MERASHEEN COWBOYS
by John Pitcher
I guess you all remember Father Lewis's cows that chomped away at my father's bit of winter's hay in the priest's meadow located just next to the hall in Little Merasheen. The bull, my cousin Joe said, his father, my Uncle Ron, could flip over with just one grip of the head and horns. The cows, everyone knew, were destined to become soup at the next Merasheen garden party.
My brother Angus, an avid hunter and enthusiast as most of you know him to be, was waiting patiently for the time when the boys would assemble to butcher one of the priest's cows. He hoped that he could acquire the bull's horns to construct a powder horn, or the hide, he most longed for, to make a saddle for his horse, Ranger. Whereas, just making a good boiler of soup was the preoccupation of most, Angus always added a new dimension to everything, and seemed to attract the interests of fellows like Sam Fulford, Edmund Rose, and Raymond Hann and other youths who visited him during those wonderful last days on Merasheen Island. Where there was idle time, there was Angus, always with a project, some fun, and adventure!
I remember the day well. Mom and Mrs. Ettie lowering their blinds in horror anticipating what was about to happen: Jimmy Barrett, leaning over the fence, recalling his song about the killing of a giant ram which flooded a harbor with blood; Aunt Ellen, chasing little Charley to get him safely home: and Vic Best, with two water buckets left at the Delco Hill, walking toward the hall to see what the commotion was about. The poor cow was tied to stilts below the hall's stairway, and the boys were discussing how to do the job using the sledge hammer and a piece of rope. With regret and necessity, the deed was quickly done. There were those who licked their chops and there were those who were somewhat distraught by the whole affair. Angus, of course, was quite indifferent to it all, except the part of skinning the cow to help insure his claim and to take the prize hide that no ordinary man would likely want or need.
As weeks passed, Angus prepared the cow hide for drying and took care of it skillfully as one would with an otter or beaver pelt. Using Kathleen's powder puff, he spent painstaking hours scraping the hide and admiring it, mapping out occasionally, the way he would construct the saddle. He left his project unattended only long enough to take a trip to Clattice Harbor to pick up a big, white dog from a resident there who swore the dog was a good water dog. There was some speculation, however, that the dog might be crossed with a Dalmatian, and another breed, that must have been incredibly large in size. According to Dad, the other breed might have been a horse and, as he put it, ‘It will surely eat you out of house and home.’
After arriving from Clattice Harbor, they had to land the dog on the beach; he being too big to haul up over the priest's wharf. Angus showed me the roof of the dog's mouth, which he proudly indicated was black - a marking that proved him to be a water dog. The dog was about three feet high, not less than four feet long, and as muscular as a horse. ‘Only a pup though,’ Angus indicated, and I, in disbelief, wondered how this dog could grow any larger. My father said, ‘Get rid of that dog, Angus. It is too big to be a water dog and too small to be a horse.’
Finally, the big day came when Angus would put all of his prize possessions to use. He prepared some cartridges made from soap wads and packed in some lead pellets before closing off the shells. He loaded down his army bomber jacket with ammunition inserting them in several secret pocket compartment. I thought he was cooler than a jack rabbit on a winter's moonlit night. In more modern terms, ‘cooler than Rambo on a mission’. He told me to fetch his saddle from the store loft. I felt like a stable boy in one of John Wayne's movies. He flung the saddle over Ranger's rump and secured it to her belly. From the left over rawhide, he had constructed a holster where he snugly stuffed his shot gun. For a small pony, Ranger looked a bit silly but, I dared not spoil that moment, Angus so serious, with places to go and adventures which, to this point, I was invited.
With Ranger now fully mounted, he whistled the big white dog to his side, and with a smack on the horse's backside, he scampered up Joe Connors’ Height. Realizing the horse had a hill and two knobs on me, I gave myself several good hard smacks on my arse in pursuit. It wasn't long before I was galloping along beside the horse. Only wearing cutoffs, I gradually lost ground, but the horse sprinted across Best's Meadow sending clumps of mud behind her. Fortune smiled though when the horse got stuck in Hynes's Mash. I quickly took the high ground along the graveyard, just behind Uncle Fergus's house, and with some extra hind slapping, I made a fast gallop down the graveyard road and to the Cove before the main posse arrived.
Upon arriving at the Island Cove, the place where we used to dig ‘cocks and hens,’ (or what mainlanders call clams), it wasn't long before the cowboy and his horse came straddling toward the beach with the humongous awkward dog yapping at Ranger's hoofs. With one hand and a quick backward pressure of the reins, he brought the horse to a full halt, front hoofs straight into the air, and dismounted. I remember feeling very excited because, he sort of looked like a real cowboy in the flesh. I, however, remember feeling like his side kick.
Angus tied his horse to some twigged-log of driftwood, removed his cartridge gun from the holster, and positioned himself to the beach’s edge. ‘Get one of those turr skins, John,’ he said confidently, as he opened the gun and inserted one of his home made cartridges. As I threw the turr skin into the water, Angus immediately prompted the dog to fetch it. With his mouth open and panting from the run, the huge dog looked at the turr skin, then at Angus as if to say, ‘You want me to get my feet wet? You're off your head man!’ Then Angus, not wanting to believe that this dog was afraid of the water, said, ‘Perhaps I'll fire at the turr skin,’ pointing out that this strategy might be more realistic for a ‘gun dog." As he fired, a woof of fire and smoke come from the gun barrel. In my estimation, a foot of flame shot out. With that, the dog jumped six feet in the air, turned without touching the ground, and headed for home. Poor Ranger looked down the beach as if to say, ‘Angus, get this rig off me boy, and untie me for shame sake before someone sees me!’
At sunset that evening, with tall shadows in front of us, we slowly walked Ranger home. With neither of us saying much, I knew Angus was a bit dejected. My dream of him and Great West became tarnished. Ranger returned to his pet status in Mrs. Lill's Garden chewing cabbage stumps and making friends with passers-by. As for the dog, he remained underneath the house for weeks, only to emerge with the kids when Angus was not around. I remember dad saying as he said so many times, ‘Angus boy, the only good dog, is a gun dog.’ And I remember Mom saying, ‘What's that young fellow going to try next?’ And as for me, I couldn't wait.