet bloom on the Magnolia fuscata. Some call these banana shrubs because the blooms smell like bananas. I notice the petals starting to fall from the wild yellow jasmine, and I get a whiff of dead dog from Margaret’s wild cactus. How can something look so pretty and smell so bad? I enjoy our yard, with the bush honeysuckle, dogwood, dewberries, and redbuds, all back dropped by peach blossoms. I might also add that the fig trees are leaving out.

I sat down here to tell a few things about this book I am about to finish. This is a book of fiction. All the characters are figments of my imagination, although based in fact. A mixture of fact and fiction will, in my mind, create a message of hope for mankind and his animals, and I’m not speaking of his offspring. It may, if the Lord will, invoke that message in you. Many of us have used our animal friends and then cast them aside, with no thought to the nature of the beast. If we bring into our reading rooms the lives of our companions, I believe we can understand that, when red blood pulses through veins, those animals are very much like us—there being only one difference—the soul. To see that horse in his stall or that dog in his kennel means very little, but to live a book’s worth of time with that animal will enable us to see their affections for each other and for us. To be with an animal in its moments of stress will allow us an understanding of its grief and pain, as well as its happiness. I shall tell of their lives as if I had actually lived them.

It’s a fact that the development of intelligence in a dog is directly related to how much time during its formative growth is spent in close association with a normal, reasonably intelligent master. Given that same master’s brain grows at some predetermined rate of development, should not the boy and his dog grow closer and closer in thought and reasoning? If the brains of both boy and dog are highly developed supernatural computers, should not these two brains communicate in an uncommon manner?

I now ride a well-trained saddle mule that I have ridden for the past twenty-five years. I take good care of Beau and I feed him and brush him when he asks me to. He does not speak to me in English, but I know his I’m hungry call. When he comes to me and rubs his shoulder on me, I know to brush him. Beau can tell by the tone of my voice exactly what his action in a given situation should be. I can call this talking if I want to—that’s my privilege.

When Beau stands by the dry sand pile near the barn door, he says plainly to me, Dub, may I take my bath here in front of the barn door? If I look at him and say, Go ahead, he starts to lie down. If I stand there watching him, he won’t lie down. He just stands there, looking at the sand, all the while swishing his tail. This tells me quite plainly, I can’t bathe with you watching me. After I turn away, he dives into his sand to roll over and over.

By the time I walk from the barn to my back door, Beau will have finished his bath. He will, as sure as the sun rises, look to me at the backdoor and bray, as if to say, Thanks Dub, you have a grand day. I’m off down the hill to graze with the other horses. I’m so clean I squeak.

And he will be unhappy if I don’t step back outside and whistle to him and call, Good boy, Beau! Always remember that cleanliness is next to godliness. If I didn’t just have a conversation with my mule, then I don’t know up from down either. My wife has two computers that talk to each other, while I don’t hear a word. I can stand here by my back door with a thing the size of a pack of cigarettes in my hand and talk to my brother in Ohio. If artificial intelligence can send a message across a continent in one heartbeat or faster, might not my dog call me by the same manner?

The happy and sometimes sad escapades that Dub leads the wolf-dog and filly into are much too numerous to be detailed in one book, so any more smoke from their campfire will have to come in the next volume. Relax by the campfire, let your imagination run free, and enjoy life. That’s what our Good Lord meant for us.

We are in the path of a weather change here at Junction, Louisiana. The air is already changing. That fiery red sunrise is clouding over, and the south wind is starting to moan in the huge pines out by the dog pen. That is such a mournful strange sound. Clouds are starting to pile in from the southwest. They are broken in pieces now, but by noon will be much thicker and darker. They pass across the sun much like huge schooner ships as they sail along, pushed by gulf winds, clouds so low they must be rowing along the crest of those big old loblolly pines. Ah, well, I’ll go to my workroom and tell you of a distant time and place—of animals that think, feel, and love while confronting tomorrow much as we humans do.

