Pumpkin and the Pocket Watch, Page 2
Hanson Hovell Holladay
with water and the other with whatever they were serving for the evening meal. The blasts of the War had vanished, with only the soft steps of other men and horses, and the occasional Liberty truck in passing. In every direction pitched tents were scattered about, along with rifles crossed in pyramid-like formations.
Jennings established himself on the outskirts of the encampment. He feared that if she were discovered, one of the commanding officers might have ordered her to be put down. Conceived and raised by Southern arms in a rural town of central Mississippi, he would never allow that to happen to an innocent animal.
“Hello, Pumpkin,” He said lightly to her with a smile as he entered the tent, “I brought somethin’ fer ya.”
She rested comfortably within a tattered wool blanket, with only her head visible, still in a tremble. At that moment Jennings could see her head clearly for the first time: the aged scar from a blade over her right eye, filled with the milky fog of blindness, and the splotches of eaten away flesh and hair. He paused and looked into her eyes for a moment with pity. Quickly, he retained the smile and sat the two tin canisters near the blanket.
“All right, Pumpkin,” he said as he removed his grip from the canisters and backed away, “if ya can, will ya try an’ eat it…”
In a matter of seconds she rushed from the blanket and ate all of the food within the canister, and drank all the water from the other. Jennings had seen a few men, women, and children do that since he left home for Europe, but never had he seen an animal eat that way – that fast. Abuse had still been somewhat foreign to him. Before he could speak she went back to the blanket, and with her snout she tried to recreate the cocoon of warmth and safety. After several tries she couldn’t seem to bury herself.
Jennings could see her entire body now: her tail cut half-way down, swollen and absent of hair, and the random areas of decayed flesh over her entire body, many still exposed and infected, with others scabbed over by time. Her coat was a light brown, though the dry, darkened filth still remained.
“Here,” said Jennings, in a lower tone than before. He placed his rifle on the ground. “Pumpkin, jes’ let me help ya.”
She released a soft whine as he approached. Paw by paw she began to move away slowly. With her head low the whine had become muffled, and she sunk lower to the ground in a tremble. Once more she had been frightened for her life, all alone in the world, and all creatures in existence the enemy.
“Shh, Pumpkin,” Jennings whispered to her, “jes’ let me help ya.”
He gently placed one hand on her frail body and lifted the blanket with the other. After several moments she looked into his eyes, and then over to the blanket’s opening. Her look revealed a want to crawl back in, only she hesitated, her blurry focus in a continuous shift from Jennings to the blanket.
“Pumpkin, it’s alright,” he whispered to her as he placed his hand towards her rear. “Go on back now.”
Jennings could feel her weak resistance, but she crept forward as he held the blanket open. As she moved into the blanket, once more he saw the sores and scars over her body. At that moment – at that precise moment – he feared for her and seemed to hate all others, even his own; he hated the world. He had seen so much death and destruction – so much cruelty.
Once more she was snuggled within the wool cocoon. With gentle ease Jennings covered all but her head. He could see that she was comfortable, for she had stopped trembling. Only her snout and soft eyes, with only a slight tremble, were visible. Again, he looked at her, and she at him.
With slow, gentle, and graceful ease he sat beside her. She followed every movement he made, though the severe trembling did not reemerge. Only inches away from her, Jennings placed one hand on top of her head, and softly moved it back and forth, careful not to open any of the wounds further. Her eyelids had begun to sink.
“Ya know, Pumpkin,” he whispered to her, “seeing ya reminds me’a somethin’. I can remember a trick from Ma when I was young, maybe ten’r twelve.” She continued to grow tired, but still gazed into his eyes slightly. “Oh, she’s a prime chief cook’ n bottle washer, maybe the best back home. She used to take’er Pa’s pocket watch, made in silver with his initials, an’ place it down a sock.” Her eyelids fell further, and the light tremble seemed to vanish. “When pups were separated from their ma this trick helped to comfort’em; pups felt all alone an’ abandoned, just as anything would, I suppose.” Jennings began to notice that she had become somewhat comfortable in her cocoon. “The ticks’a the watch were a source of ease – the beatin’a their ma’s heart.” Tears were present in his eyes as he stared at her head, coated in wrinkles of exhaustion and pain. “Ma nussed back many’a pups and animals of all kinds, mostly yearlings. I wish she were here now.” He looked deeper into what remained of her eyes. “Ma’s just what these here folks need – what ya need, Pumpkin.”
