FISHING, THE SNAKE-KILLING DOG AND THE FISH-CATCHING CAT

Claudie and Grace’s Bridge

Fishing, the Snake-Killing Dog and the Fish-Catching Cat

1958

View towards creek from Claudie and Grace's Bridge in 2020

I cannot reflect on my childhood without remembering Reece’s Creek.  The creek flowed parallel and in front of my Grandmother Bessie’s home in Wayne County, Missouri.

The creek was shallow in most parts, the water always flowing with purpose, crystal clear over gravel bottom.  The denizens that inhabited it were small in these parts, tiny sunfish, redhorse suckers, and assorted minnow species.  Of course the crawdads were there. And hours were spent turning over rocks to find them and catch them, ever fearful of the rock that revealed a banded water snake.  Of course, all water snakes were “water moccasins” to us then and, at least in our adolescent minds, fierce and venomous. We were convinced that if one bit you, you would die right then and there.  On the spot.

In the few parts of the creek such as the old “water gap” larger sunfish could be found, as well as a black slender catfish of some creek variety, probably a bullhead subspecies.  Neither of these grew to a size you would find generally in the river or lakes in the surrounding countryside, but made nevertheless for many a summer evening meal for grandma, Aunt Beverly a year older and still thought of as a cousin then, and me.  Grandma would cook them up crispy in cornmeal on the kitchen wood-burning stove, and we would sit around the table crunching them up as fast as they came out of the hot oil. Sometimes grandma would afford us the luxury of eating them while we watched Gunsmoke on the little black and white T.V. in the front room.

But, unquestionably, the memories of catching sunfish and catfish underneath of Claudie and Grace Sullivan’s bridge brings the greatest satisfaction and delivered the best adventures and the most memorable fish dinners.  Almost always, my companion and fishing buddy was Flip, a year my senior, and the grandson of Grace and Claudie.

I cannot allow myself to go back to that time without also remembering Flip’s old dog and cat.  They were constant companions.  We were never hunched onto the small concrete footing underneath the old bridge, the swift water making a deep undercut beneath it affording a place of refuge for the more hefty of the creek's denizens, without that dog and cat being nearby and fishing with us.

Of course, I use the term “fishing” in the most abstract of definitions.  The dog and cat were both skilled hunters and their abilities were astonishing to me then, and indeed, I have never seen their equal since.

Between tugs from underneath the concrete slab on our worm or bread offerings the duo would entertain us for the duration of our stay.

Somewhere, sometime, in this life or another, a snake had pissed the old cur off.  And it remembered. Not once but many times we would have attention diverted to the creek off and to our right, by an unholy series of growls and commotion.  Hunting down every snake brave enough to risk a swim in the creek that day, he would seize it while, it seemed, already in the motions of violently shaking his head back forth, until the unfortunate critter popped into assorted sizes and pieces.  Assuring it dead, only moments ensued before he was off to find another slithering citizen of Reece’s Creek and send it to its premature rendezvous with its snake ancestors.

Meanwhile the cat….well, the cat was being a cat.  No fury here. No haste. No furtive movements. But, it did something that I have never seen before or since.  It hunted the little fish and minnows with stoic resolve. It never, ever failed. Wading only a few inches forward in the water, it would pause staring intently down as unmoving as a statue, one paw raised and out of the water.  Invariably, the minnows or small sunfish would become attracted to the fur of its legs, undulating enticingly in the creek’s current. And that would be the last conscious thought the scaly rascal would have before being slapped onto the bank and pounced upon, teeth sinking into its flesh, from the little tigress.  Not every fish attacked this way, was victim of course. At least, not immediately. But, they did suffer some damage from her well-aimed blows. If they did not make it to the bank, they swam dazed in a tiny little circle until she swatted them again, to a place of her liking.

On one fine day, Flip and I both caught unique specimens from the creek as related to size.  I watched a weightless hook with a bread dough ball float enticingly down below the ledge on this warm summer day to be greeted by an enormous sunfish for any locale, that engulfed it and made a mad dash back under the concrete.  But, I was the victor. My little heart burst with pride and excitement on seeing the size and wanted nothing more to run to show grandma right then and there. But, I was a true fisherman. There might be another hiding under there, a brother or sister perhaps.  And I needed to be the person to find out. I couldn’t chance that Flip would catch another of the equal of my fish. So, I re-baited and watched the hook float down once more.

Flip reached into the old coffee can behind him for a worm that I had secured that morning from the flat stones outside grandma’s back door.  She always threw her coffee grounds out there, and I had always found big, fat worms for my fishing excursions plentiful and easy to obtain. I also watched his slimy offering make its way to the gravel in front of the undercut.

I must have looked like that cat, staring intently down towards my baited hook, waiting for the charge from another robust sunfish.  Please Lord, make it like bread more than worm!

Our eyes must have swelled to the size of golf balls as we watched a huge, black head inch slowly forward from underneath our perch.  It was fixated on Flip’s worm-baited hook, a catfish of maybe two pounds or more. It was out of place for that little creek, but here it was, and in slow motion I watched it inhale the wriggly creature on the end of Flip’s line.  And the fight was on! That fish ducked back under cover, and Flip had both hands on his line tugging for all he was worth. No space for poles or rod and reels here. It was boy, line, and fish. That catfish destroyed our fishing hole.  But, it finally came flopping, eyes rolling, landing between the two of us. And we were screaming and jumping up and down even while Flip kept the fish firmly pinned with one hand. Claudie and Grace surely must have thought we’d been snake bit.

So here we were, about twelve years old or so,  my old chain stringer full of sunfish about 5 inches and one of almost a pound dwarfing the rest, and Flip with his old stringer of twine with an equal amount of the little sunfish and a giant catfish of two to two and a half pounds, emerging from underneath the old bridge as jubilant as a fox with a mouse.  All teeth and smiles. And neither of us could wait to show our catch to his grandparents, Claudie and Grace, up the slope of the hill, or Grandma Bessie Wilson back across the field and past the old barn.

I don’t remember much about eating those particular fish, but I sure remember how astonished our grandparents were that those fish came out of that creek.  It was a magical moment in time. I couldn’t stop smiling constantly during those moments in time. In writing and recalling this, I am smiling still. The smile of a twelve year old on a grizzled 72 year old face.