Chapter One

In the early 1930’s the Sibley family lived on the edge of the Sabine River bottom on the Louisiana side, across the river from Hemphill, Texas. This used to be called no man’s land and was claimed by both the United States and Mexico. Today the Sabine River is the dividing line between Louisiana and Texas. In the early 1930’s, however, most of the big forest country of the Sabine River bottom was still called no man’s land.

Eventually, by 1938, we wound up living even farther into the river bottom, about a mile and a half from Negreet Creek and down a little old log road about two miles off the parish road. Our road was a one-lane track that led back to an old frame house that went with the hundred and twenty acres Dad bought from an elderly black man by the name of Courtney. When Mr. Courtney homesteaded the place, he planted fruit trees of every kind imaginable. He also planted several kinds of pecan and walnut trees. When we moved in and settled, there was an orchard already established.

The front of the house faced the east, and in the early hours, it got the rising sun. It was what they called a double-pen house. The house had a wide front porch and a big wide hall that ran down the middle of the house from east to west. On one side of the hall, Dad and Mom slept in the so-called living room, where the fireplace was located. Grandpa slept in a small room right off the fireplace. Across the hallway were two more bedrooms. My three sisters, Sister, Neecy, and Gene had the bigger room, while my brother and I slept in a little room just big enough for one bed.

All the rooms in the old house had windows, but no glass—just wooden shutters that could be fastened open or closed. My room had a good big window that faced west and stayed open most of the time. That window gave me access to the out-of-doors without going through the main house. Lots of times I would wake up on the moonlight nights and sit in my window.

Off to the west was the tromp yard, and across that about one hundred and fifty yards away was the shop where Dad kept his tools and stored lots of equipment that he needed. There was a little room in the back of the shop where an old black man named Nigger Alf lived. Alf had lived with our family most all his life. Somewhere in the past, Alf and Dad got together, and Alf came to work and live with us. Dad built the room that I called Alf’s place, and put in a wood heater for cooking and heating. Alf had a nice rocking chair that Dad built for him. To set the record straight, we meant no disrespect toward Nigger Alf. We loved that old man. He was happy with that name, and we were too. He was family—we were the only family that cared about him.

Around the time we moved to the Courtney place, I was getting to be a good-sized kid. I was five years old and felt like I ought to have a dog of my own. Our principal farm produce was cotton, corn, peanuts, and the like, but we also raised hogs, cows, and horses, so this ol’ boy needed a dog and a horse. Our livestock ranged free in the woods in the Sabine River and Negreet Creek bottoms on public land. (We called it public, although I suppose it belonged to someone, but I don’t know who. We used it like it belonged to us.) We also had a lot of hogs—some tame, but most of them wild as deer—that freely roamed the bottom land. The cattle and hogs made a pretty good cash crop for us, the hogs in particular. Besides that, we ate a lot of pork. As a kid, I don’t remember ever butchering a cow or a steer, so I never got to eat much beef. Having plenty of home grown pork in addition to our big garden contributed a lot to our quality of life. We also gathered many things such as nuts and berries from the woods. I don’t remember the exact time when this happened, but Dad had a dog named Queen, a black-mouth cur with what we called glass eyes because they resemble glass. Queen was two years old at the time this took place. She was a long-bodied yellow dog with a solid white ring around her neck. Dad said she was one of the best dogs he ever owned. She and Dad were really, really good partners. Queen stayed as close to Dad as possible both day and night.

Queen slept in a hole in the sand under the living room floor, directly under Dad’s bed. The old house had no carpet on the floor, so if he turned over in bed at night, Queen was instantly awake. Lots of times I’d wake up at night and hear Dad turn over in bed. Almost immediately Queen’s head would hit the floor boards under Dad’s bed, so we knew she was on the job.