With a gentle grip, Jennings picked up the blanket and placed her in his lap. For a moment her eyelids opened slightly, but quickly dropped down again. With ease he wrapped his arms around the blanket, and with his soft hands he tenderly stroked her coat through the wool. He could hear her breathing without a drop of struggle – without fear.
“Ya know, Pumpkin,” he whispered, “I know ma’ll love ya. An I now ya’ll love her.” He continued to lightly stroke the blanket. “There’s plenty’a land to run amuck back’n Mississippi, an lots of others like you.” She adjusted her head, and leaned it onto his rising stomach, tilted to the side, her ear pressed to his soft, worn uniform. “Oh, We’ll all love ya back home.”
For hours she breathed in absolute peace – no War, no noise of any kind. And as she breathed in safety, over the rising and falling of his soft, coated stomach, Jennings felt his care for her grow; he felt the love of his family and of his home grow within him.
“Don’t ya worry, Pumpkin,” he whispered over her relaxed body, “I’m gonna care for ya real good. Back home we’ll all care real good.”
Throughout the night Jennings held her close, but not too tight. He could feel her light, small, and frail body with every breath he took. Not once did he shut his eyes; he only stared off into memories of home, and of how she would love it so much – feel so free and safe. Just looking down at her as she breathed he knew that she felt safe and secure. Over and over again he often wondered how long it had been for her in the War. He wanted to know her story. He wanted to know her age. But more than anything, he wanted to know why – why her? Why such a beautiful and innocent creature?
Through the partial opening in his tent, Jennings saw the Sun begin to rise into the cool morning’s sky. Outside, somewhere, a Liberty truck fired up its engine, and the sounds of marching boots began to emerge. Far out, in the center of the encampment, a bugle sounded for all to wake.
With his arms still wrapped around her through the blanket, Jennings awoke from a combination of daydream and half-sleep. He could feel her through the palms of his hands, still pressed lightly into his stomach.
“Pumpkin,” he whispered in a daze. Deep in the background the bugle continued to play the morning anthem. “Lets get’r selves somethin’ to eat. After, we’ll see the corpsman. Don’t ya worry, Haskell’s good.”
Jennings watched through the opening as the tip of the Sun emerged further over the horizon. With every passing moment more and more boots colliding with the ground could be heard. Deep down he wished for a sudden end to the War – he wished to take her home and resume the life he once had with his family.
“We’ll get through all this,” he said, with a tone just above a whisper, “ an’ I’ll watch ya close, an’ we’ll be home before ya know it. We just gotta get rid’a the Heinies first.”
There, within that moment, just after the day’s rise, Jennings felt something he had missed for quite a long time: he felt like a protector – a person of good, like his mother. He knew, deep down within his very being, that he had done something wonderful – something not only he, but also God would appreciate. As a soldier in the
War – a mere individual – he felt that he had done his part, and in doing so received a wonderful gift: a new friend and companion.
“Pumpkin.” He said again softly. “All right, Pumpkin, lets see what they got.”
She did not respond. She did not open her eyes.
“Pumpkin?”
She only laid there against his stomach, her body at ease and soft to the touch. She did not move, but looked so beautiful – like a refugee returning to a home of the past, long before the first shot fired.
Jennings’ eyes widened. He looked down at her, still soft and comfortable. As he looked over her snout he paused his breathing. Moments passed. Nothing.
“Pumpkin.” He whispered with a sigh. “Please, pumpkin…”
She didn’t move. Her eyes were sealed, though not tightly, but gently. Her whiskers were out as normal, with her entire head in a gentle, sweet and innocent state: both eyes shut, as though within a wonderful dream. He could see the War had been absent within her mind. And, as he gazed over her, he knew.
“Goodbye, Pumpkin.” He whimpered gently over the morning call.
And the War resumed.
