Jughead grinned at me, embarrassed, as he slunk back through the gate. He was waiting as I pulled down the lane, more than a little frustrated at the real world getting in the way of the last day of hunting season, but this is life. Jug, however, put paws to his frustration at missing a hunt, and scaled the fence. To the dismay of the rest of his four-footed family, he managed to enjoy part of the last hunt of the season, even though he wasn’t invited.
The Magic Hour was upon us as I ruffled his scarred ears and got licked in return. Far in the distance I heard three shots – one, then two, and an instant third – and was immediately reminded of the old saying: one shot meat, two shots maybe, three shots frustration. Of course it might have been a late-afternoon duck hunter, but even the most dedicated waterfowlers I know had replaced the steel shot for buck or slug on the last day.
I grumbled as I headed in to work that morning, especially when I got behind a slow-moving trio of trucks, empty dogboxes showing that they were following either a radio signal or the bay of the hounds around a nearby swamp. I had to work, but I wanted to hunt, and it’s human nature to growl when we don’t get our way, even though I truly didn’t begrudge them a glorious morning for a good chase.
The houndsmen turned off and deployed into a nearby field, and I gave them a wholehearted salute as I passed. At least one of the trucks expelled a little kid, blonde hair running wild under a blaze orange cap, but to the young nimrod’s credit, the muzzle of the shotgun never wavered in an unsafe direction.
The driver of the truck was a bit slower, and I was envious as he directed his protégé toward a spot at the edge of the field. The only thing better than a good hunt is watching a little kid enjoy a good hunt. Whether the elder was father, uncle or grandfather, I couldn’t tell, but there were memories being made that would last long after the last bowl of deer stew or the last grilled venison burger was eaten, or even many years later, after the mount on the wall went dusty and faded with time.
At the end of the day, I’d even given up on having a few minutes sitting under a tree (more as a matter of tradition and principle than from any hope of harvesting some groceries). Jug was happy as a hound can be to see his human. Miss Rhonda had already told me he’d jumped the fence earlier, unable to resist the genetically-engraved call of generations of Walkers, blue ticks, Catahoulas, Plotts and whatever other hounds wove the tapestry of his family history. While he resembles his dam (a flashy, spotted “leopard” Catahoula) he has the instincts and soul of her sister, whose bluetick DNA cannot resist a hot trail. He gets the love of the run from his sire Happy Jack, who’s an admixture of every hound to ever roam the Carolinas, specifically the upstate in the South and southeast in the North.
As the hounds worked the woods around our place, Jug climbed the fence and went for a neighborly chase with the professional hounds; it was a short run for him, since he was just being polite and wanted to say hello, not completely crash the party. As such, he was waiting for me when I got home. While I’ve never hunted with him, he has a nose and an instinct, although he’s more of a yardhound than a true hunter, content to embarrass his ancestors by chasing squirrels rather than pulling down bears and hogs.
As I opened the gate and told him to get to the house, I heard the shots. A moment or two later, I heard the hounds.
If you listen long enough and often enough, you learn to count the hounds on a cast, at least the ones who are mouthy. In this case there was a deep, persistent bass roar; an alto or baritone of sorts, and the one I looked forward to hearing: a pup, likely a six-month-old, not knowing why he needed to bark, but barking just the same. I know houndsmen who will debate for hours, if not days, on how much houndsong is instinct and how much is learned behavior. I’m no expert on nature versus nurture, so I will leave that to those who are, but I do know a young dog sounds better and often barks less after the first season.
In my mind I could see the three hounds (maybe with another one or two who didn’t talk so much) bustin’ through the timbered-over land near the back side of the marsh, then blasting through the frigid water that just months before was teeming with moccasins, frogs and more than a few hungry gators, now a chilly home to the mink, otter, and the beaver, the egrets and the ducks. There was a lot of guesstimation on my part, but I could almost figure where they lost the trail crossing the paved road, then a roar of celebration as they struck again, heading deep into the type of tangled bay where a Carolina hound does his best work.
At my house, the sun was below the tops of our pines, casting longer shadows that urged the goats and chickens to bed, but a half-mile across field and forest, in my mind’s eye I could see the deer as it twisted through the bay, wrapping back around into the cut timber. While the treetops and tractor prints offered no cover, they can be confusing to pursuers, whereas a deer that has called the place home since he was a fawn knows exactly when to zig, when to zag — and when to run.
The chase crossed the timbercut again, and rolled down the canal bank. I hoped if the hunters were following the hounds, that the deer wasn’t one of “our” residents, one of our summer-orphaned fawns or the regulars on the game camera. It’s the circle of life, of course, but I admit I root for Fireball, Swamp Daddy or Big Mama every year. While I don’t hunt at home, if another hunter did harvest one of our regulars, I’d still congratulate them on a good hunt, even if I would miss my friends.
Still I hoped the deer in question wasn’t headed for our place, as they sometimes do (long, clear lines of sight also make for excellent places to pick up speed) since it would drive our hounds crazy. Gone are the days when my donkeys would chase hounds out of the pasture, but while I respect another man or woman’s hunt, the chaos and drama of even migratory hounds can be a bit much sometimes in our normally quiet corner of the world.
But the houndsong faded off to the sou’-sou’west, angling off to the left of the sun, now hidden behind the trees and bringing a twilight gloom to our deep woods; farther out there was still a quarter-hour of shooting light left.
As Jughead and I stood there enjoying the last sunset of the year, with me grumbling at missing another hunt, I heard no more shots. I breathed a quick prayer for the safety of the hounds and the hunters, as well as a request that God would bless the hunt, and I thanked Him for His wisdom in giving us the art and music of three-part harmony of hounds on a hot trail in a painted winter sunset.
