[Granville-Hough] Harold Hopkins on Smith County dogs and such

[Trustees for Granville W. Hough]

From: harold hopkins <hhopkins3 at comcast.net>
Subject: Re: dogs and such
Date: Sun, 14 Nov 2010 09:16:31 -0800

Not So Long Ago in  Smith County

  A Dog Named Hamburger

By Harold Hopkins

	The only sound I've ever heard anywhere as sweet, 
spine-tingling, and righteous as a New Orleans marching brass band on 
its way to the graveyard to put away a departed brother is a hunting dog 
in full throat during a nighttime chase.

	 I don't hear either one these days but back at Mize during 
the 1930s, if you sat on your front or back porch just about any autumn 
night and listened you could hear up to a dozen different hounds telling 
you what their noses were telling them.  Fox, bobcat, and deer chases 
where large packs of dogs were running had no monopoly on this kind of  
music. It accompanied rabbit and possum and coon chases too and could be 
enjoyed by those who owned a single dog, and not even a pure bred one at 
that.

	Your dog's  loyalty to you was taken for granted.  You could 
assume he'd be as loyal as he knew how. But your loyalty to him was 
another matter and a test of your character, and sometimes your stamina. 
 If you told somebody about your hunt the night before, it was Old  Blue 
did this, Old Blue did that, never what you yourself did.  Your function 
as a hunter and owner was to go along and be amazed as your dog 
performed miracle after miracle turning a cold trail into a hot  one, 
and demonstrating the courage of at least a  lion.  It's not 
surprising that human blood has been shed often over real or imagined 
slights concerning somebody's dog's hunting ability.  If anybody 
told you in Smith County lingo that his dog was good for nothing but to 
keep bread  from molding, you'd better think twice before agreeing 
with him.

	In the 1930s I didn't have a dog of my own and was obliged to 
devote my loyalty to those of others.  At one particular time my 
devotion was fixed on a dog of uncertain sire named Sooner, owned by one 
of my hunting companions, Ray Burnham, who lived next door. 

	Ray was precocious. He was a bit older than I and it was he who 
introduced me to the forbidden delights of smoking and chewing tobacco 
and who assured me the churning in my stomach and the spinning in my 
head they  produced would eventually go away.  It was also Ray who 
confirmed my suspicions about  Santa  Claus and the Easter Bunny.  He 
sneeringly demolished the stork, cabbage leaf, and Sears Roebuck myths 
about where babies came from. He showed me how to pull my first loose 
baby tooth  by tying a string to it and then to a doorknob, and then 
slamming the door.    Ray's explanation of how Sooner came by his name 
won't do to print in a family newspaper.

	  Sooner, despite his curdom, was a real whiz on possums.   But 
Ray was one of those traders who was always trying to improve his 
position, and no sooner had I become fond of  Sooner than Ray traded him 
off for a young hound whose parents were not only known but said to have 
 impressive hunting credentials.

	  We could hardly wait to take this new dog out and ease the 
pain of losing ole Sooner.  To demonstrate the new hound's highborn 
superiority and to make the event a social one, we took along enough 
witnesses to make a foursome at  Rook, a popular card game of the time.  
Bob Bridges and Lloyd Butler, my distant and near cousins, respectively, 
were both of my age and condition and were also friends, and victims as 
well of the possum hunting craze.  It happened that they were good Rook 
players.

	Hunting styles vary in minor ways. Around Mize, when you went 
possuming, you took along a deck of cards for Rook and enough food to 
keep you from wishing you were back  home in the kitchen looking for 
leftovers.  

	By established custom, we went to whatever spot in  Cohay swamp 
that somebody had sworn, from experience or hearsay, was alive with 
possums.  Then we'd  build a large campfire, gobble our food as if the 
world might end any minute, and get out the deck of cards.

