4rum
11-30-2007, 09:51 PM
The Interstate Transport of Coon Hounds
It wasn’t all interstate, they was some local too. And then some folks just come by an’ picked ‘em up. But occasionally me an’ Uncle Burley would make a trip into Pennsylvania. Now Pennsylvania was a right fer piece ‘less you was on the run... then it wasn’t near far enough.
Uncle Burley wasn’t much older than me in years but he seemed a lot older. He’d been ever where an’ done ever thing at least once, an’ rumor had it, he’d stopped at that place on I-70 several times!
This partic’ler little venture was one of Uncle Burley’s more serious attempts at gettin’ rich quick an’ it involved the breeding of Bluetick coon hounds. An’ no, we ain’t even gonna joke about some of today’s vile perversions. ‘Course now I do remember this one two year old gyp... had them soulful eyes, walked kinder funny... hind end all outta kilter, sorta over to the side like. Her name was Bugle Belle, went to a nice couple down in Logan county. Sure hated to see Belle go, but them young folks was just startin’ out, they needed a good dog to git ‘em started out right.
Uncle Burley had a knack for teamin’ up good dogs with good folks... like this trip to Pennsylvania, to Pete Gaylor’s place. Pete an’ Effie had lost their Boomer in a freak sawmill accident. The freak part was when Pete actual’ took a job. The accident part was when ol’ Boomer follered him to work one day. ‘Bout the time Boomer showed up they was a slabbin’ a big ol’ black gum log. It was holler an’ about the second slab, a big ol’ sow coon an’ a couple o’ kits come rollin’ out. Boomer got a little confused as he hadn’t never treed sidewise before, this tree was layin’ down! In his haste to impress Pete, ol’ Boomer got a little careless around the saw blade an’, well Pete an’ Effie needed a new dog.
In view of the magnitude of this tragic event, Uncle Burley decided to deliver the newly trained pup personally. Well that, and the fact that Pete lived on 300 acres of creek bottom just loaded with coons. Naturally Uncle Burley needed a little help and decided to call me, so I was about to make my first trip out of state. I showed up ‘bout day light Friday mornin’. Uncle Burley ‘lowed as how we’d get there just about supper time. That way all the milkin’ and sloppin’ and fetchin’ in stove wood would be done so’s we could concentrate on showin’ Pete how well his new dog was trained.... after we ate, of course. In the business world timin’ is important. That’s why we let the pup and the five or six older dogs we was takin’ run loose about fifteen minutes after we fed ‘em before we dropped the tail gate and let ‘em into the back of Uncle Burley’s ’64 Nova station wagon. No cage, no barrier, just Uncle Burley’s good right arm to keep ‘em off us as he drove. That and his ability to cuss. A good Bluetick will soon recognize plain ever day cussin’ and come to pay it no mind. Especially if he’s a runnin’ a fox or a deer. ‘Course none of Uncle Burley’s dogs would ever run a fox or a deer, so I ain’t just sure how they picked up the lingo so quick. Uncle Burley, over the years, had developed a higher level of cussin’. When the reg’lar stuff weren’t paid no mind, Uncle Burley would let loose with a choice line ‘er two he’d learn’t workin’ summers as a carney. When confronted with this, even the most determined houn’ would stop, set back on his haunches an’ kinder turn his head sideways an’ look right puzzeled. That would usually give Uncle Burley time to rope him to a tree and frail hell out of him. Blueticks find this practice distasteful an’ sometimes develop a knack fer runnin’ silent.
