GONNA GET ME A DOG

In the early 1940s, there were many men who were too old or physically unable to serve in the army. Big defense contractors came South recruiting these men and took them North to work. They were often given travel expenses and work clothes. Men that had lived their whole lives in the open air and freedom of rural Arkansas often didn’t fair well in the hard working defense plants. Many accepted the incentive and never left, or returned home shortly. That’s what happened to a Mr. George and his wife, Nola. They moved into an old unpainted, clapboard bungalow, in the middle of a cotton field, after they came back. The house was located about an eighth of a mile in front of my Granddaddy’s big two-story home.

Now, Mr. George had saved up some money and returned driving a big, long, black 1934 Buick with large, shiny, silver headlights mounted on the fenders. It had four doors and long running boards on each side that ran from the front rear fenders. That was the most beautiful machine I’d ever laid eyes on. One time I saw My Daddy riding on the running board, and he was grinning from ear to ear. Mr. George was a friendly man, and him and My Daddy became great friends. He let it be known that he had returned to Arkansas to become a coon hunter, as the pelts were selling at an all time high of around $20.00 apiece. That was, of course, after you caught the coon, skinned, stretched, cured, dried, and got it to market.

Mr. George did some hunting in the night with a spotlight, but he was in the market for a good coon dog. He told My Daddy that he heard about a feller with a dog over in O’Kean, near Walnut Ridge, clean over in another county. He said the feller wanted $150.00 for her. She was a female bitch, and had two puppies that they’d let go for $35.00 a piece. He thought My Daddy might want one, so he asked him to go along and look’em over. I’d wanted a dog of my own for a long time, so I pestered My Daddy to let me go too. He agreed, provided I’d promise to be quiet, being how Mr. George was kind of nervous and all. I crossed my heart three times and held up my hand. We were soon on our way. I couldn’t see out the windows when I sat down, as the seats were way down low. I could see the sky and the clouds floating by. I loved the feel of the car at high speed and the sound of the whining when Mr. George had to put it in low gear so we could get up that ol’ muddy lane. We finally hit the rock road and away we went. I loved it sooooooo much. I was in no hurry for the journey to end. Well, in a big fast car, O’Kean wasn’t so far after all. In what seemed to me like about an hour, we arrived.

The old house set back off the road about a hundred yards. It was tilted a little to one side and covered with brown brick siding. Typical looking old bungalow with a green roof sloping down on each side of the four rooms. The porch was old and rotten and some of the boards had wasted away. Tied up on the porch was, what My Daddy called, a pureblooded Blue Tick Hound. She was the prettiest thing I’d ever seen. Her color was a blue like black. She was dark around the muzzle but her head was a light mouse color that extended down her back and out her tail. Her long hanging ears flopped up and down when she lunged on the rope. Her name was Ol’ Queen. She took to me right away and jumped up and licked me. It seemed like she knew me all right.

Now, there were three fellers that looked to be between the ages of about fourteen and seventeen living in that ol’ house. They were dressed in bib overalls ranging from being too small to too big. The shirts they wore were quite friendly, as I recognized the material from a certain brand of flour that the General used. They had no caps on of any sort and their haircuts gave them a homegrown, country look. The owner of the dog, the father to the boys, came out and quieted Ol’ Queen down and greeted us. He was a tall feller, more than six feet, and he too had on overalls. He was shirtless, but long handle underwear came down to his wrists and fitted high up on his neck. I got the idea he'd just woke up. He had taken the time to put on a green baseball cap that had a logo of RC cola on the front. He wore it pushed back, revealing a balding head. Mr. George told him why we’d come. The feller explained that if Ol’ Queen wasn’t kept tied up, she’d hunt herself to death. As I remember, he told some very fine stories about Ol’ Queen and what she could do. It turned out that a lot of what he said about her was true. If Ol’ Queen got loose and no one caught her, she’d be gone a week sometimes. We could hear her melodious baying off in the distance, and if it was during the daytime, we knew she was loose, as Mr. George only looked for coon at night.