THE END
AUTHOR'S BIOGRAPHY
Raised in the city of Monroe, Louisiana, Hanson now attends Full Sail University, working to obtain a degree
Jennings established himself on the outskirts of the encampment. He feared that if she were discovered, one of the commanding officers might have ordered her to be put down. Conceived and raised by Southern arms in a rural town of central Mississippi, he would never allow that to happen to an innocent animal.
“Hello, Pumpkin,” He said lightly to her with a smile as he entered the tent, “I brought somethin’ fer ya.”
She rested comfortably within a tattered wool blanket, with only her head visible, still in a tremble. At that moment Jennings could see her head clearly for the first time: the aged scar from a blade over her right eye, filled with the milky fog of blindness, and the splotches of eaten away flesh and hair. He paused and looked into her eyes for a moment with pity. Quickly, he retained the smile and sat the two tin canisters near the blanket.
“All right, Pumpkin,” he said as he removed his grip from the canisters and backed away, “if ya can, will ya try an’ eat it…”
In a matter of seconds she rushed from the blanket and ate all of the food within the canister, and drank all the water from the other. Jennings had seen a few men, women, and children do that since he left home for Europe, but never had he seen an animal eat that way – that fast. Abuse had still been somewhat foreign to him. Before he could speak she went back to the blanket, and with her snout she tried to recreate the cocoon of warmth and safety. After several tries she couldn’t seem to bury herself.
Jennings could see her entire body now: her tail cut half-way down, swollen and absent of hair, and the random areas of decayed flesh over her entire body, many still exposed and infected, with others scabbed over by time. Her coat was a light brown, though the dry, darkened filth still remained.
“Here,” said Jennings, in a lower tone than before. He placed his rifle on the ground. “Pumpkin, jes’ let me help ya.”
She released a soft whine as he approached. Paw by paw she began to move away slowly. With her head low the whine had become muffled, and she sunk lower to the ground in a tremble. Once more she had been frightened for her life, all alone in the world, and all creatures in existence the enemy.
“Shh, Pumpkin,” Jennings whispered to her, “jes’ let me help ya.”
He gently placed one hand on her frail body and lifted the blanket with the other. After several moments she looked into his eyes, and then over to the blanket’s opening. Her look revealed a want to crawl back in, only she hesitated, her blurry focus in a continuous shift from Jennings to the blanket.
“Pumpkin, it’s alright,” he whispered to her as he placed his hand towards her rear. “Go on back now.”
Jennings could feel her weak resistance, but she crept forward as he held the blanket open. As she moved into the blanket, once more he saw the sores and scars over her body. At that moment – at that precise moment – he feared for her and seemed to hate all others, even his own; he hated the world. He had seen so much death and destruction – so much cruelty.
Once more she was snuggled within the wool cocoon. With gentle ease Jennings covered all but her head. He could see that she was comfortable, for she had stopped trembling. Only her snout and soft eyes, with only a slight tremble, were visible. Again, he looked at her, and she at him.
With slow, gentle, and graceful ease he sat beside her. She followed every movement he made, though the severe trembling did not reemerge. Only inches away from her, Jennings placed one hand on top of her head, and softly moved it back and forth, careful not to open any of the wounds further. Her eyelids had begun to sink.
“Ya know, Pumpkin,” he whispered to her, “seeing ya reminds me’a somethin’. I can remember a trick from Ma when I was young, maybe ten’r twelve.” She continued to grow tired, but still gazed into his eyes slightly. “Oh, she’s a prime chief cook’ n bottle washer, maybe the best back home. She used to take’er Pa’s pocket watch, made in silver with his initials, an’ place it down a sock.” Her eyelids fell further, and the light tremble seemed to vanish. “When pups were separated from their ma this trick helped to comfort’em; pups felt all alone an’ abandoned, just as anything would, I suppose.” Jennings began to notice that she had become somewhat comfortable in her cocoon. “The ticks’a the watch were a source of ease – the beatin’a their ma’s heart.” Tears were present in his eyes as he stared at her head, coated in wrinkles of exhaustion and pain. “Ma nussed back many’a pups and animals of all kinds, mostly yearlings. I wish she were here now.” He looked deeper into what remained of her eyes. “Ma’s just what these here folks need – what ya need, Pumpkin.”