Many times, especially in spring and summer, I’d hear Mom get up and go to the kitchen. Then pretty soon I would hear the noise of pots, pans, and doors rattling as Mom built a fire. I’d lie there until I heard Dad get up; by that time I knew Mom had coffee made. Dad always got his coffee and went out the back door and sat on the doorsteps. The daily ritual would continue when Queen walked up, sort of smiled at Dad, and raised her paw. They would shake hands, and Dad would say, Good morning Lady. Then Queen would sit down by Dad, and their day would start.

When I crawled out my bedroom window to go sit a few minutes with my dad, I had to shake hands with his dog, too. And we’d go through that same ritual each morning. Every day when I sat down by my dad, I had to ask him about getting me one of those dogs, too. I pestered him a lot for a dog: Dad, where’s my dog at? He would always say, Just as soon as Queen comes in, I’m going to get you a dog. She’s old enough now, and as soon as she cycles, I’m going to get you a puppy. I’m going to breed her to one of Mr. Hendricks’ dogs. She’ll probably have five or six puppies and you can have the pick of the litter.

These black-mouth cur dogs were a very important part of our lives. We used them not only to herd the cattle and hogs and to tree coons and squirrels, but also to guard the place. They had to be very dependable because many hobos came through that country in the late 1930’s and early ’40’s. Most of the hobos would steal anything they could get their hands on. Our neighbors who didn’t have this kind of dog had their smokehouses robbed and all of their winter’s supply of meat stolen. Sacks of corn were stolen out of their corn cribs. Those glass-eyed, black cur dogs were necessary to our culture and our family.

At two years old, Queen had more experience than most dogs would at ten years. That little dog was just as devoted to Dad as if he had been one of her pups. She minded Dad a heck of a lot better than we kids did. But, because I was the oldest boy, I could not understand why I couldn’t have a dog.

One evening just about dark, while I was waiting to turn the cows out, Dad and I were sitting on the back steps with Queen. I remember it was in the springtime, and the whippoorwills were moaning from every point of the compass. Also what we called bull bats—I think the correct name is nighthawk, would fly high up while singing and then dive almost to the ground, making a roaring noise that sounded like a bull bellowing. We could hear Mom and the girls washing dishes and cleaning up in the kitchen. The smell from the four-o’clock blooms was so thick in the air that I could hardly breathe; it made me want to get the sniffles. Mom had a Magnolia fuscata tree just outside the window where my brother and I slept. It was just coming into bloom, and it smelled like bananas. There was a full moon, and the sun was just going down red—I mean blood red.

As Dad and I sat there, he said, Son, did it ever strike you as funny that as the moon is coming up, the sun is just going down?

How do you know that? I asked.

He said, Step around that corner and see. Well, the sun was right on the horizon; part was already gone. As I stepped past that corner, the full moon was, sure enough, just coming up. And I’m telling you what—it was almost as red as the sun. It was so big I could see the Man in the Moon.

I eased back around there by Dad just in time to see ol’ Queen bunch up and jump about twenty-five feet out into the yard. She sailed off those steps, and every hair stood straight up on her back. Dad said, What in the world is going on? Get back up here. Queen looked back over her shoulder at him and froze there, pointing off to the west past the barn. About that time the horses in the barn started acting up.

I heard it before Dad did; maybe I could hear a little better than he could. It started off as a low moan that got louder and louder. It sounded like it was out in the barn lot. Then the old cows got to cutting up a little bit. The sound petered out and ended in a sort of whine. I thought it must be a dog, but there was just too much of it to be a dog. I looked at Dad, and he looked at Queen—she was still at attention. She threw her head back, pointed her nose at the sky, and started to whine, but then she cut it off and looked at Dad.

He said, Get back up here, girl.

When the end of that howl came, it echoed down toward the creek. I said, Dad, was that a wolf?

Son, I haven’t heard one in years, but I do believe it was. After a few minutes, Queen bounded back out in the yard. Again Dad made her get back up by him. He said, You know, Queen wants to go to that. Dad thought it was funny, but I had other thoughts.

I went to put the cows out, and we didn’t hear that wolf (if it was a wolf) howl any more. I sure didn’t see it out at the barn, and you can bet your bottom dollar my little head was turning in every direction at once.

