When we came back to the states from West Africa, one of my early friends from our local church in Olive Branch, Mississippi was Jim, who was the President of a local bank. He had a pack of beagles that were trained to hunt rabbits. He was serious about his beagles, and he could have purchased a horse for what he paid for some of his beagles. He also knew everybody in the community, so he had a lot of good places to run the beagles. I accused him of asking people if he could hunt on their property before he would agree to give them a loan.
Jim invited me to go an many hunts during our time in Olive Branch. After they are flushed from the undergrowth, rabbits usually make a wide circle with the dogs hot on their trail, and they come back to where they were originally jumped. Some hunters like to wait for the rabbits at the jump site and then harvest the rabbits when they return. I am not big on shooting them, and I definitely don’t wait at the jump site. I love to follow the dogs through the briars and thickets. To me, the fun is in the chase. To listen to the dogs as they follow the trail with their noses to the ground to pick up the scent of the rabbit. I love the sound of beagles picking up a scent and then jerking their heads up and letting out a howl. Music to my ears.
Although rabbit hunting season is usually limited to a few months in the winter, serious rabbit hunters take their beagles out to run the rabbits year around—just without any guns. That’s the part of the sport that I enjoy the most—just running the dogs.
After we moved to Clinton, Mississippi, where I served as an administrator and teacher at Mississippi College, I started buying some beagles. Incidentally, these were not the first beagles we had owned. We bought our first beagle right after we started my first fulltime job after graduate school. Her name was Maggie, and she lived with us in our tiny apartment. Maggie was a still a house dog when we moved from Florida to Vicksburg, Mississippi. In Vicksburg she had a litter of puppies, and I raised two of her puppies to be hunting beagles. I would take Felix and Oscar to join some friends with other beagles on some awesome rabbit hunts along the Mississippi River.
Now the beagles I was buying were not the pedigreed ones that my friend Jim was buying, but they were nevertheless of good stock. The most expensive beagle that I ever owned was named Bila. His name was from the More’ language of the Mossi people in Burkina Faso. Bila was really adept at making the first jump on a rabbit, and he could stick with the best on the scent. There was only one problem with Bila—he also loved to run deer! That is one trait that is intolerable with a good rabbit dog. You don’t want to be on a rabbit hunt and have your jump dog get on the trail of a deer.
One Saturday in the off-season my dad was visiting us, and he and I went to run the beagles. We were on a friend’s farmland that adjoined thousands of acres of timberland—mostly pine trees. Deer love to hang out in pine thickets during the daytime and feed during the night. Bila jumped a deer and the rest of the dogs followed suit. Unlike rabbits, deer run in a straight line away from the dogs and the longer the dogs run them the farther the deer run before they stop. Bila did not give up easily, so my dad and I had a long wait ahead of us. After 45 minutes of waiting, all the dogs except Bila had returned to our pickup. I left my dad with the other dogs loaded up in the back of the pickup and went in search of Bila.
After an hour I found him walking slowly back towards the pickup, and his tongue was hanging out the side of his mouth. I was so angry at him. I hooked the leash to his collar and gave him a couple of strong jerks and headed towards the pickup. After a few minutes he stopped, raised his nose in the air and suddenly lunged away from me. Bila wound up on the other side of a dead tree about 12” in diameter. I turned my back and gave the leash a hard jerk. I was turned away from Bila trying to walk away, and as I snatched at the leash that action toppled the dead tree. The tree stuck the back of my head and instantly I was knocked out.
I don’t know how long I was lying on the ground, but I was awakened by Bila licking my face. I was bleeding from the wound, and I have no idea how long I had passed out, but I credit Bila for saving my life. After putting pressure on the wound with a bandana, Bila and I met up with my dad. He drove us to the ER in a nearby town where my gash was sewed up. The doctor told me that I was very fortunate because I had encountered what many people call a “widow-maker,” and I had survived thanks to my dog.
For most of my life we have owned at least one dog, and they have all been good friends. Dogs have been domesticated for thousands of years, and they have earned the notoriety of being “man’s best friend.” I love the two dogs that we have now. Cloud is a Great Pyrenees, and she is the lowest maintenance dog we have ever owned. She drinks water from the pond or stream, I have a self-feeder for her, and she lives in the pasture with the cows, goats, chickens and ducks. When we brought her home as a six-month-old, I had an extra-large igloo doghouse waiting for her in the pasture, but she never went inside. She sleeps on the open ground unless it is raining or there is deep snow on the ground, and then she sleeps in the goat barn.
Boss is a mixed breed neutered male who is 15 years old and sleeps on his Tempur-pedic dog bed on the front porch. He is such a faithful outdoor companion for me. Whenever I crank up the Kubota RTV he climbs into his regular place in the floorboard of the front passenger seat. Only problem is that he is so old now that some days he cannot climb into the Kubota, and if I try to help him it is uncomfortable for him. So, I have to pull up so that the passenger side is lowered to make it easier for him to get in. He goes everywhere I go on the farm, and he waits patiently for me when I am splitting firewood, working in the garden, hauling hay or whatever. I know he will soon be passing on, and I will deeply miss him.
Although dogs don’t verbally communicate with their masters, they certainly know how to express themselves and bond themselves with their masters. Sometimes we humans are guilty of using too many words to express ourselves. This week a friend introduced me to a new word for me—pleonasm. Cambridge Dictionary defines pleonasm: the use of more words than are needed to express a meaning, done either unintentionally or for emphasis. Some examples: “kick it with your feet,” “a careful caregiver,” “I myself,” “my own eyes,” or “burning fire.”
I think that the same train of thought is appropriate in dealing with our relationships with other people. I find that sometimes I struggle with talking too much when I should not be saying anything. Too many words can hurt rather than heal. When a friend or family member experiences the loss of a loved one, most times it is best not to say much because the greatest thing you can do for someone in this situation is just to be there with them. Love on them. Hug them. Hold their hand. Put your hand on their shoulder. Words can’t replace the human touch and presence.
Practice using fewer words to express yourself. It does not come naturally for me, but I am working on it.
“When there are many words, transgression is unavoidable, but he who restrains his lips is wise.” Proverbs 10:19
