Biographical Non-Fiction posted September 22, 2022 Chapters:  ...8 9 -10- 11 

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Devoured By A Lion

A chapter in the book Novella - Unwanted Dog

Unwanted Dog-10

by Brett Matthew West

"Mr. Sandman bring me a dream" is a line of lyric from a popular song written by Pat Ballard in 1954. The song has been recorded by many singers.

In January of 1978 Emmylou Harris, Dolly Parton, and Linda Ronstadt recorded a version of "Mr. Sandman" for a trio album that was later scrapped.

Emmylou Harris released her version of "Mr. Sandman" on her 1981 Warner Brothers Nashville album "Evangeline". Her Single reached Number Ten on the Billboard Country Singles chart, and became a Hit in several countries.

In 1954, Vaughn Monroe and his orchestra were the first Performers to record "Mr. Sandman". Others who have recorded the song include The Chordettes, The Four Aces, Bert Kaempfert, and Chet Atkins.

In 1954, Chet Atkins' Instrumental version of "Mr. Sandman" reached Number Fifteen on the Billboard Country and Western Records chart for Best Sides In Stores and Number Thirteen for Most Played By Disc Jockeys.


EVENTS IN MY WORLD HAD NOT ALWAYS BEEN SO DISCUMBOBULATED. I constantly felt something wasn't quite copacetic. The passion became a vice I could not turn loose of. It filled my every thought, dream, and waking moment, as the old saying goes.

I could be a scared little boy as the entirety of my universe crashed down around me in little bitty pieces. When this occurred, I became no more than a loner wandering through a vast wilderness I could not escape. My sole existence stirred around trying to figure this dilemma out.

Other times full of myself, rambunctious, and ready to take on the world, I was convinced a planetary paradigm shift was underway I was caught up in the middle of. My cosmos resembled an asylum zoo with me the only wildebeest to roam the confines. Sans a beard, tufted tail with a plume at the end, mane, downward curved horns, and sloped back, I sadly lacked in that department.

My overactive mind clocked ninety miles a minute. I rolled over on my side in a fetal position and faded back to sleep.


Once again, I struggled to open the bulky chain-link door of Gyro's enclosure, and swung its hook into a waiting eye to keep the gate open. That chore completed, I dragged the opaque feed bucket inside. A swarm of flies swatted away, I dumped the fifty pounds of bloody beef in a heap and backed off five steps. There, I flipped the container over and perched on top of it. From this vantage point, I would watch the pride male feed. This was my condemnation. Seemed a millenia had passed since my sentence was handed down.

In reality, sitting with Gyro became the best part of my day. Curious, I scanned the tundra at the far end of his enclosure. Unable to locate Gyro, I pondered where the monstrous kitty was. Gyro almost always waited for me to open the gate. I heard a loud splash.

Panicked, I exclaimed, "What? No!"

The last time Gyro fell into the water-filled moat it took me three hours to coax the terrified animal, with its wingless body and eagle head, back to dry land. What a task that was! I did not relish playing guardian to a five hundred pound pissed off, soaked, beast again.

I threw open the keeper's gate and raced full throttled to the moat surrounding Gyro's enclosure. In silence, I stood there. Gyro lurched between me and the opened gate. His amber eyes transfixed in horror to my face, Gyro swished his tail methodically back and forth. I saw the beef I'd fed him untouched. Gyro sashayed forward. Then back. I recognized his hunting posture. I forced myself to remain still.

Desperate, I whispered to him, "Be a real good pussycat and go eat your food."

A mental picture of my skin staying on the outside of my body where it belonged flashed through my terrified mind. I sensed Gyro's movement and saw him explode from the grass. He picked up speed. Dust columned into the air as Gyro zoomed at me.

His massive head barreled into my chest. The wrecking ball maneuver knocked the breath out of me. I sailed airborne and landed fifteen feet away from the attack. Groggy, and befuddled, I could not think straight. Gyro's loud growl thundered in my ears and shattered my eardrums.

The monster placed his massive paws on my shoulders and pinned me to the ground. He chomped down on my exposed face. Gyro's upper canines punctured this rag doll's eyes. He shook my head furiously. The last noise my brain registered before I died was my snapped broken neck. It sounded like a twig breaking.


Soaked in sweat, I bolted awake and exhaled a heavy breath. I took stock of my body parts by gently patting each one of them to ensure they were all in their proper places and tried to reassure myself, "It was only a nightmare!" I am not sure I did a bang up job of convincing myself I told the truth.

For several long moments I sat there to regain my bearings. Suddenly, alarmed by what I noticed, I involuntariy sprang to my feet. An apprehension of danger overtook me. I asked myself, "How did my boots get off?"

I did not remember removing them. If not me, who? The notion was insane. Impossible. Absurd.

I could not wait to crawl out from beneath that underpass.


In Chapter Eleven I will provide some of my thoughts about being an unwanted dog.

Boscoe, by Linda Wetzel, selected to complement my autobiography.
Pays one point and 2 member cents.

Artwork by Linda Wetzel at

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