Later on that night, I was lying in bed next to Brother after everybody else had gone to sleep. I could hear Dad and Grandpa both snoring, so I eased the shutter back a bit and crawled up into the window. I sat there watching what needed watching in the moonlight. It was as bright as day, and I could see ol’ Alf about a hundred and fifty yards away, lighting his lantern and piddling around with something. He was always late getting to bed. I guess he was so old he didn’t sleep much.

I heard Queen’s head hit the boards under Dad’s bed, but I hadn’t heard Dad move. I had learned to be quiet because I didn’t want to get caught in that window. If you got caught doing that kind of stuff, they’d forbid you to do it, and if you did it anyway and got caught, you got your butt tore up. So I was listening real quiet, and I saw ol’ Queen when she came out from under the house. She had her tail dragging right on the ground, her head down real low, and she was just sneaking along. I sat there watching. She didn’t see me in the moonlight, but I saw her stop, and I heard something whining back behind the barn. Queen almost answered—I could see her throat working in the moonlight—but she didn’t make a sound. She stood there for a few minutes, waiting and watching; then she just hauled off and ran across the yard to the five-foot-tall fence and sailed over. She was gone in a heartbeat.

I sat there and waited a good four hours, until the moon was almost down. Finally I gave up and went to bed. Queen still had not come back.

The next morning, when Dad went out on the back steps, I didn’t want to go around there—but I did anyway, because I was afraid not to go. I always sat with Dad in the early morning during the summertime and on the days when there was no school. Dad had his morning cup of coffee and missed ol’ Queen, so he walked out into the yard to call her. Of course she didn’t come, and I didn’t have enough nerve to tell him Queen had left. The girls and I had no school that day, though I don’t recall why. The day dragged on for Dad and me while we worked around the place. Every so often, I heard him whoop ’n holler for Queen, but she never came.

That evening we all knocked off work a little early so Dad and I could try to find Queen—or her carcass. Dad was some upset; he said, If that blasted wolf has killed her, I’ll run him down and kill him if it’s the last thing I ever do. We hunted until it was pitch dark, even though we needed to be working in the fields. From a monetary standpoint, that cur was more important than a cotton crop. But search as we might, we didn’t find hide nor hair of Queen.

The next day, as soon as I got in from school, we walked and whooped until it was so dark we couldn’t see, but again we had no luck. On Saturday the girls worked in the cotton field while Dad and I walked and whooped until my throat was sore. Dad said, Well, son, I guess she’s gone. I think if I had not been there, he would have squalled—and I would have, too. We both figured she had gone off with that wolf.

The next day was Sunday, but I still got out of bed a long time before anybody else, to sit in the window. The moon was full and the sky so filled with stars you wouldn’t believe it. The weather was just right, good and warm, and the wisteria smelled so fragrant—it was a perfect day for a miracle to occur. I had a feeling like goose bumps running up my back, so when I heard Mom get up and go to the kitchen, I slipped on my britches and jumped out my window. I started to the kitchen to tell her how funny I felt when I heard her laughing. I knew before I peered around the corner what I’d find.

Ol’ Queen was sitting on the back doorstep. When Dad walked out back, he whooped so loud you could have heard him all over that country. If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought Dad and that dog were having a wrestling match. Talk about a couple happy to see each other—they sat down on the steps and went through the handshaking ritual. I sat down there with them and shook hands too.

Queen had come home looking a little frayed around the corners and a pound or two lighter, with some bloody places, but it was our same Queen. She had an ear torn pretty good, and she looked like she had run through a briar-patch, but it was our same Queen. If ever a dog looked happy, she did.

That afternoon, after the girls had milked, I put the cows out and finished at the barn. Dad was waiting on Mom to get through in the kitchen, so I sat down there with him and Queen. We heard that darned ol’ wolf out past the barn, over by the little spring branch. It sounded like a dog howling at first, before it got deeper and rose in a crescendo. He made the hollows ring, and then it just faded off into the distance. When Queen turned to Dad, she truly had a smile on her face, though she made not one move to answer. She just kind of shivered, sidled up to Dad, and sat there.

