Monday, October 29, 2007
www.whiteville.com
By JEFFERSON WEAVER
Staff writer
It seemed all the hounds were watching me as I walked into a grill favored by hunters in my neck of the woods.
I had no idea why I was the object of so much attention, unless it was the scent of the latest semi-lost deer dog to turn up on our doorstep.
I spoke to several of them, as I always do when I walk past a dogbox, and I’m pretty sure that if they could talk, the following conversation might have been overheard after I went into the eatery.
“Pssst, hey Seven,” whispered a ragged-eared black and tan. “Is that him?”
A liver-spotted Walker with the number “7” painted on his side perked up his own torn ears and peered through the air vent of the cage.
“Yup.”
“I don’t buy it.”
“I’m telling you it’s true. I talked to a coonhound who stayed there for a week.”
“A week? In the house?”
“Yup.”
“They’ve been feeding you stale beer again.”
“Nah, really.”
“It’s true,” moaned a redbone in the next truck. “I spent a night there once.”
The other hounds jostled for space around air holes and tailgates, baying questions.
“Did you sleep on a bed? I heard they feed you table scraps and regular feed? The she-human, did she really let you stay on the couch?”
“I heard they allow cats in the house,” sniffed a dissenter named Clyde. “They must be liberals or something.”
“Settle down, settle down,” the old redbone said. “It’s not as easy as all that. They have a bunch of other dogs, you know – porch dogs, don’t do a lick of work.”
“Charity cases,” the dissenter sniffed again. “Make the rest of us look bad, taking food out of the mouths of honest hunting dogs.”
“If you get down there,” a tri-colored beagle mix advised, “hang out in the woods near the mailbox. Then when you see him coming, step out in the road and act lost.”
The others laughed.
“Surely he ain’t stupid enough to fall for that old trick.”
“He’ll fuss at you to get out of the road, then the she-human will come out and feed you and make a fuss over you. I got a pork chop out of it,” the tri-color asserted.
“Raw?’
“Nope. Coated in batter and fried, it was. And still warm. Some scrambled eggs, too. My cousin had barbecue chicken.”
“I still say they’re liberals,” the dissenter said. “It’s like a welfare state down there. They must be communists or hippies or something.”
“Hush, Clyde. The pork-chop. It was warm? Like from the oven?”
“Yup. The she-human, she’s the real softie. Hates to call the number on your collar, but she eventually sends you home. I once saw her make sure every dog in the house got a bite of cake, then they all got to lick the plate. Anybody what bullied got left out. Even gave some to the cats.”
“Folks that keep cats ain’t no better than the government,” Clyde grumbled.
“And they give dogs names, too.”
“We have names.” Red huffed.
“Yeah, sure, we have names. Look at old Seven there. And what’re the names of his pack?”
“Two, Three, Four, Five, Six and Eight.”
“Real original. And look at me – Red. What kinda name is that?”
“But you are red,” the tri-color said. “and at least you got a name. I’m just, ‘You, hup, dog.’”
“Glad I ain’t ‘Purple.’ And never mind what they call my cousin what swam in a hog lagoon.”
“Clyde is an honorable name for a dog,” Clyde growled.
“For you an’ every other flop-eared deer-chaser,” Six shot back. “Ain’t no better’n ‘Rover’ or ‘Sparky.’ Call out ‘Clyde,’ and half the county will come running.”
“Those people, they give the dogs names even if they ain’t there but a day or two. Fancy names, names that they thought about. Names like Persephone, Cleopatra, Rufus. They clean their ears out, feed’em – even bathe’em sometimes, get rid of the fleas and ticks.”
“Do that to total strangers?”
“Yep. All you have to do is stay away from the chickens and act hungry.”
“What the heck’s a Persie-funny?’
“Old retired Walker female with a gnarled ear. Her human dumped her in the woods when she couldn’t run, and they picked her up, took her to the vet and everything.”
“But what’s her name mean?”
“Some kind of goddess. From Greek mythology.”
“From who?”
“Never mind.”
“Ain’t fittin’,” Clyde grumbled. “Dog oughta work for a living.”
Their late lunch finished, the hunters returned to their trucks and pulled out.
As the vehicles turned onto the highway, Clyde called out to Seven.
“I’m telling you, those people must be communists. They’re probably dangerous….But tell me again, where’d you say those people live?”
Weaver is a staff writer at The News Reporter, when he isn’t feeding lost dogs. You can reach him by telephone at 642-4104, ext. 227, or via e-mail at jeffweaver@newsreporter.biz.
