Everyone knows that pirates demand and get loads of respect; that’s what we figured based on the fact that every pirate story, or pirate movie we ever heard or saw had the main pirate getting all the gold, winning all the fights, and tormenting the most beautiful woman until she fell in love with him.  So we decided we would be pirates, which turned out to be easier than we’d planned because someone had thrown an old yellow door into the field near Willow Crick that we could lay bank-to-bank across the water and sword fight until one of the sword fighters lost his balance and fell into the crick.  And we pondered who would throw away a perfectly good door, so we walked through the neighborhood looking for a house without a door so we could go up and thank them for helping us become pirates. 

To be a pirate is a pretty cool thing, and we were content to be just regular pirates for the entire summer, until our final class assembly two weeks before summer vacation.  The entire fifth grade class at Douglas Valley Elementary School gathered in the cafeteria to watch a documentary about the “The Ozarks and It’s People”, who talked in such a way that made us laugh and carry on like our gizzards were in a grip.  After we saw that film we walked around all day saying things like, “how ya’ll doin’?” and “can I hep yew?” or “I live up in yonder holler”. 

The first Saturday after the “Ozarks” assembly the usual pirate gang gathered down at the door to play our pirate games, only this time we proclaimed ourselves “Pirates of the Ozark, Hooyah!!!” and we jumped into the crick and ran up and down in the shallow water pretending it was a holler.  We thought a holler could be just about anything you made of it until my big brother informed us we didn’t have “the slightest idea what-in-the-hell we were talking about”.  And he could use that kind of language because he was 13 years old and already a teenager.  But he was kind enough to explain to us that a holler, as the dictionary says, is a slang word for a wide, grassy slope leading to the edge of a forest. 

That explanation sucked the air right out of all our aspirations to be pirates and Ozarkians.  Not only did we not have a holler to go yonder to, but now we found out the Ozarkians spoke slang, and we never heard of such a language as that.  What’s worse, my brother nearly ruined everything when he told us we didn’t even know what the Ozarks are.  Then Robbie Moore’s little brother said, “Oh huh, I do too know what it is.  It’s a big boat where all the animals came aboard two by two because it rained for forty years, that’s what it is”. 

Even I knew he was talking about Noah’s Ark, and when I corrected him he ran home crying and told his mom we were being mean to him and she yelled down to the crick for Robbie to “get your butt home, now”.  Robbie’s mom was always yelling for Robbie and his little brother to do something with their butts; “get your butt in the car”, or “get your butt upstairs”, or “get your butt out to the bus stop”.  We didn’t really care that Robbie’s little brother was crying; he was a tattle tale, and pirates don’t put up with tattle tales – even a little.   

With our dreams of pirate-hood and the Ozarkian lifestyle deflated we realized our whole summer was already ruined.  We settled for a more mundane adventure; we decided to walk up to the woods on the other side of Douglas Valley and hunt for snakes or horned toads.  Our usual path wound through a gradual, grassy slope about 400 feet wide situated between two rows of houses.  The distance from the bottom of the slope to the edge of the woods was about half a mile, and it passed between at least forty homes whose families were well accustomed to the comings and goings of pirates like us; they paid us little attention. 

We had walked about half way up the path, teasing Snotty little Scotty, when all of a sudden he ran up ahead of us like he was trying to get away, but then he turned around and yelled, “Hey, this is a holler; a wide grassy place leading to the woods.  This is it.”  Then we all yelled, “Pirates of the Ozarks” and ran and jumped on a dog pile, with Snotty little Scotty on bottom, while curious heads popped up like gophers looking over back yard fences to see what all the racket was about.       

A new family called the McClarins, with six girls and two boys, had moved into the house at the top of the holler.  My big brother said, “It’s easy to see what’s on ole man McClarin’s mind all the time.”  And he laughed and jabbed me in the shoulder, and I laughed and jabbed back.  We all had a pretty good laugh, even though we weren’t sure what he was talking about; how could he possibly know what old man McClarin had been thinking, especially since they had just moved to Douglas Valley that week.  Anyway, we probably would have never known the McClarins had moved in if not for their dog.  

