Down the Mineshaft

 By Don “Booty” Hall

 

Pistol, my three-year-old beagle, ran to me, tail going like crazy, as soon as I walked in the door that Saturday last December. I gave him a pat on the head and grabbed the ringing phone. What now? I was having one of those weeks when nothing seemed to go right, not at work, not at home. Ever since my divorce, I’d had spells like that every now and then—times when it felt almost as if the Lord had forgotten about me.

 

My ex-wife was on the other end of the line. “I’m sorry, Don, I know I told you Kyle and Kasey could spend Christmas with you, but I can’t get them to you till New Year’s.”

 

Much as I wanted to have the boys with me for Christmas, I was too worn out to raise a fuss. “Well, Pistol,” I said after I’d hung up, “looks like it’s you and me this Christmas. At least we got some fun planned tomorrow.” We were going rabbit hunting with my cousins and their dogs. From the way Pistol barked, it seemed as if he understood every word I’d said. For all I knew, he did. Pistol is one smart dog.

 

The next morning, I met Vernon, Bruce and Greg at the top of an abandoned mining strip about 10 miles south of Wheelwright, Kentucky. The air was cool and humid—just right for a dog to pick up a scent. Pistol bounded out of my truck and onto the grassy slope. Half the fun of hunting came from watching Pistol work a field, somehow knowing just what I wanted him to do. We moved down the hill, the dogs white-tipped tails zigzagging through the grass in front of us. I could feel my mood lifting. Maybe this wasn’t going to be one of those low times after all.

 

We’d gone half a mile when I realized I hadn’t seen Pistol for a while. Usually, he checked in with me every couple of minutes, running back from the pack with a wag of his tail.

 

“You seen Pistol?” I asked Vernon.

 

“Not for a while, now that you mention it,” he said.

 

“It’s not like him to take off. We better look for him.” We rounded the other dogs into the truck and set off down the gentle slope again, calling out for Pistol.

 

“Hold up,” said Vernon. “I heard a bark. Behind us.”

 

I saw a foot-wide hole in the ground. A mine break. My heart sank. Mine breaks are deep cracks in the earth created from dynamiting in the mineshafts. I dropped to my knees and called into the hole. “Pistol! Are you down there, boy?” A faint bark came back from the darkness. A mine break could go down 300 or 400 feet, clear to the mineshaft itself. The opening to this one was narrow, too narrow for even a wiry kid like one of my boys. I couldn’t see more than a couple of feet down. This was bad trouble.

 

What to do? I paced. I fretted. Time and again, I called out to Pistol, then reminded myself not to get him excited. The more I studied the hole, the worse the situation looked. I lowered a rope, hoping Pistol would grab on. He did, but he let go before I could pull him up. The break was so small, and the walls were so jagged, I couldn’t imagine how I would ever get him out.

 

“Go home and get some rest, Don,” Vernon finally said as the sun dropped behind the trees. “We’ll think of something tomorrow. He’ll be okay.”

 

“Don’t worry, boy,” I called to my dog. “I’ll be back for you.” Pistol barked back as if to say, I know you will.

 

I hardly slept a wink. Since the divorce Pistol had been my only steady company, the one soul who was always happy to see me and who never failed to bring me up if I was down. Lord, I know my dog’s counting on me, I prayed. What good am I if I can’t save him?

 

On the way to the mine break the next morning—Monday—I stopped and talked to my friend Carol, Pistol’s vet. She made some calls, then met Vernon and me with a length of rope with a net attached to the end. Nope. The hole was just too dark, too narrow and too deep.

 

That afternoon a local TV crew showed up. “Are you sure you want to put this on TV?” I asked the reporter. “What if Pistol doesn’t make it out?”

 

“The more people that hear about this,” the reporter said, “the better the chances he will get out. Folks will want to help.”

 

That night I dumped a coffee can of dog food down the hole, hoping some of it would reach Pistol. Lord, let Pistol understand that I haven’t given up on him.

 

“Look, Don,” Vernon said, “we’re not giving up. But maybe you should prepare yourself for the worst.” All that night in my sleep, I heard Pistol’s barks.

 

Tuesday and Wednesday, more of the same. I lowered a feed sack with some more dog kibble in it. Even if the food was getting to Pistol, he had to be weak from dehydration. And there was no telling if the fall had hurt him. By Thursday his barks had faded to distant whimpers. Lord, I’ve been doubting you some lately. Now I’m going to just put my faith in you. Save my dog.

 

Thursday night I stopped by the vet’s office. “Pikeville City Fire and Rescue has one of those sewer cams—a cable with a camera at the end of it,” Carol said. “I’ll ask if they can bring it to the break tomorrow.”

 

The mayor of Pikeville phoned me that night. “I know how much a good dog means to a man, Don. I’m sending our full rescue squad.”

 

The next morning six men in rescue uniforms were waiting at the hill. One carried a long metal hose coiled over his shoulder with a big eye at the end—the sewer cam. Foot by foot, they lowered it into the break.

 

“Okay,” the cameraman said. “Looks like we’re about two feet off the bottom.”

 

I stared at the monitor. I could see the jagged rock walls and a stretch of flat ground where the break opened up.

 

“What do we do now?” I asked.

 

“Wait,” the cameraman said.

 

Five minutes went by. Then ten. Twenty. Come on, Pistol. Come on, boy. What if he was too weak to move?

 

“There he is!”

 

Pistol walked right past the camera. He was still alive! But what now?

 

The cameraman grabbed a length of nylon line and fashioned one end into a loop. He lowered it until the loop hung right below the camera. “If your dog sticks his head in,” he said, “I’m going to pull him up fast, before he chokes.”

 

Not a bad idea. But what were the chances that Pistol would walk over and just stick his head through? I thought of all those times out in the field when Pistol seemed to read my mind. Lord, if you’re listening, lead Pistol over to that rope. Tell him what I want.

 

I couldn’t believe it . . . Pistol came into view again! He looked right into the camera. Come on, boy. Put your head through.

 

Pistol hesitated a moment, whiskers twitching. He sniffed the loop. Then he stuck his head through it.

 

Instantly the rescue worker yanked up. “I’ve got him! I’ve got him!” In a moment Pistol—shivering, thin and almost too weak to stand—was in my arms, licking my face and whimpering with joy.

 

Christmas last year turned out pretty good after all. I had my dog back, and my faith. No, the Lord didn’t forget me at all. He never does.