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.