This first trip to Pennsylvania would be a learning experience for me in many ways. The first of which is ... never let your mother convince you to put a biscuit o’ fried up fat back in your pocket for later. Them dogs took a keen interest in Maw’s cookin’. Uncle Burley’s good right arm was a gittin a might frazzled by the time I decided to sacrifice the biscuit for our own safety. It seems that Uncle Burley’s good right arm was hooked up to his bad right leg. Ever time he swung his arm back to swat one of them hounds, his leg went forward on the gas. To possibly save us all from whiplash, I tossed that biscuit in the back. One biscuit amongst seven hounds makes fer bad karma. Uncle Burley made sure I understood this whilst he was a sewin’ Danny Boy’s ear back on. The small detail that I had to hold Danny Boy down added a lot of emphasis to the lecture. “What the $%$()!!!#$$% was you thinkin’ boy”? Could’a got the whole %&%#**&()@! passle of us killed”! “You can take your arm outta his jaws now.”
I didn’t say much, just didn’t seem like the time.
Back on the road north again, the trip settled in a might. The dogs dropped off to sleep one by one, then Uncle Burley did too. They’s a lot of fields full of white turkeys in Hardy county. I’d truly like to apologize to any folks shorted come Thanksgiving. “Holy ^(*(%(#*)_&%, Sammul, did you see that @%%)(*^&^)() deer run across the road”?…. I hadn’t. And I had even been awake.
Along about noon we come to a Esso station and Uncle Burley, besides fillin’ the tank, bought me that fine dinner he’d promised. We rode a mile ‘er two, pulled over, and since it was cold, tied the dogs to a fence so’s we could eat inside the car. The dewlops on a Bluetick have been known to sling slobbers waaaaaay farther than the confines of a Nova station wagon.
I pulled out my can of oil packed sardines and sleeve of saltines, stripped off the top and dumped the juice out the window. Uncle Burley pulled out his can of oil packed sardines and sleeve of saltines, stripped off the top and dumped his sardines out the window. “ #%*%^$^& !!!”, he said opening the door.
“^&*#@#(*^%$&(*,” Uncle Burley added as he set his foot on most of his sardines laying in the road gravel. Well, he scooped up what he could with the top of the tin and settled back to enjoy lunch.
“Owwww, #&%#%#^*^$^, gravel, $^&^^%&^ near broke a )(^&#*&^in’ tooth!”
I didn’t say much, just didn’t seem like the time.
“Right down there, not mor’n a ^&$#(#*in’ mile,” Uncle Burley grinned as we crossed I-70. Not mor’n a ^&$#(#*in’ mile. Hilda May’s truck stop. We’ll pay ol’ Hilda a #*)*(&$ visit on the way back. She’s got a couple girls works fer her. The redhead’s mine…he he,” Uncle Burley cackled. I grinned a might myself. What folks said about him and I-70 was true! And he’d said WE!!! The conversation got a little colorful from here on in to Pete’s place, best not to bore ya’ll with it. But I was right proud Uncle Burley had took me along.
The shadows were crawlin’ out from under the corn crib as we pulled up in front of Pete’s place. We roped the dogs to a rail runnin’ along the yard as Pete came out to shake Uncle Burley’s hand. I watched as they examined the pup, talked about his daddy, Star Bawler, and marveled at their proficiency in coon hound lineage and cussin’. Purty soon Mizz Gaylor come to the door a wringin’ her hands in the tail of a print apron and announced that supper was about to be “throwed to the dogs.” We didn’t let that happen. Lemme tell you, fried taters, pinto beans, corn bread, cold packed ham and canned creasy greens is one fine way to start a meal. Finish ‘er off with cold cow’s milk from the smoke house and a slice of fresh baked apple pie and a feller could find that can of sardines on the way home wantin’.
Pete pulled himself a straw from the broom in the corner for a tooth pick and reckoned as how it was time to go huntin’. While me an’ Uncle Burley loosed the hounds, Pete pulled the old ’41 Willey’s Overland from a shed. He backed ‘er out in the open, swapped a couple cogs around in the transmission and headed ‘er down a genlty sloping field toward where the creek must be. I had climbed in the back, Uncle Burley in the front and the dogs was a runnin’, squattin’, and a pissin’ on ever thing they passed. This is coon huntin’ in it’s purest form. Good dogs, a full belly, and ridin’ down a gentle sloooooooooooooooooooope!!!!