With a gentle grip, Jennings picked up the blanket and placed her in his lap. For a moment her eyelids opened slightly, but quickly dropped down again. With ease he wrapped his arms around the blanket, and with his soft hands he tenderly stroked her coat through the wool. He could hear her breathing without a drop of struggle – without fear.
“Ya know, Pumpkin,” he whispered, “I know ma’ll love ya. An I now ya’ll love her.” He continued to lightly stroke the blanket. “There’s plenty’a land to run amuck back’n Mississippi, an lots of others like you.” She adjusted her head, and leaned it onto his rising stomach, tilted to the side, her ear pressed to his soft, worn uniform. “Oh, We’ll all love ya back home.”
For hours she breathed in absolute peace – no War, no noise of any kind. And as she breathed in safety, over the rising and falling of his soft, coated stomach, Jennings felt his care for her grow; he felt the love of his family and of his home grow within him.
“Don’t ya worry, Pumpkin,” he whispered over her relaxed body, “I’m gonna care for ya real good. Back home we’ll all care real good.”
Throughout the night Jennings held her close, but not too tight. He could feel her light, small, and frail body with every breath he took. Not once did he shut his eyes; he only stared off into memories of home, and of how she would love it so much – feel so free and safe. Just looking down at her as she breathed he knew that she felt safe and secure. Over and over again he often wondered how long it had been for her in the War. He wanted to know her story. He wanted to know her age. But more than anything, he wanted to know why – why her? Why such a beautiful and innocent creature?
Through the partial opening in his tent, Jennings saw the Sun begin to rise into the cool morning’s sky. Outside, somewhere, a Liberty truck fired up its engine, and the sounds of marching boots began to emerge. Far out, in the center of the encampment, a bugle sounded for all to wake.
With his arms still wrapped around her through the blanket, Jennings awoke from a combination of daydream and half-sleep. He could feel her through the palms of his hands, still pressed lightly into his stomach.
“Pumpkin,” he whispered in a daze. Deep in the background the bugle continued to play the morning anthem. “Lets get’r selves somethin’ to eat. After, we’ll see the corpsman. Don’t ya worry, Haskell’s good.”
Jennings watched through the opening as the tip of the Sun emerged further over the horizon. With every passing moment more and more boots colliding with the ground could be heard. Deep down he wished for a sudden end to the War – he wished to take her home and resume the life he once had with his family.
“We’ll get through all this,” he said, with a tone just above a whisper, “ an’ I’ll watch ya close, an’ we’ll be home before ya know it. We just gotta get rid’a the Heinies first.”
There, within that moment, just after the day’s rise, Jennings felt something he had missed for quite a long time: he felt like a protector – a person of good, like his mother. He knew, deep down within his very being, that he had done something wonderful – something not only he, but also God would appreciate. As a soldier in the
War – a mere individual – he felt that he had done his part, and in doing so received a wonderful gift: a new friend and companion.
“Pumpkin.” He said again softly. “All right, Pumpkin, lets see what they got.”
She did not respond. She did not open her eyes.
“Pumpkin?”
She only laid there against his stomach, her body at ease and soft to the touch. She did not move, but looked so beautiful – like a refugee returning to a home of the past, long before the first shot fired.
Jennings’ eyes widened. He looked down at her, still soft and comfortable. As he looked over her snout he paused his breathing. Moments passed. Nothing.
“Pumpkin.” He whispered with a sigh. “Please, pumpkin…”
She didn’t move. Her eyes were sealed, though not tightly, but gently. Her whiskers were out as normal, with her entire head in a gentle, sweet and innocent state: both eyes shut, as though within a wonderful dream. He could see the War had been absent within her mind. And, as he gazed over her, he knew.
“Goodbye, Pumpkin.” He whimpered gently over the morning call.
And the War resumed.
THE END
AUTHOR'S BIOGRAPHY
Raised in the city of Monroe, Louisiana, Hanson now attends Full Sail University, working to obtain a degree
