CASWELL'S DILEMMA

A SHORT SHORT STORY


“That’s quite a gash you got there,” old Doc Holmes said, holding Tim Caswell’s arm to the early morning light that streamed through the window. “What happened?”

“My Shepherd bit me. Came home from the late shift Thursday last. Keep him chained to the dog house. Went to feed him and he jumped at me, snarling and foaming at the mouth. He bit me good.”

“Good God! Then what?”
“Shot him dead with my 12 gauge.”
“You saved the carcass?”
“No. Torched him atop a pile of apple tree prunings I had stacked in the field.”
“That wasn’t very smart. My boy, you could be in a lot of trouble. Chances are pretty good you’re gonna get hydrophobia, better known as the Rabies. You notice any encounters of your dog with other animals in the past week or two?”

Tim appeared in thought for a few moments. “Well, yeah, he had a run-in with a crazy squirrel a couple of weeks age, Varmit stood his ground and mixed it up with the dog before running for it. Ran up a tree by the river, out along the first branch and then fell into the water. I didn’t see him after that.”

“Well. There goes our evidence. I got some bad news for you, Tim. We’re going to have to inoculate you, and it ain’t gonna be fun. I’m gonna stick a big needle into your stomach every other day for two weeks. It’s gonna hurt like hell.”

Tim merely shrugged his shoulders. “Let’s get to it. Will it work?”

“Depends. We’ll know in six to eight months for sure. The virus is very slow moving. There will be symptoms showing up if and when it gets to your brain. Meantime, go on living like you normally do.” He busied himself scrubbing out the wound, applying antiseptic, and wrapping the arm is a bandage. “Now lie down here and we’ll get to the hard part.” He went to a wall cabinet and retrieved a huge needle. He then slowly filled it from a refrigerated ampule and approached his patient.

** *
Ain’t often I slide the barn doors open in the mornin’ and see a man hangin’ from the rafters,” I said, as I escorted the local sheriff and coroner there as soon as they arrived- the sheriff, Duke Jenkins in his Pontiac cruiser, flashing red and blue lights and Dwayne the coroner in his Dodge Power Wagon. I’d telephoned them from a neighbor’s house down the road and by the time I got back, they were turning into the driveway.

“You cut him down?” Duke asked.

“Yeah, he was high up. I couldn’t reach him. Cut the rope from above. He fell to the floor like a sack-a-potatoes. I didn’t touch him after that.”

Duke approached the body and turned it over, the contorted face up. “Why, this is Tim Caswell,” he said. “I know him.” He removed the rope from around his neck.

I recognized him then. Tim was my next door neighbor, a quarter mile up the road. Lived alone. He worked night shift in Hazeltine’s excelsior factory, down by the railroad tracks.

“Any nearby relatives you know of?’ Duke asked.
“Only a sister,” I answered. “Lives up Meredith way, maybe New London.”

Dwayne bent over and lifted Caswell’s arm. “ This here’s a fresh bandage, professionally done. Might pay to give Doc Holmes a visit.” He then went to his truck and retrieved a gray, stained tarpaulin. He spread it out on the floor, rolled Caswell’s body onto it, wrapped it carefully and tied the ends. “Grab that end,” he said to me. Together we carried the body to the truck and placed it on the cargo platform. The two men then sped away. Curious, I followed in my car.

It was still early but Doc Holmes was already holding office in the downstairs quarters in his home on Main Street when the men arrived with Caswell’s body. Then I had a change of heart and drove on by, stopping at Ruth’s local coffee shop. Tim was dead. Nothing was going to change that, no matter what Doc Holmes had to say.