	While the four of us were following that protocol we all still 
fussed a little over the new hound, whose original  name was hard to 
remember even then, and now is impossible.  Each of us patted the dog on 
the head, told him what we expected him to do about those fat, grinning 
old possums, and slipped him a bit of the food we were eating. For this 
occasion we'd brought along a treat -- hamburger -- and we wanted him 
to know he was receiving just about the rarest of foods.  "Want some 
hamburger?" each of us would ask him, and his mouth would fly open to 
show he understood and appreciated the honor.

	Then while the cards were shuffled, Ray grandly arose and led 
Sooner out into the woods beyond the circle of light, gave him a final 
pat and a bit of hamburger, and shoved him into the darkness, but when 
Ray returned to the campfire the dog was right behind him. So Ray took 
him out into the darkness again,  spoke more firmly this time, and when 
he returned the dog was no longer with him.

	For a possum hunt in Mize, one played Rook and listened for the 
dog to announce by a yelp or two that he'd come across a possum's 
track. Possums are not distance specialists, so one just continued the 
game, knowing the dog wouldn't trail the possum any great distance.  
When the scent grew hotter and the yelping more furious and continued, 
one paid closer attention and got ready to fold one's cards.  At last 
we could tell when he had the possum cornered by the change in the tone 
of his voice from urgent yelping to a baying sound."He's treed!" 
somebody would yell, and then we'd quickly put away our cards and 
start running through the woods toward the sound. Getting to the treed 
possum was the most strenuous activity of the hunt. If somebody else was 
carrying the flashlight or carbide headlight and you got separated from 
him and left in the dark in the excitement, you stood a fair chance of 
tripping over a log or root, walking off a creekbank, getting caught 
under the chin by a muscadine or crossvine, or getting your clothes 
ripped and yourself maybe bloodied on a wait-a-minute briar.

	When you got to the tree the dog was alternately barking at and 
attempting to climb, you shined your light up into the branches until 
you saw two glowing balls of fire. These were the reflection of the 
light in the possum's eyes. Then one of you climbed the tree and, if 
you could get close enough to the possum without breaking the branch, 
grabbing him by the tail and yanking him loose so he'd fall to the 
ground, where somebody else awaited  to  restrain the dog  from tearing 
at the animal.  Possums, under such  trying circumstances, almost always 
pretend to be dead, "playing possum" in the foolish hope that 
everybody will  forget the whole thing and go home. But this just  made 
possum hunting more challenging to youngsters like us who wanted to 
demonstrate that we were brave enough to grab this docile creature by 
the tail.

	Our Rook game went on for several hands with no announcement by 
the dog that he'd struck a trail, but Ray was certain his new hunting 
companion was just getting the feel of his new surroundings,  and the 
rest of us were quick to agree. After some time the fire burned low and 
it was difficult to read the spots on the cards, and  Ray took the 
flashlight to go out into the dark and look for some more deadwood to 
recruit up the fire.   Then we heard Ray cussing, as young boys used to 
do if they wanted to impress other young boys with their utter disgust.

	Just out of the firelight Ray had found his new dog bedded down 
on a pile of leaves in a rotted out stumphole where, presumably, no 
possum could find him. After we  verified this sorry sight we began to 
think up excuses for such undoglike behavior.  Finally Bob stumbled onto 
the truth. A dog, Bob said, has to be rather  hungry to hunt. Obviously, 
 he said, we'd taken the edge off  his gameness and of his nose by 
feeding him. "It was the hamburger," Bob said. 

	The dog had been cringing and hanging his head at Ray's 
scolding, but at mention of the word "hamburger" he suddenly lifted 
his head and sniffed the air alertly, attentively, intelligently, 
expectantly.

	That's when we decided to give the dog a  name all of us could 
remember.  So he became Hamburger until Ray traded him several weeks 
later for a breechloading shotgun that wouldn't eject a spent shell 
and which permitted your game to get away from you while you were 
frantically prying the shell out of the breech with a pocketknife so as 
to load for a second  shot.

	But that's another story.