Our normal path to the woods took us a couple hundred feet behind the McClarins’ house, “up yonder way” as one would say in the Ozarks, and we’d walked that path a few thousand times during the course of our Saturday adventures. Our concern about the McClarins’ dog sprouted the first time we saw the evil beast.  He was some sort of unrecognizable breed, about the size of a Cocker Spaniel, solid black except for his eyes.  Piercing, death filled eyes they were; enough to make us quake in fear at the mere sight of his cutting stare, a goading glare that penetrated a young boy’s very soul. 

In all of our encounters with that beast, we could ever agree on the color of his eyes.  Sometimes they appeared red, like the blood of demons that we knew possessed him.  Other times they seemed more like white embers, or starlight captured in glass orbs.  But mostly they glowed like midnight smoke over Onyx and emanated a dark sheen straight from the chambers of Hell, we were sure.  What made it worse is that he never barked like a normal dog.  He would only growl in a smooth, deep, deliberate way that reminded me of a bowling ball rolling down a cold, tile corridor leading to some dungeon of torture.  It really gave us the creeps. 

Our first introduction to the Devil Dog came as we walked along the path in our normal loud, obnoxious fashion headed for the woods.  As hindsight is always perfect, not only was it the loudness of our rowdy confederation, but also our smelly, belligerent habits (which we brandished like swords) that probably telegraphed our approach.  As boys will do, we took great pride in farting aloud, and as often as possible.  Hell, a good fart would give a boy something to boast about all day.  Even when we lacked enough gas to naturally produce a sufficient discharge, we would simulate the effect by licking our lips and blowing hard against our forearms to produce the most disgusting, wet, runny sound we could muster. 
“The wetter the better”, we always said.  As we approached the woods, the beast lay concealed in the heavy noon shadows under a rose bush.  He had no trouble figuring out we were headed his direction. 

Just as we got near the edge of the woods, the black monster crept from the shadows, lowered his head and charged toward us as silent as a breeze, dragging a chain, until the chain snapped tight and jerked the maddened devil dog back into reality.  We were so caught of guard, and totally unaware of his approach, that we nearly pissed ourselves when the chained tightened against the porch steps with a loud “KAPOW!”

The devil dog recoiled only inches from our flailing arms, snarling and snapping at the smelly band of noisy, cursing young pirates.  Our hearts leaped to our throats and we all jumped back yelling “Oh Shit! Watch out, get back.” If there ever was reason for a boy to curse it was the Devil Dog.  It was that first encounter that led us to fear his eyes.  “Don’t be lookin’ et them eyes” we would tell one another in our best Ozark fashion.  “Don’t be a-lookin’ or yer set to be frozen in yer tracks ‘til he rips yer arms off like bear bate.” 

For the rest of that summer the mystery of the Devil Dog’s eyes held our imaginations as we attempted to unlock the secret of his piercing stare.  Snotty Scotty’s little brother began to have nasty dreams about the Devil Dog’s rogue eyes – those smoky, smoldering embers of Hell, and he no longer would walk the well beaten path that led past the house and the end of the holler.  This only added to the mystery of the beast, seeing how he seemed to control and torture people even in their dreams.     

But, as pirates of the Ozark, we were undaunted in our quest for adventure, and too stubborn to find another path through the holler into the woods.  “Besides,” we reasoned, “we be a might sneaker than that ole Devil Dog, and if’n we don’t want him awares, then he best get up early in the week to try to ketch us next time we slip past”.  At least, that was our best Ozarkian battle plan.  We figured if we were just very quiet for a change, we’d be able to sneak right past that house without confronting the evil stare and another attempted assault from the black devil.

Asking a group of boys to be quiet is one thing, but asking them to be quiet all at the same time is different problem.  For five adventure-bent boys, trying to suppress farts and other spontaneous outbursts would be nearly impossible; it would take practice.  We made a plan to face the challenge over and again until we mastered the stealth mode. We would test the devil dog’s resolve, break his will.  

