As the sound of the fight grew nearer, I
could tell there were quite a few dogs
mixed up in it. They boiled out of an alley,
turned, and headed straight toward me.
Not wanting to get bitten or run over, I
moved over to the edge of the sidewalk.
I could see that all the dogs were
fighting one. About twenty-five feet from
me they caught him and down he went. I
felt sorry for the unfortunate one. I knew if
something wasn’t done quickly the
sanitation department would have to pick
up a dead dog.
I was trying to make up my mind to help
when I got a surprise. Up out of that
snarling, growling, slashing mass reared
an old redbone hound. For a second I saw
him. I caught my breath. I couldn’t believe
what I had seen.
Twisting and slashing, he fought his
way through the pack and backed up under
the low branches of a hedge. Growling
and snarling, they formed a halfmoon
circle around him. A big bird dog, bolder
than the others, darted in. The hedge shook
as he tangled with the hound. He came out
so fast he fell over backwards. I saw that
his right ear was split wide open. It was
too much for him and he took off down the
street, squalling like a scalded cat.
A big ugly cur tried his luck. He didn’t
get off so easy. He came out with his left
shoulder laid open to the bone. He sat
down on his rear and let the world know
that he had been hurt.
By this time, my fighting blood was
boiling. It’s hard for a man to stand and
watch an old hound fight against such
odds, especially if that man has memories
in his heart like I had in mine. I had seen
the time when an old hound like that had
given his life so that I might live.
Taking off my coat, I waded in. My
yelling and scolding didn’t have much
effect, but the swinging coat did. The dogs
scattered and left.
Down on my knees, I peered back under
the hedge. The hound was still mad. He
growled at me and showed his teeth. I
knew it wasn’t his nature to fight a man.
In a soft voice, I started talking to him.
“Come on, boy,” I said. “It’s all right. I’m
your friend. Come on now.”
The fighting fire slowly left his eyes.
He bowed his head and his long, red tail
started thumping the ground. I kept
coaxing. On his stomach, an inch at a time,
he came to me and laid his head in my
hand.
I almost cried at what I saw. His coat
was dirty and mud-caked. His skin was
stretched drum-tight over his bony frame.
The knotty joints of his hips and shoulders
stood out a good three inches from his
body. I could tell he was starved.
I couldn’t figure it out. He didn’t belong
in town. He was far out of place with the
boxers, poodles, bird dogs, and other
breeds of town dogs. He belonged in the
country. He was a hunting hound.
I raised one of his paws. There I read
the story. The pads were worn down slick
as the rind on an apple. I knew he had
come a long way, and no doubt had a long
way to go. Around his neck was a crude
collar. On closer inspection, I saw it had
been made from a piece of check-line
leather. Two holes had been punched in
each end and the ends were laced together
with bailing wire.
As I turned the collar with my finger, I
saw something else. There, scratched
deep in the tough leather, was the name
“Buddie.” I guessed that the crude,
scribbly letters had probably been written
by a little boy.
It’s strange indeed how memories can
lie dormant in a man’s mind for so many
years. Yet those memories can be
awakened and brought forth fresh and
new, just by something you’ve seen, or
something you’ve heard, or the sight of an
old familiar face.
What I saw in the warm gray eyes of the
friendly old hound brought back
wonderful memories. To show my
gratitude, I took hold of his collar and
said, “Come on, boy, let’s go home and
get something to eat.”
He seemed to understand that he had
found a friend. He came willingly.
I gave him a bath and rubbed all the
soreness from his muscles. He drank
quarts of warm milk and ate all the meat I
had in the house. I hurried down to the
store and bought more. He ate until he was
satisfied.
He slept all that night and most of the
next day. Late in the afternoon he grew
restless. I told him I understood, and as
soon as it was dark, he could be on his
way. I figured he had a much better chance
if he left town at night.
That evening, a little after sundown, I
opened the back gate. He walked out,
stopped, turned around, and looked at me.
He thanked me by wagging his tail.
With tears in my eyes, I said, “You’re
more than welcome, old fellow. In fact,
you could’ve stayed here as long as you
wanted to.”
He whined and licked my hand.
I was wondering which way he would
go. With one final whimper he turned and
headed east. I couldn’t help smiling as I
watched him trot down the alley. I noticed
the way his hind quarters shifted over to
the right, never in line with the front, yet
always in perfect rhythm. His long ears
flopped up and down, keeping time with
the jogging motion of his body. Yes, they
were all there, the unmistakable marks of
a hunting hound.
Where the alley emptied into the street,
he stopped and looked back. I waved my
hand.
As I watched him disappear in the
twilight shadows, I whispered these
words: “Good-bye, old fellow. Good
luck, and good hunting!”
I didn’t have to let him go. I could have
kept him in my back yard, but to pen up a
dog like that is a sin. It would have broken
his heart. The will to live would have
slowly left his body.
I had no idea where he had come from
or where he was going. Perhaps it wasn’t
too far, or maybe it was a long, long way.
I tried to make myself believe that his
home was in the Ozark Mountains
somewhere in Missouri, or Oklahoma. It
wasn’t impossible even though it was a
long way from the Snake River Valley in
Idaho.
I figured something drastic must have
happened in his life, as it is very unusual
for a hound to be traveling all alone.
Perhaps he had been stolen, or maybe he
had been sold for some much-needed
money. Whatever it was that had
interrupted his life, he was trying to
straighten it out. He was going home to the
master he loved, and with the help of God,
he would make it.
To him it made no difference how long
the road, or how rough or rocky. His old
red feet would keep jogging along, on and
on, mile after mile. There would be no
crying or giving up. When his feet grew
tired and weary, he would curl up in the
weeds and rest. Water from a rain puddle
or a mountain stream would quench his
thirst and cool his hot dry throat. Food
found along the highway, or the offerings
from a friendly hand would ease the pangs
of hunger. Through the rains, the snows, or
the desert heat, he would jog along, never
looking back.
Some morning he would be found
curled up on the front porch. The long
journey would be over. He would be
home. There would be a lot of tail-
wagging and a few whimpering cries. His
warm moist tongue would caress the hand
of his master. All would be forgiven.
Once again the lights would shine in his
dog’s world. His heart would be happy.
After my friend had disappeared in the
darkness, I stood and stared at the empty
alley. A strange feeling came over me. At
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