Cat And She Lived Happily Ever After Vintage Book Poster
- Comfortable fit.
- Ship from 4-6 days
- High quality
Buy this product here: Cat And She Lived Happily Ever After Vintage Book Poster
Home page: Beutee Store
Cat And She Lived Happily Ever After Vintage Book Poster
“He wants Cajun Rules,” J.K.’s daddy told Marvin Tilford, who by previous agreement would referee the match.
“Yessir,” Marvin said.
“He says, if you see a turn, call it. But let them maneuver. Don’t let the handlers push their dogs out of corner. Check the handlers… make ’em roll up both sleeves, and make sure they taste their dogs’ drinks. No sponges…no towels…all the handler can take in the pit is his dog’s drink and a fan to fan him.”
“Yessir,” Marvin said.
When the handlers had carried the dogs to the pit, Mr. Maynard walked over and examined Leroy’s teeth.
“Nice animal,” he said. “Good head.” If he thought the markings curious, or observed the stubs of two toes, one so recently cleaved the skin hadn’t grown back, he didn’t let on.
“Let’s roll,” he told Marvin.
Both dogs scratched hard out of their corners, and Bully took the lead, going low, forcing Leroy to bite around the nubs of gristle that had once been ears. Christ, he was strong. But there was no doubt Leroy was his daddy’s boy; he just kept coming. “It’s gonna be a long afternoon,” Crater said. Unless you have more money than you can possibly afford riding on the outcome, a dog fight is about as interesting as a college wrestling match: the beasts hit, lock on, and hold fast, in endless repetition. The fight quickly settles into a test of strength, endurance, and gamenesss. Even the blood takes on a surrealistic quality after a while, like ghost shadows in a hall of mirrors.
After 45 minutes—when Marvin Tilford called the first pick up and broke the dogs apart by forcing his hickory wedge between their jaws and twisting counterclockwise—it was still impossible to say who was top dog.
While the handlers were cooling off their animals, Crater and I walked down by the old Indian mound. You could feel the excitement bouncing of the limestone walls of the creekbed: it wasn’t watching the dogs that did it, it was being there, experiencing an almost-vanished culture of blood rites and a close familiarity with death.
Then we caught sight of Annabelle, coming out from behind some bushes, buttoning her pants.
“Damn,” she said, “I’m so nervous I almost wet my britches.”
Visit our Social Network: Beutee Pinterest,Instagram, Twitter and Our Blog beuteenet blogspot