As it turned out, Mead had been wrong.
Earlier that spring morning as the sun rose over the eastern ridge, Mead had watched Buck walk up and down the row of Ernsts’ dog kennels. It was their routine. While Mead provided the daily care for the other dogs, Old Buck would wander free to greet each of the pups he’d taught to chase ringtails in the hills of Painted Post.
This day seemed no different as the big man watched the gray-muzzled black and tan coonhound stop at each pen, stick his nose through the wire-mesh wall of each pup’s kennel, and wag his tail, with each young hound responding in kind.
But later that afternoon as Mead passed by the kennels, Old Buck was sitting in his pen on his haunches, looking up at the slowly greening, forested hills surrounding the Ernst farm.
The old dog hound then turned to Mead with a look that said, “it is finished”—not, “it’s over.” There’s a difference.
It was then Mead realized he’d been wrong.
For that morning, Buck hadn’t been saying hello to the younger hound but rather, goodbye.
When the giant opened the aged coonhound’s kennel door, Buck slowly ambled out, glancing up at his long-time master, and then looking toward Ryland Creek.
“All right, old fella, let’s go for a walk.” Both man and dog knew there was no need to snap a lead on Buck’s collar.
So the coon hunter and hound walked by the farmhouse as the earlier promise of sunny skies quickly filled with dark clouds. Mead glanced back over his shoulder to see each of his nearly dozen hounds watching their departure.
Not one dog barked as they left—not one—for the hounds knew. Yes, they knew.
About halfway to the stream, Old Buck sat on his haunches once more.
“C’mon, boy, we can make it, ” Mead softly said.
But the old hound simply looked back and forth between his master and Ryland Creek and whined.
“All right then.” Mead kneeled and cradled his beloved dog into his arms, and he carried Buck for nearly another hundred yards to where the stream’s crystal-clear water popped and gurgled over and around the many grayish rocks jutting from the stream bed.
Close to the water’s edge, Mead gently laid the hound on the ground beneath a tall white pine. He sat there, too, with Buck resting his head on the big man’s upper leg.
For a while, the hunter and hound just sat there in the woodland silence of Painted Post.
“Treed a lot of ringtails in these hills, huh, old fella?” Mead said. He looked down to see Buck staring back at him with his eyes nearly half closed, but the old hound managed to wag his tail.
“You were there that night,” Mead said, now looking up at the overcast sky.
Yes, that fateful night those years and a lifetime ago. He needn’t say any more, for Old Buck just sighed deeply and closed his eyes.
The old dog remembered. Yes, he remembered.
Several minutes later, though, Buck opened his eyes and slowly raised his head to sniff at something near the creek.
“What do ya smell, old fella?” Mead stood and walked the few feet to the muddy shore, but this time, it was the man who stared in amazement.
For there in the mud were the tracks of a raccoon.
“Well I’ll be!” Mead shook his head, kneeling to study the spoor. “You still got it, old man. Why I bet there’s not another hound who could’ve . . .” Turning back, he saw the old hound’s eyes closed again, with his head resting on his paws as if asleep.
Old Buck breathed no more.
As he stood, the smallest opening in the clouds allowed the sunlight to fall on Mead. For the briefest moment, anger swelled in his chest. That light should have been on Old Buck and not him.
But then the coon hunter realized the light was meant for him—a sign that all was well.
It was Painted Post, after all.
But as quickly as the sun had appeared, the clouds closed, and the forest grayed.
Returning to the old hound’s body, the giant lifted his dog up again. Mead was surprised how much lighter his beloved hound seemed now. Perhaps the departed’s soul weighs more than given credit.
They began the long walk home, where Mead would bury Old Buck in the Ernst family’s cemetery next to all the other coonhounds they’d owned and had passed on through the years.
When they cleared the forest’s edge, the clouds relented, and the deluge came.
And for this, Mead looked upward and nodded gratefully.
For he knew—yes, he knew like so many others—it was always best to bury a coonhound in the rain.
3 comments
Loved this! Your writing is so evocative. Thank you for sharing.
Love the visual you paint with your words, and even more, the feelings and weekend that they stir.