one troublesome hound dog

I slip out of bed at the crack of dawn and tip toe down the hall to start the coffee.  As it brews, I gather my Bible bag and a plush blanket, reveling in the quietness of the morning.  Favorite yellow and green mug, the sound of coffee pouring, the pulling of the blanket tighter 'round my shoulders. I move to the sliding glass that leads to the outdoor room, and ever so quietly pull it.  The sound of shifting tracks, sliding door opening slowly.  I step out, turning carefully to close it.  Bam!  I freeze and listen carefully, casting an anxious glance over my shoulder.  I can hear my heart thumping... but there's no movement.  A grateful sigh escapes my lips and I make my way to the swing.  Mug on table, careful now.  Laying Bible bag gently on the swing.  I inhale deeply.  One last thing.  I send another nervous glance before carefully situating my blanket and mustering up the courage.  I bend my knees and catch the swing with calculated movement.  Holding my breath, I slowly move to sit lightly on the swing and... it creaks.


"Woof!" 


My shoulders fall and I slump over with a groan.  


He heard me.

Melodramatic?  Perhaps.

But for two hours that morning (and every morning) my brother's hound dog, Red, barked.  And barked.  And barked some more.  Until I would get so fed up that I would march out to his kennel and sternly demand him to hush.  He'd cower, hop into his dog house and sulk.  Then he'd begin to whine.

"Red, hush!"  This time it wasn't me scolding - it was the neighbor.  Embarrassing.

More whining.  Then another series of barks until I got up to scold him again.

I couldn't do this every morning.

Red

Then, I'd go out to the garden.  There were deep holes along the rows I just sowed.  Tender vines would be broken.  Seedlings would be squashed.  Containers would be missing.  And a very ugly pile of muck (or two) would be left to identify the canine culprit.

One time I found a six inch long bone under a tomato plant.  Not under the shade of the limbs, mind you... under the tomato plant.  As if I planted the bush right on top of the bone.  Only, I hadn't.

"RED!"

But I really couldn't blame the poor thing.  He was just a big puppy living in a tiny yard with hardly a chance to exercise.  My brother had been running him every morning before a surgery and some breathing difficulties rendered him unable to handle Red.  I had the mind one morning to run him for my brother and was pulled over before we even left the yard.  The dog was all energy with no outlet.  I honestly felt sorry for him.

Red's Hobby

But, that hardly made it easier not to resent the garbage strewn around the yard, the chewed up tools, the howling at the moon outside my window all night, the stench of his kennel right next to one of my compost piles.

He got out, once, while my brother was doing school and I went out to chase him.  He ran me through the neighborhood, through the yards of perfect strangers and into the woods before jumping a muddy ditch and galloping deep into the brush.  Out of breath, I managed to squeak out his name.  He stopped and came to the edge of the ditch.

The crazy dog literally grinned when I demanded he come to me.  Seriously.  And then he lopped off into the woods.  I was done chasing him.  Jasco would be finished with school in a couple of hours anyway.

Things went on this way for months.  A year.  Longer.

Jasco decided to find him another home.  Our yard was just too small for Red's size and energy.

Another episode of dug up raised beds caused me to voice my agreement.  More than once.

If Brittney scolded me over the phone for "being mean to animals" one more time, I was going to hang up on her.  That troublesome hound dog deserved every name I called it, and then some.

"How will you ever live on a farm with that attitude toward animals?"  Brittney would quip.

"Easy for you to say!" I'd exclaim. "You have mousing meat chickens and a milk cow!  Those animals are useful - and they don't get into your garden!"

"I guess that's true.  When the neighbor's dog dug up and bedded down my herbs last year, I thought I was going to strangle him."

"Told ya so."

My friend Jordanne Dervaes,
author of Barnyards and Backyards.
Note her useful pet chicken and the
undamaged nasturstiums in the background.
You inspire me, Jordanne!

After hanging up with my best friend, I'd wistfully visit Barnyards and Backyards, yearning for those hazy "someday" plans of selling Red and enclosing his kennel... filling it up with egg-laying hens, compost-producing rabbits and maybe even a milk-giving miniature goat or two.

I prayed Red would find himself another home quickly.

And, one day... he was gone.

Jasco went immediately out to search for him.  Red's running off was normal, and I almost didn't think a thing about it.  He'd come back before nightfall and all would be the same.

"He's not coming back."  Daddy said to me quietly as Jasco hopped the fence to search for him.

"What do you mean?"  I asked, trying to mask the hope in my voice.  "Did you do something with him?"

"No."  Daddy answered.  "I just have a feeling he's moved on.  Probably went and found himself a ranch.  He's a good dog - a family will take him in in a heartbeat."

Daddy was right.  He didn't come back.  Jasco was a little sad, but seemed a bit relieved.  Later, we talked about how Red was probably chasing rabbits through the fields of his new country home, taking in huge gulps of fresh air and vowing never to return to neighborhood life.  Jasco theorized about what nearby town he may have run to.

I breathed a genuine prayer of thanksgiving.  The troublesome hound dog was gone - I had a feeling he really had found a good home - and my brother wasn't hurt.

And, you know what?

I haven't even gotten to the best part of the story yet.
...to be continued...

Have you ever had a troublesome pet?