Cookoo Charlie's Animal Alphabet - Gator

Gator

“Alright, boy, it’s time for your walk,” said Buddy. “Destiny awaits.”

Simon Weston lived on a ranch on the edge of the Okefenokee Swamp. Possessing a jovial personality, he acquired quite early on the moniker “Buddy’. He had a successful business taking clients on hunting expeditions on horseback. Buddy’s philosophy was who the hell needed to go to England for fox hunting when the money-making vixens were right here. He was also in talks with a couple producers from The Walking Dead with the possibility of using some of his property in a few forthcoming episodes.

Snapping the leash on his dog, a golden labrardor, Buddy snatched up his keys from the kitchen table and walked out into the August night. Although it was near dusk, it was 85 in the shade and Buddy stopped to watch a large black rat snake slithering through the grass, perhaps looking for relief from the heat or a field mouse hiding in the leaves.

There was a spot along the river that not only provided Buddy the seclusion he craved but the privacy he needed. Here in this neck of the woods, few folk came around for curiosity came with reptilian repercussions. “The swamp is alive with a thousand eyes, an’ all of them watching you.” Jim Stafford once sang.

Coming to a stop at the water’s edge, Simon dug out a cancer stick from the pack twisted into his sleeve. Humidity hung heavy in the air, draping over Simon like invasive pythons in Floridian glades. As the Lab sat patiently at Simon’s feet, imploringly looking up at him with play-with-me eyes, Simon’s gaze was directed at the swamp’s unseen mysteries.

The water’s peaceful serenity was shattered by a sudden explosion, as a twelve-foot throw-back to the Triassic period launched herself from her aquatic ambush position. As quick as a cigarette snapped between pissed-off fingers, the gator snatched up Simon’s dog, who gave a valiant, if limited, effort to save himself, and, faster than a released airbag, pulled him beneath the disturbed waters to become a death-roll dinner. Simon hadn’t even moved a muscle.

Wetting his thumb and index finger, Simon snuffed out his cigarette and slipped it back into its pack. Simon despised littering the earth with human trash. Inhaling deeply nasally, he raised his arms to the sky, and exhaled through his mouth. As he began praying, a dragonfly circled his body, then headed out into the swamp.

“Oh, Great Sobek

Reptile god of Dark Waters

Take my living offering

Protect my son and daughters

From life’s unexpected sting

Oh, Great Sobek

Reigning king of reptilian rebirth

Gobbling up the meat of life

Teach me what glorious living is worth

Keep me from worry, harm and strife.”

With his prayer to the ancient crocodilian deity at a close, Simon began thinking of sacrificial futures. He had been picking up strays, canine and feline, and patronizing all the pet stores in a 15 mile radius. Return visits could raise possible proprietor suspicion. No, it was better to exercise caution and move on. Not to a different location. No. Simon wanted to up the ambush ante and play for higher stakes. Or should that be meatier steaks?

“I think it’s time,” spoke Simon to the swamp, “for one of my clients to have an unfortunate hunting accident.”