Old Dog
By Bill Shepard
My brother was the hunter in our family, and he had a great love for dogs, the hunting kind. I’ve known him to save his money for months, until he had enough to make an order and then he would write to places where he had seen a dog for sale, and he would send the ten dollars he had saved and a dog would soon be on his way to our house in Darlington.
On arrival the hound would be taken from the crate he had been shipped in, given some food and water and then be off to the woods and pasture near our house. Sometimes I might go along, more out of mere curiosity than anything more. I had never fallen in love with the bark of a dog like my brother had. Often when hunting and he would hear an old hound barking, meaning he had a coon or opossum treed, my brother would say, ‘Isn’t that a beautiful sound?’ I wouldn’t answer but I didn’t need to; my brother knew I wasn’t in love with the sport.
If the dog turned out to be all that my brother had expected, the dog had a new home and a new master. If not, the dog was crated up again and be off, on its way back to where he came from. I saw it happen, just as I’ve written, more than once. Ten dollars was a lot of money back when this writer was a boy, and a fellow had the right to see that he got his money’s worth when he spent it.
My brother owned, at one time or other, several breeds of dog. He had a Walker Hound, Brown and Tan, Redbone Hound and others. I didn’t know the difference, except in color, but my brother did. He knew the kind that was best for hunting whatever wild creature he wanted. He had one that specialized in hunting rabbits, another for raccoons, and another for opossums. My brother wasn’t much for hunting birds, or he would have had a bird dog! I never understood why one dog would not have been sufficient for all. I knew I didn’t need a dog of any kind when I went hunting with my slingshot, shooting cat-birds and sparrows.
I have written before how my brother worked in the big mill when he was a young boy. The evening shift at the mill ended at 10 p.m. and my brother would leave the mill in a trot, headed for home. I would already be in bed. We lived in a small house, near the deep cypress swamp, and I would often hear him when he entered the yard and turned his old hounds loose and they would head for the woods, barking as they went! I never figured out which loved to hunt the most, the dogs or my brother? My brother might come inside long enough to get a cold biscuit from the kitchen, change from shoes to boots, and then be off. There were a lot of moccasins in that swamp and boots made one feel a little safer. It wasn’t unusual for the hunter to return sometimes before the crack of day and have a coon or an opossum or two.
One could count the hides (furs) nailed on the side of Dad’s car shed, where he kept his old car, and know just how many creatures that my brought had caught. Once a year a buyer would come along and offer to buy the furs. A good coon hide could bring as much as 35 cents and an opossum hide might bring a quarter, if it was a real thick one.
My brother was a hunter for most of his life. As he grew older, he resorted more to rabbit hunting. Until he died, he kept his love for dogs. This is the story behind the poem, ‘Ole Hound Dog.’
Ole Hound Dog
Ole houn’ dog covered with fleas,
Legs rubbed raw to the knees.
Lying in the shade of a big oak tree,
Just blinkin his eyes now and then at me.
Chase opossums all night, sleep all day,
Too tired and lazy to run and play.
Ribs sticking out, tongue hangin down,
Just a sorry ole red-bone houn.
Bee buzzin round overhead,
Flies stickin to ‘m like he wuz dead.
Throw ‘m a bone and he don’t bat an eye,
Just lyin in the shade letting the day go by.
Soon as night comes, he’ll come alive,
Head for the woods like a streak of light.
Chase them opossums til the break of day,
Tomorrow comes, he’ll lie in the shade.
__Bill Shepard
(Harry’s old hound dogs that he loved so much were the inspiration for this poem.)
Mr. Shepard is a native of Darlington, S.C., and a current resident of Piedmont, S.C. He is the author of “Mill Town Boy” and “Bruised”. He has been sharing his tales of growing up in Darlington for decades, and we are delighted to share them each week.
His mailing address for cards and letters is: Bill Shepard 324 Sunny Lane, Piedmont, S.C. 29673.