Each time we approached the top to the holler, we stopped to gather our composure before another attempt to sneak, single file, past the house.  But each time the beast was ready; even when we spotted him early on, he would wait until we were almost to the edge of the woods then jump from the shadows and lower his head as he attacked us at break neck speed.  And that’s what nearly always happened; the stupid beast would snap that chain so hard at times we thought the house moved a couple of inches closer to the woods.  He was relentless in his effort — and we began to feel foolish in ours. 

But, as true pirates of the Ozark, we refused to yield to this evil mongrel.  Every day we summoned a new plan to outwit his uncanny perceptiveness.  We would reclaim our path to the woods either in truce or, if necessary, in defeat of the beast.  God, we were desperate.  So, in the last week of August, the last week of summer vacation before the new school year began, we decided on a new tactic. 

We converged on the holler in early evening, just after supper, as the late summer sun rode across the mountain ridge and softened the shadows into dull contrasts of green and blue-grey.  If nothing else, the element of surprise was in our favor.  As we neared the lower end of the holler, we huddled together in quiet anticipation and caught our breath while my brother whispered the plan once more so we all understood our mission. 

“Remember, don’t look et them eyes, that’s what tips him off every time.  Just hunker down real close to the ground, let yer arms dangle...”

We rehearsed the plan in our back yard; a simple tactic learned from watching an episode of “Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom” that showed native hunters all hunched over, huddled close together and moving among rhinos and elephants.  Our plan seemed to be working as we tip toed up toward the house; no sign of the beast in his normal hideout.  We walked a few more steps, stopped to look and listen — nothing.  Our hopes rose, we walked four or five more steps and stopped.  No sign of the Satan mongrel. 

Suppressing the urge to celebrate, we walked a few more steps and stopped to scour the field.  Then, as if our plan had been announced in TV guide, the unmistakable sound of a chain dragging across dirt-rubble and that bowling ball growl came to us, almost as if amplified for affect.  Before we could react the fiendish hound was on us, at the end of his chain where he was nearly able to sink his teeth into one of us.  But, this time there was no loud “KAPOW” of the chain as it would normally snap tight and jerk the devil back to its hellhole.  It was a different sound this time; more of a hollow “DOINK” with a dull “KACHING” sound at the end.

Pieces of ¼ inch chain snapped and flew into the grass like shrapnel.  The Devil Dog was free of his chain – free to devour us one limb at a time.  “Dad burn it!  Run for it boys”, one pirate yelled.  “He’s a-comin’ fast and hard.  Run fer them woods, boys.” and we all ran amok like our shoes were on fire and we had bees in our shorts.  But, no sooner had we all split in different directions out of panic then we realized the monster dog had stopped dead in his tracks.  We all huddled together at the edge of the woods to gage the situation. 

No attack came.  We couldn’t believe our luck; had the dog given up, or changed his tactics?  Finally we caught sight of him stumbling through the trees and bushes along the edge of the woods, moving farther from the house, with his head close to the ground and his tail between his legs.  His eyes no longer showed the mysterious red smoky Onyx color of demons, but now revealed the shadowy gray clouds of cataracts. We finally realized that The Devil Dog was blind to the world, and now was adrift in an uncharted sea of an unfamiliar scents and sounds; no recognizable sensory pings to follow back to his new home.  My brother told us to get home, and we started in that direction while he knocked on the McClarin’s door to tell them their dog was wandering aimless in the forest.  

When school started the next week Snotty Scotty and I were in the same sixth grade class, and we were bursting at the seams to entertain the class with our story.  It was customary on the first day for the teacher to break the ice by inviting the class to tell about their summer adventures.  We were sure ours would be the best. 

Our teacher, Mr. Talley, had a different approach.  He was a stern disciplinarian whose first course of business was to tell us all, “I’m sure you all had a good summer vacation.  But I don’t really want to hear about it, so when I call your name just answer “Here, sir.” or you will be marked absent.  You’re in Sixth Grade now; we have a lot of really serious work to do this year and we will begin today.  So, please put your lazy summer behind you and get ready to learn.”  The Pirates of the Ozark officially disbanded that day.