Where the Red Fern Grows

by Wilson Rawls

I SUPPOSE THERE’S A TIME IN PRACTICALLY EVERY YOUNG boy’s life when he’s affected by that wonderful disease of puppy love. I don’t mean the kind a boy has for the pretty little girl that lives down the road. I mean the real kind, the kind that has four small feet and a wiggly tail, and sharp little teeth that can gnaw on a boy’s finger; the kind a boy can romp and play with, even eat and sleep with.

It was the time of day when all furried things come to life.

I had the wind of a deer, the muscles of a country boy, a heart full of dog love, and a strong determination.

I wasn’t scared of the darkness, or the mountains, for I was raised in those mountains.

In order to learn more about coon hunting, I’d hang around my grandfather’s store and listen to the stories told by the coon hunters. Some of the tales I heard were long and tall, but I believed them all.

“people have been trying to understand dogs ever since the beginning of time. One never knows what they’ll do. You can read every day where a dog saved the life of a drowning child, or lay down his life for his master. Some people call this loyalty. I don’t. I may be wrong, but I call it love—the deepest kind of love.”