He was born to fight. No question about that. His father had been the best fighter in the county, and his father's father before that. And it's true that when he was young he leapt into fights at the drop of a hat, and provided his adversary was smaller and weaker, he won. As he grew to maturity his name became known in bars and barns for a dozen miles around.
One day his trainer took him by the neck.
``So, are you ready to take on the big Malay?''
The Malay! Huge and brown with glittering eyes. A born killer.
``No!'' he said. ``No! No! No!'' But his trainer just laughed.
``My money's with you, Buddy, so you have to win.''
The fight was to be the day after Christmas. Same day as the Grange potluck. Neither the ladies of the Grange or the promoters of the fight would back down.
They put him on a special diet. Bread and milk sprinkled with crushed Life Savers and black pepper. It wasn't bad.
He practiced spars and feints and bobbing and jumping and crouching and attacking and those who saw him thought he had a chance. But not much of a chance.
It was cold in the barn. A big propane heater had been set up at the end, but people were thinking of scalloped potatoes with ham and green bean casserole and the Bingo game at the Grange, with the oil furnace going full blast, and a cheerful wood fire down where they served the coffee.
At first Buddy thought he would have it his way. The Malay kept backing away, looking surly and hostile. Buddy got in a couple of good slashes before the Malay got irritated. The Malay landed on the side of his head. He didn't know what hit him. He got up in a couple of seconds but the Malay got him again. Again he was down. There was blood in his eyes. He shook his head but he couldn't see clearly.
``Don't give up Buddy! He's tiring! Don't give up!'' called his trainer, but Buddy didn't hear. The Malay had him down and Buddy was preparing to die when there was a shout and the reflection of red and blue flashing lights illuminated the scene. The barn emptied fast. Buddy was flung into the back of a pick up truck which took off at great speed.
When they got home his trainer took off his spurs and washed him down.
``You ain't even good for chicken soup,'' he said.
But Buddy lived on at the periphery of barn yard life, a chastened and subdued rooster.