Joe just came inside and a bit of the bitter cold air followed him through the door. But when he reached into his coat pockets he pulled out summer and fall: an orange, a grapefruit and an apple. Fresh fruit in the midst of a bitter cold snap. He hadn’t made a trip to the grocery store for it, but rather a quick trip to our root cellar. We always buy a bushel of oranges from the FFA kids and two bushels of apples from a local orchard. They provide our winter fruit. He asked me which piece of fruit I would rather have and I chose the orange. It was cold and firm. I peeled it slowly, savoring the sweet smell of sunshine and citrus. I ate it deliberately thinking about the boxes of fruit and other good things stored in our cellar.
Joe and I drove to Staunton yesterday for a load of chicken feed and of course made a trip to the grocery store. It took us six hours to complete this odious chore and when we got home, I was more tired than if I had spent the day shoveling snow. I craved a nap. I appreciate my root cellar most on days like yesterday because it keeps me from having to drive for groceries more than two or three times a month. Putting up jars of beets and tomatoes and beans and pickles and peaches and relishes is time consuming, but pleasant, fulfilling work in a light filled kitchen. Walking up and down the aisles of a grocery store, overwhelmed by aisles of choices is drudgery to me. Why in the world would anyone need an entire aisle dedicated to cereal and another just for toilet paper? I hate shopping most particularly because of the overload of information I must sort through to find what I need. And just when I’ve memorized where things are in a store, the chain decides to rearrange things so I’ll be tempted to buy more as I search. I much prefer my tiny root cellar with its tidy rows of jars. Shall I have beans or beets? Whatever I choose, there’s only one variety to tempt me, so I can save my time for more valuable pursuits than reading labels.
I often wonder if I would feel the same revulsion towards shopping if I lived where I could do it on a whim. If I could jump in my car and be at the mall within ten minutes would I spend more time there? Would I, like my mom, shop each day for what I planned to eat at night, thus spending no more than fifteen minutes on the whole operation? I don’t know. I only know that when a trip to town always includes a mandatory trip to the grocery store, the drug store, the feed store and any other store we should add to the list so we don’t have to come back soon, it wears me out just to think about it. I hate shopping but, maybe in a world gone mad over materialism, that’s a good thing.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Monday, January 17, 2011
It's a Dog's Life
Four weeks ago Joe ran over one of the rabbit beagles. We had just come home from finishing chores in McDowell and it was already dark. He dropped me at the front gate and then pulled around the side of the house to park the truck out of the way. I had just opened the gate to go inside when I heard a shrill yelp. I ran around to the side of the house and found Cindy Dog lying at an awkward angle in the snow. Joe’s windows were up and so he didn’t even know he had hit her until he walked back up the snowy driveway. The best we could figure is that she slipped on the ice and slid under his back wheel as he drove past.
I scooped the dog up and carried her gently to the house. She tried to bite me several times, so I knew that she was in a lot of pain. Our neighbor is a retired vet so I called him and he agreed to meet us at his house. Without an x-ray, he couldn’t be sure, but it appeared that she had cracked her pelvis. He said the best thing we could do for her was to keep her in a very small area for six weeks while the pelvis knitted back together.
When we got home, I prepared a thick pad of papers and old towels for Cindy and set her up in the kitchen. She had to be carried outside several times a day to take care of her doggie business, but other than that she sprawled on the linoleum looking miserable. Then a friend offered a small cage, so we set her up in the shed outside, surrounded by blankets. That worked pretty well, because she could do her business on the dirt floor, so there was less stress to her hip from being toted outside, but I felt bad for the dog. It’s cold outside. I was sure she must be freezing. Within a week I had hauled her back in the kitchen, where she spent her days looking sad and miserable. I assumed it was because of her hip.I searched frantically all day for my dog, sure that she had fallen and couldn’t get up. I even went out into the dark with my flashlight and scanned all the fields around the house figuring the light would reflect off her eyes. I was right. It did. I found her curled up in her doghouse. I carried my naughty beagle back to the kitchen and placed her on her snug bed. She stared at me with sad eyes asI held the bowl to her tired little lips and worried about the damage a jaunt in the woods must have done to her unhealed hip.
The next day, when we set her out to go to the bathroom, Cindy disappeared again. And again, I found her at dark, curled in her dog house. The same thing happened each day for the next three days. The pitiful little dog in the kitchen, who spent her days curled in the corner making sorry suffering puppy eyes at us, would disappear as soon as she was set outside.
Three days ago, we gave up and tied her outside. It turns out that’s what she wanted all along. When I go out to feed her, the dog who could barely wag her tail or stand up to drink from her bowl comes bounding out of her little house balancing on three legs and wagging her tail so hard it throws her sideways. She’s happy to be home. I’ve always felt bad about having to chain my dogs, but I’m seeing it in a new light. Given the choice of a warm bed inside with a view of four walls, or a chain and doghouse outside, this dog chooses the chain and the wide outdoors. I’m sure there’s a lesson in all this. If anybody figures it out, let me know.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
A Holey Tradition
When I was a little girl, my grandfather used to take his shotgun outside the old farmhouse and shoot a hole in the sky to help the arrival of the new year. Here in the mountains, I’ve discovered a new way to poke a hole so the year can come through. My friend Caroline is hosting her annual doughnut party and the holes we will make are sweet. Doughnuts at midnight are a longstanding tradition for her family and it’s one I’m delighted to share with her.
