Trapper

           This was written by my daughter, Karen Gillespie, a few years ago. She said that I could share it on my blog.

            Andrew had just finished only months before his last season of playing minor league baseball. He was now eight. But next spring he would turn nine. It meant his moving on to a little league team. He would also move to a new location. The old ball field he played at would no longer be used.

            One Saturday in October Andrew approached me and asked.  “Mom, can we visit the old ball field one last time?”

            Since I had encouraged him all along in playing, I could hardly refuse to take him there.   

            “Sure we can,” I replied.  “Let me tell your father we are going so he’ll watch your sisters.”

            Upon entering the parking lot to the old ball field, I noticed instantly that it was now taken over by tall grass.  But yet the diamond was still intact.  Andrew ran on in front of me and soon he was screaming with excitement as he pretended to hit a ball and run the bases. 

            “It’s a home run!” yelled Andrew at the top of his lungs.  He did this many times until I yelled for him to come on.

            “We need to go home now,” I said.  I thought I would get a little discouraged reaction but instead Andrew ran on ahead of me.

“Mom,” he yelled, “Come here!”

            I rushed towards him as I saw him leaning over a hole.

            “Look Mom.  It’s a dog in the hole.”

            A circled hole from where a utility pole had once occupied did indeed now hold a dog.

            “How are we going to get him out?”

            “We need rope,” I said.

            I drove back home.  I told my husband we’ll be back shortly.  I grabbed some dog food and water in case we got him out.  I knew he would be hungry.

            Soon we were leaning over the hole again.

            “I’ll tie the rope with a loop at the end,” I told Andrew.

            “Is it going to work?” asked Andrew.

            “We’ll find out,” I said.  “We can keep trying until it does.”

            As I leaned over the hole, it was obvious to me the dog had been there awhile.  The smell from the hole was strong.  This dog has a strong will to live.

            After many attempts, the dog finally raised himself high enough to get caught in the loop.  I pulled him out.  I pulled him a distance from the hole and let the rope drop.  The dog, a light brown terrier, wiggled himself free.  Meanwhile, Andrew covered the hole with brush.

            Leaving food and water, we left that field.  And the whole time Andrew kept turned in his seat to watch, until finally silence ended.

            “Do you think we will ever see Trapper again?”

            “Trapper?” I asked.

            “He was trapped and so that’s why I named him Trapper.

            As I smiled, I replied, “I think you just might.”
            We revisited the ball field occasionally thereafter.  We never saw Trapper again.  From being in that hole for a while, we knew we faced a deranged animal that day.  His growl had us keeping our distance.  We had done our part in rescuing him and the rest was then up to him.  With houses set back in the woods across the street, we found comfort in our belief that his instinct for survival had taken over.  Trapper had headed straight home.