Dad had warned me not to treat the foxhound pups like they were pets. “These are hunting dogs. If you pet and love on ‘em you’ll ruin ‘em. They won’t be no good for hunting. I’m not keeping a dog that won’t hunt.”
I heard what he said but couldn’t resist petting the pups every time I passed their pen. My sisters were even worse about petting them. The pups stayed in a small pen right behind the house. Since we lived in town there wasn’t enough room to build a dog pen away from the house. So, every time any of us kids were in the back yard the pups were petted. I forget who named the pups, but we called them Tramp and Cindy. A few weeks later we got another pup. We named him Lad. Dad and I had the beginning of a pack of our own foxhounds.
When the pups were about ten months old we moved into a small house that sat on three acres of land several miles outside of town. Dad had three dog pens built on the backside of the property away from the house. The new dog pens and the move to the country had come about two weeks too late. While we were still living in town Cindy had come into heat and by the time we moved she was pregnant. Dad wasn’t very happy about that. About the time the puppies were due she would be old enough to take hunting. But, since she was going to have puppies, we couldn’t do that.
The Friday afternoon Dad came home from work and told me Tramp and Lad were going with us tonight created such excitement and anticipation in me that I could hardly wait for the sun to set. I’d finally have my own hunting dogs. In my mind I could see and hear Tramp and Lad leading the pack as they chased some fox or coyote across the pastures and through the woods. I could hear my dogs, baying in full voice for the world to hear. When Mr. Bell called to tell Dad where we were going to hunt that night I was already dressed and the pot of coffee was ready. While dad was talking I poured the coffee into his thermos and got the hoop cheese and crackers out and set them on the table by the door. He grinned at me as he hung up the phone.
“Let’s go load up those dogs,” he said.
Dad kissed mom good-bye while I went outside and put my flashlight, blanket and pillows in the truck, then ran up the lane to the dog crate. I felt like I could pick the thing up and put it in the truck by myself tonight. I wanted to holler at Dad and tell him to hurry up but I didn’t dare do that. Tramp and Lad didn’t know what was going on but they could sense my excitement. They began to bark and run back and forth along the length of their pen. Dad backed the truck up to the crate then got out. Together we shoved the crate into the back of the truck then opened its door. I wanted to run to the pen but instead I walked with Dad. Tramp and Lad were leaping at the fence.
“Which one you want?” Dad asked.
I pointed at Tramp. The gate was opened just a bit and I reached in and grabbed Tramp’s collar. Tramp was like a coiled spring bouncing wildly about. It took all my strength to hold onto him as he lurched toward the truck, almost dragging me behind him. I somehow managed to get him into the crate. Dad was right behind me and got Lad in and closed and latched the door. We got in the truck and drove down the lane past the house. My heart was pounding.
The other hunters were already at the barn when we arrived. They noticed right away that we had the dog crate in the truck. One of the men made a remark about us bringing some “really fine hunting dogs” to hunt tonight. Another man chimed in and said these must be the famous dogs he’d heard about down at the local café. Dad smiled and said nothing. Since no one had said anything directly to me I couldn’t say anything. Dad and the men stood by our truck and talked a bit.
Pretty soon Mr. Bell went to his dog crate, got White Gal and Red out and put his lead rope under their collars. He led them through the gate one of the other men had opened for him. The dogs that were still in the crate begin to whine with anticipation. He walked the dogs about 20 yards into the pasture then slipped the rope off their collars. The hounds sprinted away into the darkness. A couple of the dogs in the trucks couldn’t stand the fact they were still locked in their crates and began to bark and howl. One of the men yelled and hit the side of a truck and they hushed. Except for the far off lowing of a cow and the call of a whippoorwill, the night was quiet. We all waited to see if the two dogs would find the scent of a coyote.
Some nights it took only a short time for the dogs to find a trail. Other nights the dogs couldn’t find a trail and there was no hunt. On this night, time seemed to drag by. I kept thinking about Tramp and Lad and wondering what they would do when they were let out. I couldn’t remember a time when I’d been more nervous. The men quietly talked about the weather and the news and the sports of the day. Next to me there was a metallic click. Dad had opened his Zippo lighter to light a cigarette. The dancing flame of the lighter illuminated the hard weathered lines of his face as he puffed it to life. With a flip of his thumb he snapped the lighter closed and slid it into the pocket of his khaki pants. Someone asked if anyone wanted some coffee. I was looking at the stars trying to find the Big Dipper and North Star when I heard White Gal. Her clear fast chop-chop-chopping voice came rolling across the pasture. One of the men commented that she had a good mouth. In the next instant the high-pitched squawl of Red joined in. I felt the hairs on my neck rise and a shiver run down my spine. The men stopped talking. Again the two voices of the hounds danced across the pasture, but with increased intensity this time. The trail they had struck seemed to be hot. Their voices came again in a faster, more urgent tempo. All the dogs in the crates were quiet, straining to hear. Once more White Gal and Red’s voices echoed throughout the woods. They had a steady rhythm going now and they were moving towards the creek bottom. They’d found a fresh trail.
