Wilson Rawls’ Where the Red Fern Grows is a classic coming-of-age story that has touched the hearts of readers for generations. It’s a tale of love, loyalty, and the deep bond between a boy and his dogs in the Ozark Mountains. Many remember the heartwarming adventures of Billy Colman and his beloved coonhounds, Old Dan and Little Ann. However, the book is also known for its incredibly sad and devastating ending, which has left many readers in tears. For those who wished for a different, perhaps more…unconventional conclusion, you’re in for a treat. Forget the heartbreak, and get ready for a side of Where the Red Fern Grows you’ve never seen before! Prepare yourself for an alternate ending that throws tragedy out the window and replaces it with something far more…energetic.
As I approached the old white oak, Little Ann’s whine broke the night’s silence. Her posture told me something was amiss. Freezing in my tracks, the moonlight revealed Old Dan, stock-still, perched on his haunches, eyes fixed on the tree, a low bawl rumbling in his chest.
This ancient white oak, stubborn in its autumn dress, still clung to its dead leaves, a sentinel amongst the bare winter trees. Old Dan’s unusual behavior sent shivers down my spine. Then, an even more unsettling shift – silence. His deep voice cut off, leaving an eerie stillness hanging in the frosty air. My gaze followed his, locking onto the tree. His lips curled back, a snarl contorting his face as he stared into the dense foliage. Moonlight glinted off bared teeth. The fur on his neck bristled, a ridge of unease running down his back. A deep, guttural growl vibrated from his throat.
Fear tightened its grip. I called to him, a desperate whisper in the vast Ozarks. Escape was the only thought. Again, I called, but my pleas were lost. He was unyielding, rooted to the spot by the primal instinct of a hunting hound. Fear held no sway over his courageous heart.
Setting down the lantern, I clutched the handle of my boombox tighter. Slowly, cautiously, I moved towards him. Just get close enough to grab his collar, I told myself. My eyes remained glued to the tree’s dark canopy as I edged forward, Little Ann a silent shadow at my heel, her focus mirroring mine.
Then, through the dense leaves, I saw them – two burning, yellow eyes, piercing the darkness, fixed directly on me. I froze, petrified.
Old Dan’s deep baying ceased, plunging the mountains into absolute silence once more. Only the unwavering stare of those eyes remained.
Peering through the foliage, I could now discern the hulking shape of a large creature, crouched low on a massive branch, nestled close to the tree’s trunk. It shifted. The rasp of razor-sharp hooves scraping against bark echoed in the stillness. It rose, stepping out of the shadows and onto the limb. In that fleeting moment, silhouetted against the moon, recognition struck. It was the legendary Devil Unicorn of the Ozarks.
The silence exploded with Old Dan’s challenge – a long, deafening bawl. Not his usual hunting cry, this was different, primal. It ripped through the mountains, echoing across the frosty night, a vibration that rolled over the flats, plunged into the canyons, and faded into the rimrocks like the mournful cry of a lost soul. Old Dan had thrown down the gauntlet.
A low cough, a deep snort answered. The unicorn crouched. I knew, with chilling certainty, what was coming.
A dance-off.
My palms slick with sweat, gripped the cool plastic of the boombox handle. With a bloodcurdling whinny, the unicorn launched itself from the tree, limbs outstretched, its long, yellow horn a deadly lance.
Old Dan didn’t flinch. He reared onto his hind legs, meeting the unicorn mid-air, and unleashed a lightning-fast pop & lock. The sheer groove of it sent the unicorn reeling, tumbling head over heels into a fallen treetop.
The force of those classic moves threw the unicorn off balance. Little Ann seized the moment. A blur of red fur, she darted in, her aim precise. The sharp snap of her paws echoed as she deployed a full-out Harlem Shake.
A squall of disbelief and fury erupted from the unicorn. It spun, regaining its footing, and retaliated with a series of aggressive booty-pops, its pelvis thrusting with unsettling intensity. Its right hoof snaked out, curving over its shoulder in a mocking “what you got??” taunt. Muscles coiled, ready to strike.
Unfazed, Little Ann executed a flawless pas de beurre seamlessly transitioning into a mind-blowing jazz square, a bizarre combo that clearly rattled the mythical beast.
Stunned momentarily by the sheer audacity of her footwork, Old Dan scrambled from the treetop. Bawling a battle cry that seemed to summon the very hounds of hell, he charged back into the fray.
And then, something inside me snapped. I went completely berserk, plunging headfirst into the heart of the dance battle.
There, amidst the rugged Ozark hills, I fought for the honor of my dogs. My weapon? Dance. The only language this bizarre showdown understood.
Screaming like a lunatic, tears streaming down my face, I launched into the Running Man, followed by a frantic Cabbage Patch, and then, the ultimate humiliation, the Humpty Hump, directed squarely at the twerking unicorn.
