D’ya like degs? (Part 1): The Hounds

Dogs. We always had a lot of dogs. Dad insisted that the hounds have standard old person names. Most were born to run deer. Dad kept them on behalf of his hunting camp. Since whitetail are only in season one week a year, they spent the better part of their lives chained to plywood houses in our back yard. They lived for November. They could smell it. Drove them crazy. Dad would run them behind the truck to get them into shape. 20 feet of nylon rope from bumper to collar and away we’d go. Tongues lolling. Eyes bugging. Bits of saliva would whip back as their paws pounded the dirt road, flicking rocks out behind. Dad kept a steady foot; I craned in the cab giving him regular updates. They lived to run, them hounds did.

Nothing but chains, kennels, and one meal daily for all but a few days each year. This was their life.

Tom might as well have been a horse. He was as big and loud and friendly as they come. A blue tick and black and tan cross, Tom would lick your face off if he didn’t wrap you to his tree first. His chain almost cost me my life on more than one occasion. I liked Tom. One year, someone else from hunting camp took care of him. That year a wolf killed him in the night. Dad said he would have had a chance if he hadn’t been tied.

Judy was a beagle. Lower to the ground, she was far less intimidating and would trot out of her house to greet whenever I came around. She ate a lot slower than Tom did. Her innocence was betrayed by the fact that she’d disappear for days if she ever got loose. I liked Judy. One year at camp, Judy ran away and never came back. Dad said she was hot on a scent and took off and was probably found by another gang.

The second Judy was hardly distinguishable from the first. I like her too. I can’t remember what happened to her. She had two pups, Sam and Jim. Both were lanky, light-coloured things that looked far too dumb to do anything useful. That’s probably why Dad said he gave them away. All I know is one year the brothers didn’t come home.

Willy was a coon dog – beagle crossed with a black and tan. He had a sad face but loved life. His ears hung so low I always thought he was going to trip on them. He had a voice ten times his size. Dad said he wasn’t much good for hunting deer. As far as I know, Willy lived out his days treeing coons on the farm of the friend across town we gave him to.

I think that was all the hounds we had. There could have been more. We’ve had some many freakin’ dogs…