It wasn’t all interstate, they was some local too. And then some folks just come by an’ picked ‘em up. But occasionally me an’ Uncle Burley would make a trip into Pennsylvania. Now Pennsylvania was a right fer piece ‘less you was on the run... then it wasn’t near far enough.
Uncle Burley wasn’t much older than me in years but he seemed a lot older. He’d been ever where an’ done ever thing at least once, an’ rumor had it, he’d stopped at that place on I-70 several times!
This partic’ler little venture was one of Uncle Burley’s more serious attempts at gettin’ rich quick an’ it involved the breeding of Bluetick coon hounds. An’ no, we ain’t even gonna joke about some of today’s vile perversions. ‘Course now I do remember this one two year old gyp... had them soulful eyes, walked kinder funny... hind end all outta kilter, sorta over to the side like. Her name was Bugle Belle, went to a nice couple down in Logan county. Sure hated to see Belle go, but them young folks was just startin’ out, they needed a good dog to git ‘em started out right.
Uncle Burley had a knack for teamin’ up good dogs with good folks... like this trip to Pennsylvania, to Pete Gaylor’s place. Pete an’ Effie had lost their Boomer in a freak sawmill accident. The freak part was when Pete actual’ took a job. The accident part was when ol’ Boomer follered him to work one day. ‘Bout the time Boomer showed up they was a slabbin’ a big ol’ black gum log. It was holler an’ about the second slab, a big ol’ sow coon an’ a couple o’ kits come rollin’ out. Boomer got a little confused as he hadn’t never treed sidewise before, this tree was layin’ down! In his haste to impress Pete, ol’ Boomer got a little careless around the saw blade an’, well Pete an’ Effie needed a new dog.
In view of the magnitude of this tragic event, Uncle Burley decided to deliver the newly trained pup personally. Well that, and the fact that Pete lived on 300 acres of creek bottom just loaded with coons. Naturally Uncle Burley needed a little help and decided to call me, so I was about to make my first trip out of state. I showed up ‘bout day light Friday mornin’. Uncle Burley ‘lowed as how we’d get there just about supper time. That way all the milkin’ and sloppin’ and fetchin’ in stove wood would be done so’s we could concentrate on showin’ Pete how well his new dog was trained.... after we ate, of course. In the business world timin’ is important. That’s why we let the pup and the five or six older dogs we was takin’ run loose about fifteen minutes after we fed ‘em before we dropped the tail gate and let ‘em into the back of Uncle Burley’s ’64 Nova station wagon. No cage, no barrier, just Uncle Burley’s good right arm to keep ‘em off us as he drove. That and his ability to cuss. A good Bluetick will soon recognize plain ever day cussin’ and come to pay it no mind. Especially if he’s a runnin’ a fox or a deer. ‘Course none of Uncle Burley’s dogs would ever run a fox or a deer, so I ain’t just sure how they picked up the lingo so quick. Uncle Burley, over the years, had developed a higher level of cussin’. When the reg’lar stuff weren’t paid no mind, Uncle Burley would let loose with a choice line ‘er two he’d learn’t workin’ summers as a carney. When confronted with this, even the most determined houn’ would stop, set back on his haunches an’ kinder turn his head sideways an’ look right puzzeled. That would usually give Uncle Burley time to rope him to a tree and frail hell out of him. Blueticks find this practice distasteful an’ sometimes develop a knack fer runnin’ silent.
This first trip to Pennsylvania would be a learning experience for me in many ways. The first of which is ... never let your mother convince you to put a biscuit o’ fried up fat back in your pocket for later. Them dogs took a keen interest in Maw’s cookin’. Uncle Burley’s good right arm was a gittin a might frazzled by the time I decided to sacrifice the biscuit for our own safety. It seems that Uncle Burley’s good right arm was hooked up to his bad right leg. Ever time he swung his arm back to swat one of them hounds, his leg went forward on the gas. To possibly save us all from whiplash, I tossed that biscuit in the back. One biscuit amongst seven hounds makes fer bad karma. Uncle Burley made sure I understood this whilst he was a sewin’ Danny Boy’s ear back on. The small detail that I had to hold Danny Boy down added a lot of emphasis to the lecture. “What the $%$()!!!#$$% was you thinkin’ boy”? Could’a got the whole %&%#**&()@! passle of us killed”! “You can take your arm outta his jaws now.”
