I was about fifteen years old when I bought my first hunting dog.                 

 

When dealing with a veteran horse trader or a dog dealer there are certain things that you should never forget, at least if you possess half the intelligence of a retarded Monkey.  

 

I forgot that Old Ed was both a horse trader AND a dog dealer!  I would really appreciate it if you would be so kind as to disregard the retarded monkey comment.

 

“This here hound is of champeen stock,”  Old Ed commented.  He paused as he stuffed his cheek full of Crazyman chewing tobacco.  “Yes sir’ree, this dog is a pure blood Plott hound fer sure!  Then he added, “Bred for huntin’ bears them Plotts is, ya know.”

 

“I didn’t know that Plott hounds were black and white,”  I ventured.

 

“Oh that, well now, that there dog is black and white fer a very good reason!  It’s ‘cause his ma is sure enough a full blood, pedigreed, bear huntin’ Plott hound with jus’ a smidgin o’ Walker on her pa’s side.  Helps t’ strengthen the blood line ya know!

 

“What’s that you say, if his mama is part Walker hound how can she be a genuine pedigreed Plott hound?”   I was becoming confused.

 

“Well now” Ed spit as he said, “I’m surely glad you as’t that there question, shows that yore ah right clever young feller, an I’m goin’ t’ give ya’ an answer what will more then satisfy!  That there Plott hound, it was pedigreed, we can agree on that can’t we?” 

 

While saying this he was vigorously nodding his head up and down.  Why, I just had to agree with him! 

 

He continued, “An’ that there Walker hound now, it were pedigreed, right?”  I nodded my head right along with him.  “An’ if’n that Plott were pedigreed an’ the Walker were pedigreed that must mean that this here fine lookin’ dog are pedigreed, don’t it?”  

 

How could I argue with that sort of reasoning?

 

I didn’t realize it at the time but Old Ed was nodding my head right into me buying a dog!

 

Anybody who has done much dog trading and understands the finer points of this precise science knows that you never come right out and ask the dog’s owner how much he wants.  That would indicate that you were interested.  You have to finesse your opponent by saying something like, “That dog can’t be worth much.”  Then you follow that with something like, “He must be pretty old, can’t have many years left!”  Or, “He’s just a pup, can’t be very well trained!”   Understanding these finer points of dog trading I decided to use a shock tactic.  I came right out and said, “Looks like a real nice dog!  How much do you want for him?”

 

I ended up with a heck of a deal.  I got myself a double pedigreed, black and white Plott hound with a tad of Walker on his mama’s side for $50.00!  I almost felt sorry for Ed, taking advantage of him like that.                                                                      

 

It was several days before I was able to stop nodding my head though.

 

A couple of nights later my faithful side kick Dootsie Bobo and I decided to take my new ‘champeen’ ‘coon hound out to see him do his stuff.                                              

 

Back then if you really wanted to hunt raccoons one of the best places to go was the cemetery on the edge of towne!  Those were big, bad ‘coon, tough enough to whip the average dog.  They lived in the vicinity of the cemetery but would make foraging raids into town eating out of garbage cans, terrorizing those lazy town dogs, eating wimpy house cats and generally making a bad reputation for themselves.  Those were what we called “grave yard” ‘coon.

 

I don’t suppose folks would tolerate ‘coon hunting in the cemetery today, what with everybody being so sensitive and all.   We were careful so as not to step on any graves, I mean after all, we had folks buried there too.

 

Dootsie Bobo and I took Killer, that’s what I decided to call my new dog, Killer, down the railroad tracks below the graveyard and turned him loose.                               

 

When you take possession of a hunting dog it is essential that you name the animal appropriately.  This instills self confidence into the dog, assuring many years of faithful and loyal service.

 

Killer didn’t waste any time at all.  I mean he got right down to business.  First he went around to about a dozen trees marking them, laying claim to the area I suppose.   When he marked Dootsie Bobo’s left leg I was somewhat puzzled as to his intent.  Certainly he didn’t consider my hunting partner part of his territory?  Attempting to commit suicide was more like it!                                                                                

 

Dootsie Bobo didn’t really appreciate that last move on Killer’s part.           

              

Finally he sat down, Killer, not Dootsie Bobo, scratched behind his right ear, chewed the base of his tail for fleas, laid down, put his head on his paws, made some disgusting body sounds, and went to sleep.

 

 We stood there quietly watching Killer sleep and very quickly decided to move upwind of him.   I could see immediately that he would never be a house dog.                

 

When we were finally able to breathe again I said in a very commanding voice,      “Yo Killer, go get ‘em boy!”                                                                                        

 

He responded immediately by flopping over on his side and running in place, obviously chasing dream raccoons. Killer was not too impressed with my ‘very commanding’ voice.

 

Dootsie Bobo walked over and toed Killer gently in the ribs, obviously checking to see if the dog was either dead or in a coma.  That was a mistake!  Killer obviously interpreted that toe in the ribs as a kick!  He lifted his head, snarling a demonic snarl at Dootsie Bobo.  Slowly the dog got to his feet and walking stiff legged, with all of his teeth showing confirmed his friendship with Dootsie Bobo by peeing on his leg the second time that evening. 

 

Dootsie Bobo, never too quick in the reaction department, stood there with a pained expression of disbelief on his face.  By the time he was able to react it was too late.  It was highly unlikely that Killer would ever be nominated for the prestigious, ‘Man’s Best Friend’ award by Dootsie Bobo.

 

Having had the last word as to who was in charge my wonderful dog, ‘Killer’ took off at a shambling run up the hill toward the cemetery, into ‘coon country!                  

 

The first thing killer did upon entering the graveyard was attack a vicious vase of yellow Mums decorating a grave.  I could see immediately that my dog didn’t like flowers.  There were mums everywhere!   This was obviously an exercise run because Killer suddenly put his nose to the ground, sniffed deeply, and the next thing we heard was music.   “Yowww! Yowww! Yowww!”  Killer howled as he struck a trail.  YES!   My champeen ‘coon dog was finally ready to hunt!

 

“Go Killer, Get ‘em boy!”  I encouraged enthusiastically.

                                               

“Yowww! Yowww! Yowww!’  He replied.

 

Each of Killer’s howls was long and drawn out, and about fifteen seconds apart.  That sound would be beautiful music to any hunter’s ears!  Even Dootsie Bobo was excited.

 

“Yowww! Yowww! Yowww!”

 

“Go-o-o killer!”  I encouraged.

 

“Yowww!”

 

We listened, and we waited.  Nothing. Then we waited some more. There were no more “Yowww’s” coming from Killer.  The music had died.  We waited, no Killer.     Then it struck me.  The average discerning and unscrupulous hunter would recognize Killer’s fine bloodlines at a glance.   Maybe Killer has been stolen!

                                   

“Here Killer.  Yo boy.  Come on boy!”

 

We whistled and called, searched and pleaded for more than three hours with the same results, no Killer.  I mean, that graveyard never heard such a ruckus what with all that hollerin’ and all.  Finally we reluctantly decided to go home.  We would resume the search the next day.

 

Tune in next time for anothe episode of, Killer the ‘coon hound

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