Publisher's Synopsis
Origin . . . Crimes Against Confederate Women. Published 1869. Historical record of July 4, 1864 in Red Throat, Georgia.
During the period of The War Between the States there was little civic construction, hence the main street in every small southern town was mud, deep mud after the Spring rains. The sidewalks in front of the few stores were platforms made of wood so that the dainty shopping ladies wouldn't muddy their shiny, high button shoes.
Crawling in that mud, sniffing for scraps, or other dogs to fight or cats to kill was the meanest dog in town. Lean because no one in town would come within ten inches of his face to feed him. Mean because it was rumored that his grandmother had mated with a wolf. Yellow with the Mange, what hair remained was home to fleas the size of house flies. If you tried to pet him, first his fleas would bite you then he would.
He was the town's "Yaller Dawg". No one in the town wanted him, not even the loneliest war widow or the smallest orphan boy. What other dogs knew and young children learned was stay away.
In July 1864 the Yankee troops invaded Red Throat, Georgia. Would you believe it? That damn Yellow Dog was overjoyed, smiling, wagging his tail he joined up and let them pet him and feed him they did.
That caused question marks because the town always believed that he was a firm supporter of the Confederacy and always voted DemocRat at all elections. Now he sought revenge against the town that hated him. It was the Fourth of July and the Yankee soldiers celebrated by getting drunk and looking for an amusement. That damn dog led them to my mother, sixteen years old and eight months pregnant with me, sitting in the outhouse in the backyard eliminating the remnants of her digested food. That dog sneaked those Union troops to that small structure and quietly they planted sticks of dynamite on all four sides and blew years of my family's shit and piss straight up to the sky! Luckily she had sharp ears, heard the noise of the preparation and ran out soon enough to save her life and mine.
That poor, southern girl had to run for her life, her bare ass dripping and unwiped, my head coming out from between her legs and her petticoats down on her ankles like a tight rope on the feet of a cow holding her for the bull to come do its job. Those drunk, Yankee soldiers screamed for joy, threw their hats in the air and danced an Irish jig with no music. She escaped harm but remained in scared constipation the rest of her life and every generation in our family has inherited the same problem. Every time we sit on the toilet seat, between grunts, we curse the Yellow Dog, the Union Army and the Republican party.
. . . Our politics . . . If the Republican party nominated Jesus Christ come down from heaven for the Presidency of the United States of America and the DemocRats nominated that Yaller Dawg. We'd vote for that damn dog. We might have to get blind drunk to do it but we would before we would ever vote for a Republican. We are Yellow Dog DemocRats from the day before we were born to the day after we die!
