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Scenario II
As they are driving home from school, Dad asks his
son, Stanley Yelnats, about his day. Stanley mentions that he checked
out a book from the WVHS LMC for an independent reading assignment.
"What is the name of the book?" Dad asks. "I can't remember" Stanley
responded, "Ask me later."
After they get home, Stanley begins pulling stuff out
of his backpack. He lays the library book on the table along with
several other textbooks needed for homework assignments. Dad wanders by
on his way upstairs. He picks up the library book and casually begins
leafing through it. All of a sudden, Dad slams the book down exclaiming,
"What kind of garbage are you reading Stanley? And what kind of a high
school would have this book in their library. I'm going down to
Waubonsie tomorrow and demand that they take this book off the shelf. I
don't want you, or any other kid exposed to this type of trash!"
Stanley is clueless. "What are you talking about Dad?
Why are you so upset?"
"This is exactly what I'm upset about, Stanley." Dad begins to read the
following passage…
Passage 2
A Day No Pigs Would Die
Robert Peck
"Soon’s I drop him from the sack, you lid that barrel and keep it lidded, hear?"
"Yes, Papa."
Without more ado, Papa just emptied the sack. He poured the weasel right down inside the barrel on top
of the dog. I slammed the lid into place. I could hardly hold it on, and Ira come over to keep the barrel upright. Papa, too.
We heard a lot of scratching and chasing and biting inside the dark of that barrel. The dog was bigger, but the weasel sure had the darkness on his side. To be
honest, I thought a fight between a dog and a weasel was going to be a real excitement. But I hated every second of it. The whole thing seemed senseless to me and I was mad at myself for standing there to
hold down the barrel lid. I even felt the shame of being a part of it. From the look on Papa’s face I could see that maybe he wasn’t enjoying it so much either.
At last all the noise stopped. There wasn’t a sound. Papa nodded to me, and I slipped the lid a crack, just enough to let some light in so we could look down inside. Then
we heard the dog cry. It was a whine that I will always remember, the kind of sound that you hear but never want to hear again.
Ira pulled the lid of the barrel away and looked inside. The weasel was dead. Torn apart into small
pieces of fur, bones, and bloody meat. There was blood all over the inside of that barrel, from top to bottom. The dog was alive, but
not much more. One of her ears was about tore off and she was wet with blood. She just danced her little feet, splattering the pool of
blood in the bottom of the barrel. And making that sound in her throat that almost begged someone to end her misery. |
Now, you are playing your role at a meeting to decide whether or not to keep this book in Waubonsie's LMC Collection. How will you vote?
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