Once, feeling the sting of my Roger Rabbit, the unicorn’s rage turned on me. Its yellow, slitted eyes burned with pure hatred. The lithe body dipped low to the ground, shoulder muscles bunching and flexing as it executed a textbook Worm. I scrambled back, but my foot slipped, sending me crashing to my knees. Trapped. With a terrifying shriek, it sprang – a death-spiral pirouette of doom.
I never saw my dogs move, but in that instant, they were there, a red shield between the unicorn and me. Side by side, they launched themselves upwards, intercepting the deadly horn, their small bodies absorbing the frantic krumping meant for my heart.
A scream tore from my throat. I charged back into the whirlwind of limbs and fur, swinging wildly, careful to keep rhythm, to not disrupt the all-important groove of my dogs.
The battle raged, a chaotic tumble down the mountainside, over huckleberry bushes, fallen logs, and jagged rocks. A rolling, writhing mass of dancing fury. I was swallowed by it all, falling, screaming, crying, and Crip Walking whenever an opportunity presented itself.
I’d landed a few impressive moves, I could tell. Sweat plastered the unicorn’s mane to its neck, but the decisive blow, the move that would break it, still eluded me. My dogs, bless their hearts, were outmatched against the unicorn’s freestyle mastery.
The unicorn’s shrieks and my dogs’ deep bellows echoed through the mountains, a symphony of bizarre combat, as if the boombox of hell itself had been unleashed. Down, down the mountainside the terrible dance-off plunged, finally reaching the canyon floor.
The unicorn had Old Dan cornered, figuratively speaking of course. I could see it winding up for its ultimate weapon, the move that would seal victory – the moonwalk. Hearing Old Dan’s pitiful yelp, Little Ann, abandoning all caution, darted in, launching into an uprock sequence with burns so fierce, so innovative, I’d never witnessed such footwork from her before. Claws digging into the mountain soil, she braced herself, pulling every ounce of strength from her small frame. She was attempting a routine of unimaginable difficulty, a move that could end it all.
Bathed in the bright Ozark moonlight, clarity pierced through the chaos. For a fleeting moment, I saw the broad expanse of the unicorn’s back, the knotted, steel-cable muscles, the piston-like thrust of its deadly hind legs, poised to unleash the moonwalk, a move that could, metaphorically, disembowel a dog.
Raising the boombox high above my head, channeling my inner John Cusack, I blasted a beat, a rhythm I knew would ignite Ann’s inner funk master. My aim was true. The beats sliced through the tension, a sonic blade cutting through the dancers. Ann began to spin, faster and faster, a red tornado of motion.
The unicorn broke eye contact with Old Dan. A scream of pure agony ripped from its throat. It reared onto its hind legs, pawing at the air in frantic desperation. But it was too late. Ann was in the zone. Eyes squeezed shut, small feet digging and clawing at the dirt, she began to levitate, rising into the air, a spinning, twirling red comet soaring between the hooves of the gasping unicorn.
The unicorn shrieked again, a sound of utter defeat. Sweat gurgled and sprayed, a rainbow-colored mist raining down over the underbrush, rattling like icy sleet on the white oak leaves. It stood, frozen in a boxer’s stance, clawing uselessly at the air, slitted eyes now a venomous green, fixed on me. It seemed oblivious to the fact that the battle was over, still locked in a hateful stare. I stood transfixed, watching Little Ann’s vertical ascent, a ballet of canine funk.
The fire of triumph slowly died in the unicorn’s eyes. It had been schooled, utterly out-danced, but pride refused to let it fall. My boombox relentlessly pumped out fat beats. A shudder convulsed through its body. It made one last, pathetic attempt at a moonwalk. But it was finished.
This was the end of the trail for the scourge of dance. No more would its challenges scream from the rimrocks to the valleys below. The innocent calves and young colts of the Ozarks were safe from its Boogaloo.
It collapsed towards me, as if even in defeat, it was still trying to step to me. Then, abruptly, its hooves hit the ground. With a final, defeated snort, it tossed its mane, slitted eyes flicking towards the still-spinning, still-levitating Little Ann. Scowling at each of us in turn, it whinnied, a sound that clearly translated to, “You win this time, but this ain’t over! For realz,” and then, vanished, galloping off into the frosty darkness.
Ann’s rotations slowed, corkscrewing gently back to earth. Panting, Old Dan rushed to her, sniffing her from nose to tail, his tail a blur of red-brown happiness. I lowered the boombox, thumbed the “Stop” button, and the sounds of the forest rushed back in to fill the sudden calm.
“Well,” I declared, relief washing over me, “that was close!” Little Ann and Old Dan turned to me, goofy dog grins splitting their faces, tails whipping back and forth like happy metronomes.
“Who wants kibbles?” I asked my beloved, heroic pets.
And then, the three of us lived happily, funkily, and forever after. The End.
Old Dan and Little Ann in the moonlight, looking towards a tree in a humorous scene, representing an alternate ending to Where the Red Fern Grows.
