My Squeaky Dog ran his last race. He died early Saturday morning. In October he would have been 15. His real given name on his papers was PR Trimont's Rambo. PR meaning Purple Ribbon. He was AKC registered.
He was called Squeaky because he would squeak when he struck a track, he would squeak when riding rig on the box. He loved being up there. He loved running Bear. Two weeks before he died a big Bear lumbered out on the bank the opposite side of the house. I ran Squeaky and Horton over to the track and Squeaky was opening up on it trying to climb the bank. If I'd unsnapped the brass he would have ran that Bear, albeit, slow. He cared little for "junk", though he was known to run it some, always with another dog and not for far. You could check a track with him, though. If he didn't open, you didn't have a bear or it was just to cold. He did have a good nose. I believed he could have worked a 6 hour old track, easy. 8, pretty good. He knew a dead bear from a live one, a wild one from a captive one. Sometimes he acted like he knew what you were thinking, allot of that time, it was like he didn't care. Squeaky was a Bear Dog.
Squeaky had fought bear and hogs. He had his share of scars, one was an ear that had been cut short. Last fall a Sow bear nipped him in the chest, cutting him and nearly taring the buckle of his tracking collar off. He fought her coming down that mountain, she lunged at him, he darted and grabbed at her along with all of the young dogs. When I got him to the truck he patiently let me staple him up. He patiently let me shoot him up with penicillin. He had gotten off from me a couple of sumers ago. He was gone for three days and I picked him up over near the County trash pile. He had been into it with a Bear ad it had whooped him pretty good. He was tired, sore and still as cocky as before. We lanced his sores and gave him a few shots. He never flinched. Not until the last shot. He stopped eating last weekend. I did get him to eat soft food. I got him to take Aspirin and B12. But not Friday.
In a few weeks, I'll start running the Dogs. I've got three young ones a Cur and two Plott litter mates. I have Rebel, who pulled off his chain to run after a Bear the other night. I don't have a rig dog, or a colder nose strike dog. On that first Friday night, when I load the dogs up I'm damn sure going to miss that son of a bitch. He wasn't a perfect Dog, but he was a good one. He was a Bear Dog.
The Appalachianst
He was called Squeaky because he would squeak when he struck a track, he would squeak when riding rig on the box. He loved being up there. He loved running Bear. Two weeks before he died a big Bear lumbered out on the bank the opposite side of the house. I ran Squeaky and Horton over to the track and Squeaky was opening up on it trying to climb the bank. If I'd unsnapped the brass he would have ran that Bear, albeit, slow. He cared little for "junk", though he was known to run it some, always with another dog and not for far. You could check a track with him, though. If he didn't open, you didn't have a bear or it was just to cold. He did have a good nose. I believed he could have worked a 6 hour old track, easy. 8, pretty good. He knew a dead bear from a live one, a wild one from a captive one. Sometimes he acted like he knew what you were thinking, allot of that time, it was like he didn't care. Squeaky was a Bear Dog.
Squeaky had fought bear and hogs. He had his share of scars, one was an ear that had been cut short. Last fall a Sow bear nipped him in the chest, cutting him and nearly taring the buckle of his tracking collar off. He fought her coming down that mountain, she lunged at him, he darted and grabbed at her along with all of the young dogs. When I got him to the truck he patiently let me staple him up. He patiently let me shoot him up with penicillin. He had gotten off from me a couple of sumers ago. He was gone for three days and I picked him up over near the County trash pile. He had been into it with a Bear ad it had whooped him pretty good. He was tired, sore and still as cocky as before. We lanced his sores and gave him a few shots. He never flinched. Not until the last shot. He stopped eating last weekend. I did get him to eat soft food. I got him to take Aspirin and B12. But not Friday.
In a few weeks, I'll start running the Dogs. I've got three young ones a Cur and two Plott litter mates. I have Rebel, who pulled off his chain to run after a Bear the other night. I don't have a rig dog, or a colder nose strike dog. On that first Friday night, when I load the dogs up I'm damn sure going to miss that son of a bitch. He wasn't a perfect Dog, but he was a good one. He was a Bear Dog.
The Appalachianst
posted by Hill Billy Rave | Monday, August 09, 2010
13 Comments:
Sorry about Squeaky--you honored him well with this obit. "He was a bear dog..." That says a lot.
"He wasn't a perfect dog, but he was a good one. He was a Bear Dog." I'd settle for that . . . good write and memory of a good dog and good to see you back. Take care. Bill
Thanks, You'll. As far as blogging, I've meant to sit down and do it, and just haven't taken the time, or had allot of it on my hands.
Sorry to hear about Squeaky.
Take care, Hooah!
Sorry about Squeaky, App, he sounds like he was a wonderful and happy dog doing what he loved to do.
He probably hiked his leg on the Pearly Gate.
Like only a good male dog would. Very sad. All of his injurie reminded me of Old Dan in 'Where The Red Fern Grows'. I hope that's not the way he died.
Sorry to hear about your dog. In the past few years I have lost two to snakes, one to old age/ "blood cancer", and one that just vanished.
They are all missed.
Sorry for Squeaky Rambo, the Rambo part seeming particularly fitting after reading the post.
I thought you did a right fair job of telling the story. You always do when the subject means something to you.
How far is Trans. County from Nashville?
R'Ed
Sorry folks, I've been out of the loop. My OODA Loop feels like OONA...Figured I ought to come in here and check on this thing.
Murf, Squeaky died in his sleep. He had his share of scars, as does my Rebel Dog.
ExMI, you can have those snakes...
Ed, Nasheville is about 8 hours or so down the road. I guess it's late now.
Did not look that far on the map. Might have to debate on stopping by and letting you buy me a beer.
A good one, not a Curs Light or something.
Might still traipse down there if I can. Been a while since I been in Carolina to do anything more than swap planes.
R'Ed
Come on and give me a holler...I'll buy you a beer.
My Bichon Frise had no tracking abilities, but he did capture a bug once.
His only battle scars were from my girls who dressed him in baby clothes, adorned him in jewelry, and colored him with markers.
I think a makeover from my three girls is a tougher trial of manhood than a bear encounter. Perhaps comparable to seal training?
He spent this past summer following me from room to room as a toddler would do. His body so slow that he would meet me returning.
He was hardly able to support his weight but communicated his wants. He rallied once by looking for morsels under the kitchen table.
He quietly died next to me. I had him 16 years. I cried as soon as my husband looked at me to tell me he was dead.
That sweet thing died with his eyes open...looking at me, and I don't have to wait to miss him.
I remarked to my two youngest that I had him longer than any of the seven hundred kids in their school even existed.
Whenever I think of soldiers and dogs, I remember these videos.
When my oldest returned from her London grad school, Teddy surprised us with a similar reaction..
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ysKAVyXi0J4&feature=player_embedded
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P2vNj8rfE_I
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