There were two pups running around Ol’ Queen and them young boys were having a time kissing them ol’ dogs and rolling around in the yard. I could tell the house that they lived in wasn’t as clean as the General’s. I didn’t want to be too close to’em, but I sure loved them ol’ pups. Mr. George said them fellers were professional coon hunters and probably had a lot of money buried around there someplace. Well, they went to talking about how Ol’ Queen should’a been bred to a pure blood but, on one of her hunt to death hunts, it seemed she took some time out to do some sparking, as they called it. Well, as it worked out, them professional fellers had somehow ended up with these puppies that didn’t look at all like Ol’ Queen.

My Daddy never got far in school, but in a hard land like rural Arkansas was in those days, he knew that no half-breed Heinz 57 dog was worth more than fifteen dollars. Now, that professional coon hunting feller told My Daddy that with training, them pups could be as good a hunters as Ol’ Queen. “You ol’ boys can make a lot of money catching them coon over there in the bottoms where ya’ll live. Why, they’re just working alive around Cache River. I really hate to do it, but I think every boy needs a dog and I’m gonna let you have one of your choosing for jist $25.00,” he said.

Much to my delight, we loaded Ol’ Queen and one of them pups, the yeller colored one, in that fancy Buick and took off for home. I don’t remember the second part of my first car ride, as I was busy petting them ol’ dogs. They were jumping around, frisky as young colts. They sure did like me. When we got home, we took that ol’ yeller pup and tied her in the yard and Mr. George took Ol’ Queen off to his place.

Now, that ol’ yeller pup and me, we never did bond. I think she was missing them three young fellers, because every time she got loose, she’d run off. Seemed she’d lost all interest in me. I was kind of hurt about it. I’d go over where Ol’ Queen was tied and I’d pet her; it appeared she loved me more than my own dog. My Daddy called that ol’ pup, “Trigger.” Now, “Trigger,” was a hunter all right, but what she liked to hunt was rabbits. We’d be a working in the field, and I’d look up and here she’d come, hell bent for leather, knocking out more cotton than she was worth, at least, according to My Daddy. He’d yell and even try to catch her to spank her. Now, a rabbit doubles back on a dog to try and confuse them when they are being chased, so about the time we thought that it was all over, here they’d come again. We’d be dragging pick sacks on our backs and My Daddy’d get completely out’a his’n and try to catch her. I could tell the way he acted, he thought he should’a bought a good calf or pig with that money. No decent coon dog ever chases no dang ol’ rabbit.

Well, when Ol’ Trigger was nine months old she had thirteen puppies. They were all different colors ranging from all white to solid black. They’d crawl around with their eyes closed, making squeaky noises. I could tell Ol’ Trigger was right proud of’em. She had’em right out there in the tool shed by the gate that led to the barn lot. She sure got redeemed in my eyes that day. I was going to make coon dogs out of everyone of’em. Right about here, My Daddy did something I almost never forgave him for. He had twelve of them thirteen puppies knocked right in the head. My Daddy didn’t wanna do it, so he gave the job to my Uncle Waye Poe. I never was to fond of him after that. I always thought you had to be a pretty mean feller to do such a dirty trick. I cried for a week. That one ol’ black and white pup, with a little white tip on his tail, was all I had left. I sure felt lonesome looking at that little feller trying to suck all the milk from them big full tits of Ol’ Trigger. I can remember to this day her standing there with that ol’ pup hanging on and her back arched looking like she knew what’d happened. One thing about it, he sure got all he wanted to eat. I helped her out in the feeding and carried many a biscuit to that one ol’ lone pup. He grew big and strong. I named him Pal, because he was going to be my pal for life. He was too, for all of his nine years we were best of friends. I never would let the tormentor touch my dog. Ol’ Pal and I would wrestle, tug, roll, wade ponds and just raise hell for the fun of it. We were inseparable, as we made our way around the farm, growing up. He was about as good of a companion as I ever had. He didn’t chase any darned ol’ rabbits either, because he knew I didn’t like it. We didn’t do a lot of coon hunting, because the price of pelts had gone down. Mr. George and Ol’ Queeney had pretty well thinned them out anyway. Squirrels, now that was our thing.

