SALINA — “Over there. Over there. Send the word over there.”

Caroline Marlin was singing in her kitchen. It was a June morning in 1929. World War I had been over almost 10 years, but Caroline loved songs from that period, so she was singing and cooking oatmeal with hot biscuits for her husband, Luther,

and their three children.

Caroline was pregnant with their fourth child. The baby was due in two months.

“Say a prayer. Say a prayer for the boys over there.”

The words rang in the cool morning air. It was dog days and no doubt would be a hot June day later. But right now it was cool in the small kitchen.

Luther had served in the war. He had been in charge of a small group of black soldiers. They were part of the trench fighting and responsible for keeping the walkways in shape. “We built bridges,” he told her.

“We’ll be over. We’re coming over and we won’t be back until it’s over, over there.”

Caroline and Luther had three red-haired children. They lost their first baby, a stillborn, dark-haired girl. But, in almost orderly fashion three children had followed this terrible loss: John L., 7; Bonnie, 4; and George Paul, barely 2.

The children were sitting in the adjoining room at a large dining table, waiting for breakfast.

“Over there. Over there.”

Caroline turned off the

burner on her almost-new kerosene stove. A muffled noise stopped her singing.

She turned, and there, standing only a few feet from her was a mad dog. A dog with fully developed hydrophobia. A large, dirty, slobbering animal with eyes swollen shut. Blinded by the disease, he lunged to the right, then back and hit the closed cellar door to her left.

Caroline stood frozen. She watched as the dog passed her. He made snuffling sounds. He went out an open door onto a screen porch.

Caroline hurried to the children. In a voice low and trembling, she said, “Kids, now listen to me. A mad dog is in the house. Quick now, climb up on the table. Get in the center. John L., you hold onto Georgie. Put your arms around him. Don’t make a sound. Stay right there. I’m going to the shop and get your Dad.”

She went through the living room and out the front door. Our Dad ran a garage and filling station called the Barnsdall Business in Salina.

We sat still as mice. Then the mad dog came into the room with white slobbers. He was moving slowly. He almost fell running into Grandma’s tall folding bed.

“So that’s a mad dog,” I thought in a 4-year-old’s way. “What’s he so mad about?”

Then the front door opened and Dad came into the room. He was carrying a pistol. His eyes were on the mad dog. He moved quickly, aiming at the dog’s head. One shot. Then a second one. The sick animal fell to the floor, shaking as he died.

We watched. The front door opened again. There was our mother, late in her pregnancy, covering her face so she wouldn’t see the dying dog.

She told me in later years that she covered her face so she couldn’t see and mark the unborn baby. She believed in those old wives’ tales. In fact, she believed because she was calm killing a snake when John L. was on the way, “He is unusually calm in any happening.” It was true. But here she was with our mechanic, Jess Roberts, encouraging her to sit down.

“Jess,” Dad said, “would you go out to the garage and get one of those heavy sacks to put this S. B. in? I’d appreciate it if you’d bury him in the alley behind the cow shed.”

“Sure, Duke,” Jess said, and left out the front door.

Caroline’s shoulders were shaking. She was crying.

“Aw, Hon,” Dad said, “Caroline stop that crying. Everything’s all right now.”

“But Luther, if I’d only thought, all I needed to do was shut the door to the back porch. That’s all.”

“No,” Dad said, “what you did was exactly right. You put our children in a safe place. I’m proud of you. Now stop that crying.”

He looked at his kids staring at their crying mother. We had never seen our mother cry and Georgie was making noises like he might cry, too.

“John L.,” Dad said, “do you think you can dish up some oatmeal for your sister, your brother and yourself?”

“Sure I can, Dad.” John L. unwound himself from Georgie. He went to the kitchen and began to get our cereal ready.

About a week later, we were all at the breakfast table. Georgie climbed out of his high chair and went to the kitchen.

Dad was deep in thought and having a second cup of coffee. “I know I fixed that back door so it would stay closed,” he said. “It would automatically close, but it could be opened if someone worked at it.”

He looked at John L. “Did you open it son?”

“No, Daddy,” said John L.

Then he looked at me. I shook my head. “No, Daddy.”

“But you know who did, don’t you?” he said.

We shook our heads and motioned to the kitchen door and Georgie. He was the culprit.

“Georgie?” Dad said. We nodded.

Dad made his voice loud. “Georgie!”

“Yes Daddy,” said the 2-year-old.

“Come here.” George hurried to the dining room and climbed onto Daddy’s lap.

“Georgie,” said Dad, “did you let that mad dog in the house?”

“Yes, Daddy,” Georgie said. “I lets him in.”

“But why, Georgie?” Daddy asked.

“Cause I likes doggies, Daddy.”

“Did you pet him, Georgie?”

“Yes, I petted him, Daddy.”

“But why, Georgie?”

“I likes doggies.”

Dad put Georgie down and pointed him toward our mother.

“Caroline,” he said, “talk some sense into the boy. I have to get to the garage.”

“I will,” she said. “Don’t worry. I will.”

With a last look at Georgie, our Dad went through the living room and out the front door.