“Let’s go,” Dad said.
We went to the back of the truck and got Lad and Tramp. We took them through the gate and into the pasture, holding them by their collars. The other men could be heard moving toward the back of their trucks. The dogs in the crates began baying and yelping, anticipating their freedom.
“They got ‘em going,” someone said.
“Yeah, I think you’re right,” said another.
“Turn ‘em loose,” said Mr. Bell.
The doors to the dog crates were opened. The sound of scrambling feet and yelps of excitement poured out as the hounds leaped off the tailgates of the trucks and came hurtling in our direction.
“Let ‘em go,” Dad said.
I let Tramp go with the 20 or so other dogs stampeding toward the sound of White Gal and Red’s voice. My dog was on the hunt.
My thrill and excitement lasted about five minutes. That’s how long it took Tramp and Lad to realize they were in unfamiliar territory. They had no idea what they were doing or why they were in this strange place. They soon left the pack to the hunt and returned to the gate.
Veteran foxhunters expected this from pups the first few times they are taken hunting. Most pups have no clue about what is happening around them or what they are supposed to do. They’ve never seen a cow or a barbed wire fence or swam across a creek. A truly exceptional pup will run with the pack on its first hunt. In the fantasy world of my mind Tramp and Lad were the best hounds ever. Why didn’t they go with the pack their first time?
It didn’t seem to bother Dad that Tramp and Lad didn’t join the pack the first and second time they were taken hunting. He laughed and went along with the teasing from the other hunters. Dad had the same attitude the third and fourth time we took them. While Tramp and Lad were still coming back to the fire after their sixth and seventh hunt I noticed a change.
Dad never told me what he was thinking. He never said, “Didn’t I tell you not to pet these dogs?” He didn’t have to. I could feel his smoldering disappointment.
When the hunters circled around the fire he wouldn’t stand by me. If I walked over and stood by him he would soon ask the men if they wanted some coffee or cheese then leave to get it. He no longer responded to the ribbing the other hunters gave him. He didn’t talk to me as we drove the dirt roads following the sound of the hunt. When we stood listening to the dogs I began to make sure the smoke from the campfire was always blowing in my direction.
I guess since Mr. Bell, dad’s boss at the hardware store, had given us Lad Dad was going to make sure he hunted. I knew what was going to happen because I’d seen other men do it to their young dogs. It wasn’t a pleasant thing to watch or hear.
The pups had to be taught that hanging around the fire wasn’t the place for them. The hunter who owned the dog would find a broom handle or a similar sized piece of wood, grab the pup by the collar, drag it into the darkness and start beating it. The loud and rapid thumping of the stick striking the body of the dog, the gargled, strangled yelps of pain combined with the loud yelling and cursing of the hunter always made me nauseated.
Dad didn’t yell or curse when he beat Lad. It took all the courage I could muster to keep from crying. I silently prayed that Lad would struggle free from his collar and run. He didn’t. When Dad came back to the fire he was sweating and out of breath,
“If you want your dog to hunt you’ve got to do the same thing to him.”
He tossed the stick at my feet. In the flickering light of the fire I could see tufts of Lad’s hair embedded in the wood. All I could do was stare at the stick. None of the men said a word. After a few moments I picked up the stick and walked out of the sphere of men and firelight.
Tramp had been spooked by all the commotion and was nowhere to be found. Off in the bushes I could hear Lad whimpering. I threw the stick as far from me as I could. Behind me the men began to talk again. I heard a Zippo snap shut.
I never did beat Tramp. Inside of me a seed of anger and resentment toward him began to grow deep roots. When I was in the dog pen feeding or watering the dogs I would kick and scold him. I would hold his collar and let the other dogs eat until the food was almost gone and then let him go. I put him in a pen by himself and sprayed him with water. My anger turned to hatred.
Because Dad had done what he had to do to make Lad hunt he was no longer teased. I was now the target for the hunters. They competed with each other to see who could come up with the funniest comment to hit me with. One of the men would say something, then another and before long all of them had joined in. It began to happen every time I went hunting. I was now the coyote.
