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"Annie could sure make t'best blueberry pies," Grandpa mumbled wistfully, his eyes closed, his thin lips quivering.
"Ya only got two biscuits fer six of us?" asked Fanny. "What ya gonna do, give us each a crumb?"
"Nope. Gonna give Keith and Our Jane each a half, and Grandpa gets the other half, and you, Tom, and me will split the last half into three portions."
"A crumb! Jus what I thought! Grandpa don't need a whole half fer himself!"
Grandpa shook his head. "Ain't hongry, Heaven chile. Ya give my half t'Fanny."
"No! I did that this morning. Fanny can eat her portion or forget about eating until tomorrow, or when Tom comes back with meat."
"I'm not waitin fer Tom!" stormed Fanny, throwing herself into a chair by the table. "I'm eatin now! I'm three times bi: :a than Our Jane. She don't need a whole half."
I was doing everything as slowly as possible, not that there was much to do. Two cats had returned today, a black one and a white one, both perched high on a shelf near pots and pans, and both were staring down at me with hope in their hungry eyes, needing food as much as we did. And there I was, staring up at them, wondering if anybody ever ate cats.
Then I was staring down at Pa's old hunting hound that had returned with the cats. Oh, how awful to even contemplate eating pets we loved. Yet that's just what I was doing.
Suddenly Fanny was beside me, whispering and pointing at old Snapper, the hound Pa loved best of all. Sixteen years old, and almost blind, and yet he could always forage for himself and come home looking fat and well fed. "He's got meat on those ole bones," Fanny said in an intense way. "Sure would like t'eat meat agin. Ya kin do it, Heaven, know ya kin. Slit his throat, like they do hogs. Fer Our Jane, fer Keith--an Grandpa--why, we could all eat . ."
At that point Snapper opened his sleepy hooded eyes and stared at me soulfully. I glanced again at where Our Jane and 'Keith sat, each moaning.
"Betta an ole dog than us," Fanny crooned more urgently. "All ya gotta do is bash in his head." She handed me the hatchet we used for chopping kindling for Ole Smokey. Even now it was belching out foul black smoke that stung our eyes.
"Go on. I know ya kin do it," encouraged Fanny, shoving me toward Snapper. "Take him out first--then give it t'him." Snapper suddenly jumped to his feet, as if sensing my intention, and ran for the door. Fanny let out a shriek of dismay and ran after. At that moment the door opened, and, hell-bent to escape our murdering intentions, Snapper disappeared in the night.
Tom strode in, grinning at us, his rifle on his shoulder, and slung on the other a sack heavy with something in it.
His grin faded when he saw the hatchet in my hand, and my look of shame and guilt. "You were goin Snapper?" Incredulity was in his voice. "But I thought you loved that dog."
"I do," I sobbed.
"But ya didn't have faith, did ya?" he asked bitterly. "I ran all t'way there and back."
He hurled his lumpy bag on the table. "Two dead chickens inside. Course Race McGee is gonna wonder who shot inta his henhouse, and iffen he ever finds out he'll kill me, but at least I'll die with a full stomach."
We ate well that night, devouring an entire chicken, and saving the other for the next day. But the day after, when both chickens were eaten, we were again faced with the same problem. No food. Tom whispered not to worry, where there was a will there was also a way.
"It's time now to forget honor and honesty, and steal," Tom figured. "Didn't see a deer. Nary a coon in sight. Woulda shot an owl, but they didn't hoot. Every night, along bout twilight, when folks in Winnerrow are settling down at their tables t'eat, you, me, an Fanny gonna sneak down t' the valley and steal what we can."
"What a wonderful idea!" cried Fanny, quite delighted. "They don't hang shotguns on their walls down there, do they?"
"Don't know," answered Torn, 'abut we're gonna sure find out."
It was a fearsome, scary thing that we set out to do the next twilight, while we still had chicken in our stomachs to give us courage. We wore dark clothes, soot on our faces, and trudged through all the cold until we came to a small outlying farm where the meanest man alive lived. What was worse, he had five giant sons, and four huge daughters, and a wife who would have made even Sarah look weak and dainty.
Fanny, Tom, and I clung to the protection of dense scrubs and fir trees until we saw every member in that family settle down in the kitchen to make such a racket it would surely cover any noise we might make. They had a yard full of dogs, same as we used to have, and cats and kittens.
"Soothe the dogs," ordered Tom in a hissy, scary whisper, "so Fanny and I can raid the henhouse and not use my rifle." He gestured to Fanny. "You grab for the feet, two for each hand, and I'll grab my four. That should hold us for a while."
"Do they peck ya?" asked Fanny, looking strange.
"Nah, ain't ya eva heard about being chickenhearted? They don't put up much fight, jus lots of squawking."
Tom had assigned me the chore of diverting the most vicious-looking dogs I'd ever seen. I had a way with animals, and most of the time they trusted and liked me . . but that great big dog looked half English bull, and from the mean look in his eyes he hated me on sight. I had with me a tiny bag of chicken necks, tail ends, and feet.
Inside, the McLeroys were eating and fussing, while I threw out a chicken foot and said softly, "Nice doggy . . . you don't hate me, and I can't hurt you. . . so eat the chicken foot. . go on, eat."
He sniffed the dried yellow foot with disgust, then growled. That seemed to be a signal to all the other dogs. There must have been seven or eight of them left in the yard to protect the fenced-in pigs, chickens, and other farm animals. All of a sudden all the dogs were coming my way! Snarling, barking, showing the sharpest-looking teeth I'd ever seen. "Stop it this minute!" I ordered sharply. "STOP! You hear?"