When I was nine years old, My Daddy bought me a 410 shotgun. Ol’ Pal was about three years old by this time, and we took to the woods to do some serious hunting. My Daddy would always go with us right after a big rain, as it would be too wet to work. Ol’ Pal would never bark. He learned that when he did them ol’ gray squirrels would run in the treetops and disappear. When he treed one, he’d just make a little noise in his throat. We always had to keep him in sight, so we’d know he was on to one. His muscles would tense as he looked up. He’d lift his front end off the ground, jump up about four inches and follow them along beneath the trees. His eyes never left them. I’m not a great killer of animals, but I grew up on the farm and killing for food was an acceptable thing. I became a crack shot with my shotgun. My Daddy left the shooting to me when they were crossing overhead in the high trees. The General fried up squirrels like she did chicken. After we got finished eating, Ol’ Pal got the bones, left over gravy, and anything else I could find. My whole family delighted in those meals, and we speak of them today.

In the fall of the year, we’d haul cotton four miles to the gin to have it baled. I always rode on top of the horse drawn wagon with My Daddy. Ol’ Pal would walk alongside and mark off territory as he went. There was a house every half-mile on the small farms in that part of the country in those days and a dog resided at every household. Ol’ Pal was my alter ego, and I’d sic him on’em as they came out to challenge our passing. He was a big ol’ feller weighing in at about sixty pounds. I’d watch him tear into them ol’ boys. He’d turn into a lion roaring, growling, tooth and claw flying. It seemed someone was sure going to die. My heart would race. I’d be mentally in there with every roll, and bite. I never saw him lose a fight to any of them ol’ sorry cur dogs. He was my friend, and I was real proud of him.

I never knew what happened to Ol’ Trigger. My Daddy said she ran off. Years later, after thinking about them twelve puppies and my uncle, I’m not so sure about that. The family used to speculate who Ol’ Pal’s pappy might be. My Daddy said it must’ve been some bulldog, cause he sure was fierce in a free for all. Remembering now, My Daddy was a peaceful man, but I don’t ever remember him telling me not to encourage Ol’ Pal to do battle. He must’ve gotten quite a kick out’a the two of us.

As my Pal got older he used to sleep on the porch. No one ever dared to tie up my ol’ buddy as long as he lived. Every morning I’d get up, and he’d be there. Sometimes he’d go sparking and be gone quite a while, but always be back by morning. I noticed one day, when he was about eight years old, he’d been beaten up pretty bad. His eye was half torn out, and he’d been chewed up pretty good. I remember being shocked that someone had bested my ol’ friend. As the years passed, it happened more frequently. But he never gave up. Maybe he did have some bulldog in him after all. As the years passed and I took to dating, I spent less time with him, but he was always there for me. We’d given up the wrestling and the squirreling. Mostly we’d just talk. I’d scratch his head, he’d flip over and I’d give him a good ol’ belly rub.

As it worked out, one sad night I came home from a date and my ol’ friend lay dead in the road, about a hundred yards up from the house. One of my fellow classmates, driving a black 1949 Chevrolet doing seventy-five miles an hour, had killed my ol’ friend. I got out of the car, knelt down in the road and cried. I picked up my ol’ buddy, and carried him off a safe distance from the road, and covered him gently with an old cotton pick sack. I parked the car, came back, and buried him there in the moonlight.

Part of my childhood had passed away, and things would never be the same again. I learned later who killed Ol’ Pal and how it had happened. He couldn’t stand the guilt and confessed to a mutual friend. I know it was an accident, but I really don’t like him very much. I know it’s been forty-five years, but you just don’t forget about a feller killing your best friend.