Lad got two more beatings and learned not to come back. Before long everyone noticed a new voice in the pack.
Not long after we started taking Lad and Tramp on hunts Cindy had her pups. After she had weaned the pups and her milk dried up we took her hunting. She did the same thing Tramp did. The second time we took her out she was hit by a truck and killed. It was just as well.
Tramp was now alone on the hunts. He stayed away from the fire but he wouldn’t hunt. Often he would go a short distance away and begin to howl.
“I think that boy’s dog has got one treed.”
“Earl, ya’ll still feedin’ that dog?”
Surrounded by wisps of smoke I would stare into the darkness while my hatred for Tramp burned like the embers in the fire. One of the men made a comment. Then someone else joined in. A stick was tossed on the ground beside me. Tramp howled again. I walked away from the warmth of the fire and into the darkness. I knew what needed to be done and I made up my mind I would do it the next time a hunt began at our place.
I was sick of the teasing. I wanted Dad to talk to me. I wanted to stand in the circle of men around the fire.
The call from Mr. Bell came just after dark on a Tuesday. He wanted to let the dogs go in front of our house. Tuesday night was a school night so I couldn’t go with Dad. I knew what Tramp was going to do because he followed the same pattern every time the hunt began from home. First, he would go charging off with the other dogs. Then he would leave the pack and circle over to our neighbor’s house, about a quarter of a mile down the road. He would steal any food our neighbor’s dog had left in its bowl. Then he’d come running back full-tilt across the open pasture by the house.He would spend the rest of the night hanging around the area. Things were going to be different for him tonight.
After Mr. Bell’s call I went to my room and got my gun out of the closet. In my imagination I could hear Dad and the other hunters talking.
“You can’t keep a dog that won’t hunt.”
“It’s costin’ good money to feed ‘em, and what’d ya get in return?”
“A dog like that ain’t good for nothin’ and needs to be shot.”
I made sure my gun was clean and ready. I now hated Tramp so much that I knew I could kill him. I hadn’t told anyone what I was planning to do. I raised the window in my room, then carefully set the gun outside and leaned it against the house.
The men showed up about 30 minutes after the phone call. A full moon was rising into a cloudless sky. I put Dad’s thermos of coffee in his truck and joined him and the men around the vehicles parked on the red dirt road in front of the house. He and the others were talking about the weather the news and sports. I had long since learned to stop joining in the conversations. All I could do was stand at the fringe of the group and listen. In their minds I was a boy who had a dog that wouldn’t hunt and I wasn’t willing to do what was necessary to make him hunt. Tramp was a constant reminder that when it came to raising hunting dogs I was a failure. I stood listening to the conversations and the dogs moving about in their crates.
After a while Dad told me to go and turn our dogs loose. We had about seven hunting dogs now in one pen and some young puppies in another. They all began to howl and yelp with excitement as they saw me approaching. The moon was bright enough that I could see their breath puffing in the cold crisp air. It was a long slow walk up the lane that night.When I reached the pens I paused and looked at Tramp.
When I opened the gate the dogs took off like they were shot from a cannon. The puppies still in the pen began to howl and bark frantically. I yelled at them to shut up. The pack streaked down the lane, across the road and into the woods. The dogs in the crates yelped encouragement to them. I left the gate open.
The excitement of releasing the hounds soon died down. I began walking back to the group and briefly saw the flickering flame of a cigarette lighter. I knew Tramp would be coming back in about 10 minutes. I wondered if the men would stop teasing me after I shot him.
By the time I was halfway back to the men the dogs jumped a coyote. The woods and surrounding countryside were filled with the symphony of their sound. The men quickly dropped the tailgates to their trucks and opened the crate doors. The dogs sprinted after the sound as it moved away from where we were standing.
“They’re headed for the river bottom.”
“Ya’ll gonna to be at the cattle guard?” Dad asked.
“Yeah, I think that’s where they’ll cross.”
The trucks cranked to life and headed up the road. Dad and I walked back toward the house. I stood on the porch as Dad got in his truck.
“See you later,” he said.
“Have a good hunt,” I replied.
I watched the taillights of his truck disappear over the hill and the sound of the pack fade away. I went to the back of the house and got my gun.
The moon was rising higher in the sky and was so bright I didn’t need my flashlight. I walked to the fence line just south of the house and stepped into the dark shadows of the trees. The night wasn’t especially cold and I was dressed warmly, but I began to shiver. Was I finally going to prove to my Dad and his friends that I could be a man? I heard the neighbor’s dog start barking and knew Tramp was eating his food. I’d given Tramp love and taken care of him but he wouldn’t hunt, therefore he wasn’t fit to have. He’d been given a chance to become a hunting dog but he wasn’t because I hadn’t listened to Dad.