A couple of months went by. One night Dad put Queen in a box stall out by the corn crib and sat up with her. He came in about three hours after dark with his flashlight. Dub, come here, he said. I want to show you something.

I went with him and saw what had happened: Queen had birthed one puppy, a shining black one with a white ring all the way around his neck. And he was a pretty good-sized pup, bigger than he ought to have been.

Son, that’s all, she ain’t going to have another one. You want that one?

You know the answer to that—this ol’ boy ain’t no fool. Dad, that’s my dog, and do you know what I’m going to name him?

Dad looked at that little puppy crawling around that didn’t even have its eyes open yet, and he said, I guess you’ll call him Ring?

Ring is his name, I said.

Chapter Two

When I think on it, seems like later on I had several dogs named Ring. If I had one that was sorry and worthless, Dad would end up putting it down or making me do it. But it wouldn’t be long before I’d have another ring-necked dog, and of course his name would be Ring too. All of them were black-mouth cur dogs because nearly all those yellow or red black-mouth dogs were fine working dogs and good companions.

That night in the stall, I was barefooted and didn’t even have a shirt on while I stood there watching that pup being cleaned up by his mama. As she rooted him around, he was looking for something. What he found was my big toe, and he latched on and wouldn’t let go. Queen looked at me real funny and then back at her offspring. I just stood there with that pup hooked onto my foot. Queen pulled him off my toe and pushed him to her teat. That made the little devil mad. He wanted my toe back, but Queen wouldn’t give up, so he took her teat and settled down. From that time on, any time I came around that little booger, he left his mama and went to looking for my toe. Even before his eyes were open, while he was stumbling around blind, I could stick my finger down to him and he would latch on. I could lay my hand down by him, and he would coil up next to it and go to sleep. He couldn’t tell the difference between me and his mama after he found my toe that first time.

He grew fast, because he was Queen’s only pup and she was a good mother with lots of milk. In a month’s time you would not have called him a puppy any more. He was a gutsy little devil. I could turn him on his back and tickle his belly, and his hair would stand up and he would growl like mad and try to bite my hand. When his hair stood up, he looked like Queen did when she heard that wolf howl.

The wolf showed up in him; he was very long bodied and too heavy in the shoulders and jaws to be all dog. Besides that, his tail almost dragged in the dirt. He was black as the ace of spades, with a white ring around his neck, two glass eyes, and a black mouth—a true cur dog. Actually, he should have been a pit bull dog, because he didn’t know the meaning of the words give up. I should not have done it, but when he was real small I’d put my foot on him and hold him down. He never would bark, but he’d growl and fight as fierce as you ever saw. He never would just quit—he’d fight until I finally stopped.

By the time he was two months old, Ring had deserted Queen and begun to sleep under my bedroom window. He knew exactly where I slept, so he would come to my window and sit there and whine. I could stretch and lean out the window far enough to reach him. I would take a piece of rag in my hand and let the pup bite the rag. While he hung on, I would lift him up and through the window, and then I’d sneak him under the covers with me and Brother. Ring got to where he really enjoyed that, but we got caught. I don’t think Brother let the word out, because he thought a lot of that little ol’ dog too, and it was pure joy to have that dog sleep with us. When Dad found out, I got my butt tore up. After that, I had to leave Ring outside, but I’d still open the shutters and sit in the window. Ring would come, and we would visit by the hour. It’s kind of funny how a young’un, once he starts talking to his dog, is pretty sure his dog understands everything he says.

Ring was a great watch dog. By the time he was three or four months old, if someone came up to the gate he would come unglued. He never barked at a stranger, but he would growl so long and loud that you knew he would not put up with any foolishness. It took him a pretty good while to tolerate the other members of my family. He was just my dog, and that’s all there was to it. Mom could feed him a little bit, but he was several months old before even she could get him to eat.