I didn’t say much, just didn’t seem like the time.
Back on the road north again, the trip settled in a might. The dogs dropped off to sleep one by one, then Uncle Burley did too. They’s a lot of fields full of white turkeys in Hardy county. I’d truly like to apologize to any folks shorted come Thanksgiving. “Holy ^(*(%(#*)_&%, Sammul, did you see that @%%)(*^&^)() deer run across the road”?…. I hadn’t. And I had even been awake.
Along about noon we come to a Esso station and Uncle Burley, besides fillin’ the tank, bought me that fine dinner he’d promised. We rode a mile ‘er two, pulled over, and since it was cold, tied the dogs to a fence so’s we could eat inside the car. The dewlops on a Bluetick have been known to sling slobbers waaaaaay farther than the confines of a Nova station wagon.
I pulled out my can of oil packed sardines and sleeve of saltines, stripped off the top and dumped the juice out the window. Uncle Burley pulled out his can of oil packed sardines and sleeve of saltines, stripped off the top and dumped his sardines out the window. “ #%*%^$^& !!!”, he said opening the door.
“^&*#@#(*^%$&(*,” Uncle Burley added as he set his foot on most of his sardines laying in the road gravel. Well, he scooped up what he could with the top of the tin and settled back to enjoy lunch.
“Owwww, #&%#%#^*^$^, gravel, $^&^^%&^ near broke a )(^&#*&^in’ tooth!”
I didn’t say much, just didn’t seem like the time.
“Right down there, not mor’n a ^&$#(#*in’ mile,” Uncle Burley grinned as we crossed I-70. Not mor’n a ^&$#(#*in’ mile. Hilda May’s truck stop. We’ll pay ol’ Hilda a #*)*(&$ visit on the way back. She’s got a couple girls works fer her. The redhead’s mine…he he,” Uncle Burley cackled. I grinned a might myself. What folks said about him and I-70 was true! And he’d said WE!!! The conversation got a little colorful from here on in to Pete’s place, best not to bore ya’ll with it. But I was right proud Uncle Burley had took me along.
The shadows were crawlin’ out from under the corn crib as we pulled up in front of Pete’s place. We roped the dogs to a rail runnin’ along the yard as Pete came out to shake Uncle Burley’s hand. I watched as they examined the pup, talked about his daddy, Star Bawler, and marveled at their proficiency in coon hound lineage and cussin’. Purty soon Mizz Gaylor come to the door a wringin’ her hands in the tail of a print apron and announced that supper was about to be “throwed to the dogs.” We didn’t let that happen. Lemme tell you, fried taters, pinto beans, corn bread, cold packed ham and canned creasy greens is one fine way to start a meal. Finish ‘er off with cold cow’s milk from the smoke house and a slice of fresh baked apple pie and a feller could find that can of sardines on the way home wantin’.
Pete pulled himself a straw from the broom in the corner for a tooth pick and reckoned as how it was time to go huntin’. While me an’ Uncle Burley loosed the hounds, Pete pulled the old ’41 Willey’s Overland from a shed. He backed ‘er out in the open, swapped a couple cogs around in the transmission and headed ‘er down a genlty sloping field toward where the creek must be. I had climbed in the back, Uncle Burley in the front and the dogs was a runnin’, squattin’, and a pissin’ on ever thing they passed. This is coon huntin’ in it’s purest form. Good dogs, a full belly, and ridin’ down a gentle sloooooooooooooooooooope!!!!