I could tell by the sound of the barks that the neighbor’s dog was chasing Tramp in my direction. I raised the gun, rested it on top of the fence post in front of me and clicked off the safety. My heart was pounding loudly in my ears and I felt light headed. On the other side of the field I saw Tramp slip under the barbed wire fence and start running toward me.
A tear rolled down my cheek as I took aim. He was coming closer and closer in the moonlight. He couldn’t see me in the shadows. I took a deep breath and squeezed the trigger. The flash of the muzzle-blast blinded me and the sound of the shot echoed through the night.
I stood by the fence for a long time after I fired the shot, crying and vomiting. My shot didn’t kill Tramp. I’d purposely fired before he was too close to kill. The blast of the shotgun knocked him down and the pellets must have stung him like two-dozen wasps but he wasn’t dead. He ran off into the woods screaming. I didn’t know what I was suppose to feel. The only thing I did when I fired that shot was cause both of us more pain.
I never told Dad or Mom or anyone else about shooting Tramp that night. The next time I went hunting with Dad and the men Tramp didn’t come back to the fire and he didn’t howl. When the men asked me where he was I just shrugged my shoulders. I had no clue where he was and I really didn’t care to find out. The day after the hunt Tramp came home with the rest of the dogs. I put him in the pen and gave him some food. I didn’t pet him or keep him from eating. I couldn’t even look at him.
The next couple of hunts Tramp disappeared without making a sound. The comments from the men never relented though. I wondered why I came on hunts anymore. I spent most of my time away from the men, standing alone in the darkness, listening to the pack chase the coyote across the countryside in huge orbits around the campfire.
One night in early spring everyone noticed a new sound in the pack of hounds. Someone asked me if it was my dog and I shrugged my shoulders.
“You think that’s the boy’s dog?”
“I never seen him whip the dog. I don’t think it’s his dog.”
“Johnny B, is that the new dog you just bought?”
“I don’t think so.”
“That boy never lifted a finger to that dog. I can’t believe his dad puts up with it. It’s a waste of money.”
With the toe of my boot I shoved the unburned end of a stick into the fire. It seemed like I could see pieces of my flesh attached to it.
“They’re fixin’ to cross the road down by the cattle guard. Let’s drive down there and find out what dog that is.”
I stood staring into the fire. I didn’t move toward Dad’s truck.
“Let’s go,” Dad said to me.
We drove in silence to where we thought the pack would cross. All the men had gathered near the first truck parked along the dirt road. The pack was still a ways off but it was quickly and steadily moving toward us. The sound they made rolled over the pasture and grew louder as they came closer.
A twig snapped and there was a rustling sound in the bushes. The headlights of the truck clicked on just in time to catch the gray flash of a coyote streaking across the road. The fervor and excitement of the yelping, baying hounds coming toward us electrified the group of men. One of the men whooped with joy. Judy and Lad were the first to come into the halo of the headlights. They were about 15 seconds behind the coyote. In three quick bounds they were across the road and under the fence. The rest of the pack immediately descended onto the road and one of the men shouted,
“There’s the boy’s dog!”
Running at the edge of the group, with his head down and his tail curled tautly over his back was Tramp. He let out a strong bawl as he reached the middle of the road. Then disappeared with the other dogs.
After a few moments the truck’s lights were turned off. Everyone stood listening as the chase swung toward the hills to the east. One of the men said,
“The boy’s dog looked pretty good comin’ ‘cross the road there.”
“He’s got a good mouth.”
“Yeah, and he wasn’t the last dog neither,” answered another.
I walked down the road a good distance in the opposite direction from where the dogs had crossed before I stopped. I took a long, slow, deep breath. It was only then that I let myself smile. My dog was in the hunt.
The moon was now high in the heavens. Around it was a huge necklace of thin clouds. I was trying to remember what the old folks called this phenomenon when I heard footsteps.
It was Dad. He’d left the circle of men and was coming toward me. He walked up next to me and put his hands in his pockets. He didn’t say a word. I didn’t say anything to him. As we stood there looking at the moon and listening to the sounds of the night I realized why I kept hunting. It was for this. The brief flicker of time when everything is good.
Before long Dad got a cigarette, put it in his mouth and lit his Zippo. In the moment before he clicked the lighter closed I saw the tracks of a tear on his cheek.
[ Buy Ten Spurs 1]
