Like one who seizes a dog by the ears is a passer-by who meddles in a quarrel not his own (Proverbs 26:17).

Northeast Tennessee is known for its tough territory -- right in the thick of the Appalachian Wilderness -- but even more than its tough territory, it's known for its even tougher men.  Daniel Boone and Andy Jackson and Zack Taylor (a.k.a old Rough and Ready) all hailed from this region at one point or another, and they were only a small sampling of the great men that Northeast Tennessee had produced.  The folks in those parts had forged their existence by beating back the Indians and taming the wilderness by all means necessary.  Even into modern times, there is a sense of adventure and austerity in the landscape, the air, the water, and especially in the faces of the men who call Northeast Tennessee their home.

Roger McKinley was not from those parts himself, but he had a high respect for the area's history even prior to his temporary relocation to the small hill-bound community of Plank Mountain, working as a surveyor for the state's Division of Geology.  He had heard stories about Northeast Tennessee and Northeast Tennesseans from his grandfather, a leathery old man who had grown up in the area.  And Roger had experienced the region's toughness for himself, carrying his surveying equipment through the hills and valleys, and casual encounters with people at local diners and gas stations.  Still, he wasn't prepared for what he would witness on his way to the post office on a warm Wednesday afternoon.

The post office was in a small building at the intersection of Main Street and Taylor Road, the centermost point in Plank Mountain.  In many ways, the post office served as the town's primary point of connection with the outside world -- envelopes and packages coming in and going out once a day -- but it was also the place where local news was shared from person to person through Fred Tuttlebaum, the town's postmaster.  Roger had interacted with Fred Tuttlebaum several times during his weeks in Plank Mountain, and he had been unnerved by several things about the old postmaster -- his penchant for dirty jokes, his raspy laughter, his long salt-and-pepper beard hanging down to the second button on his coveralls, his lazy left eye, and his love for singing along with country music songs on the radio.  But more than anything else, Roger had always been bothered by the postmaster's dog:  Sarge.  Sarge was a black and tan rottweiler, about the same size as the large blue, government-issue mailbox that he guarded.  He was a constant presence at the post office, whether he was sleeping or glaring out at visitors through his shiny, black eyes.  The postmaster acted as if Sarge was the cutest, cuddliest creature the world had ever known -- laughing and telling stories about the dog's antics in chasing squirrels or getting into the trash.  But even though Roger did his best to act natural and politely laugh at the anecdotes about the rottweiler, Roger felt like his very life was in danger whenever he was at the post office.  It seemed like Sarge distrusted Roger as some sort of out-of-towner.  When he would come in, the dog would snarl slightly, revealing teeth as big as the fingers on Roger's hand -- and until Fred barked out some kind of order in his indecipherable dialect, releasing Sarge from his antagonistic attitude, Roger found himself literally trembling.

"Sorry 'bout ol' Sarge.  He's jest curious.  Now what ken I do ya fer?" said Fred.

"Umm, well, I just need twenty stamps today," said Roger.  "Everything going all right here in town?"

"Yeah, well, y'know how it is 'ere in Plank Mountain.  Purty good, but always somethin' brewin'," said Fred, as he pulled the postage stamps out from the register.

"And what might be brewing today?" asked Roger.

"Thet right there," said Fred, pointing out the front door through which Roger had just entered the post office.  "John Crawlee and Vernon Merriwether are at it again."

Roger turned around and looked where the postmaster's hand was pointing.  And there, out in the middle of the town's main street, two large men in flannel shirts were wrapped up, arm in arm, struggling and pounding away at each other's backs with their fists.  For a brief moment, the two separated, and the larger of the two men landed a powerful punch square on the jaw of the smaller man, causing him to drop to the pavement.  With his foe down on the ground, the big guy threw himself down on top of him and started pounding him repeatedly with his fists.  Left, right, left, right... Blood sprayed off to the sides.  A small crowd of men, women, and children stared from the sides of the road.  It was a gruesome spectacle, man against man, reminiscent of the old frontier days.  Roger cringed inwardly, unsure of how such a scene was supposed to be processed.

"Shouldn't someone step in and try to break them up?" he asked.

The postmaster replied, "Naw, let 'em finish.  They're tusslin', and they jest gotta get it out.  Don't let Crawlee's size fool ya.  He's a scrapper.  It's a fair fight... so we jest better let 'em be."

Roger was incredulous.  "Are you serious?" he said.  "That smaller guy is getting creamed.  He's gonna get himself killed, isn't he?"  Roger certainly didn't want to get himself involved, but he felt like it was inhuman to just stand by and watch the violent encounter proceed unimpeded.

"Naw, he'll be fine.  Let 'em be, stranger."  Fred's face grew serious and confrontational.  "Y'hear me?  That ain't yer fight."  He paused and repeated it again for effect:  "It - ain't - yer - fight.  If you wanted ta try an' get in the way of their tusslin,' it'd be like grabbing ol' Sarge here by the ears and yankin' his head all around, jest fer the fun of it."  He reached down and petted the giant rottweiler with both hands, rubbing his ears in a friendly, almost-fatherly way.  "You could go an' give it a try if you wanted ta tussle with the tiger."  He rasped and laughed at his own joke, and Sarge looked up at his master with eyes of expectation and excitement.  He acted as if he expected to receive a treat.  Roger had to wonder if the dog was thinking about treats made out of tiny, bite-sized pieces of Roger.

"Uh, no thanks," said Roger.  "No thanks."