Friends and family start to gather at Caroline’s hilltop house at about 8:00. Everyone arrives with at least two plates of finger food, but there’s not much time to stand around and eat. It’s doughnut cutting time. Caroline and her mother spent the day housecleaning and then mixing and kneading two dishpans full of doughnut dough. The square pans are over by the gas wall heater and the dough inside has already risen above the edges. Caroline lugs the first pan to the kitchen and her son-in-law grabs a softball sized hunk and with firm hands rolls the wooden pin over it until it’s less than a quarter inch thick. Then several women grab doughnut cutters and with deft twists of their wrists create the rings and holes. My mom and Dad have driven up from Richmond to celebrate with us, so she and I take charge of moving the floppy dough rings onto trays to rise. Then we carry the trays of doughnuts out to the other room and set them on every available surface . The other guests, who are laughing and gabbing, jump up to help place them. There are trays on top of the piano, trays on chairs, trays on the steps and even a tray on top of the TV which is on so we can watch the ball drop later. I estimate we’ve cut out over a hundred doughnuts.
By the time we finish cutting out all of the doughnuts, the first ones are ready to fry. Caroline fills a large pot with about six inches of oil and when it’s hot enough, she begins dropping them into the sizzling pot, six doughnuts at a time. They bobble and twirl for three minutes on one side and then Caroline deftly flips them with a slotted spatula. Three more minutes and then, like pleasantly plump ladies emerging from a tanning bed, the winter white doughnuts are tantalizingly brown. The first four dozen are cooled and then shaken in a mixture of plain and powdered sugar. The next forty-eight take a bath in a maple syrup glaze and the last ones get a dusting of cinnamon and sugar. For the next hour, stainless steel bowls as big as washing tubs full of warm doughnuts make the rounds of the teen-aged card players and their aunts, uncles, mothers and fathers who are gathered in the living room. My son, who has a date later, has elected to come to this party with us first and he stays until he’s played enough Rook and eaten his fill of doughnuts. When he leaves, he wraps four more in a napkin and stuffs them in his coat pocket to give to his girlfriend later.
By midnight every guest is stuffed. “Just one more,” we say as the bowl makes another round. After all, this is the last sweet hurrah of two weeks of overeating. Tomorrow, we’ll diet.
Friends and family start to gather at Caroline’s hilltop house at about 8:00. Everyone arrives with at least two plates of finger food, but there’s not much time to stand around and eat. It’s doughnut cutting time. Caroline and her mother spent the day housecleaning and then mixing and kneading two dishpans full of doughnut dough. The square pans are over by the gas wall heater and the dough inside has already risen above the edges. Caroline lugs the first pan to the kitchen and her son-in-law grabs a softball sized hunk and with firm hands rolls the wooden pin over it until it’s less than a quarter inch thick. Then several women grab doughnut cutters and with deft twists of their wrists create the rings and holes. My mom and Dad have driven up from Richmond to celebrate with us, so she and I take charge of moving the floppy dough rings onto trays to rise. Then we carry the trays of doughnuts out to the other room and set them on every available surface . The other guests, who are laughing and gabbing, jump up to help place them. There are trays on top of the piano, trays on chairs, trays on the steps and even a tray on top of the TV which is on so we can watch the ball drop later. I estimate we’ve cut out over a hundred doughnuts.
By the time we finish cutting out all of the doughnuts, the first ones are ready to fry. Caroline fills a large pot with about six inches of oil and when it’s hot enough, she begins dropping them into the sizzling pot, six doughnuts at a time. They bobble and twirl for three minutes on one side and then Caroline deftly flips them with a slotted spatula. Three more minutes and then, like pleasantly plump ladies emerging from a tanning bed, the winter white doughnuts are tantalizingly brown. The first four dozen are cooled and then shaken in a mixture of plain and powdered sugar. The next forty-eight take a bath in a maple syrup glaze and the last ones get a dusting of cinnamon and sugar. For the next hour, stainless steel bowls as big as washing tubs full of warm doughnuts make the rounds of the teen-aged card players and their aunts, uncles, mothers and fathers who are gathered in the living room. My son, who has a date later, has elected to come to this party with us first and he stays until he’s played enough Rook and eaten his fill of doughnuts. When he leaves, he wraps four more in a napkin and stuffs them in his coat pocket to give to his girlfriend later.
By midnight every guest is stuffed. “Just one more,” we say as the bowl makes another round. After all, this is the last sweet hurrah of two weeks of overeating. Tomorrow, we’ll diet.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Oh Tannenbaum
I didn’t want a Christmas tree this year. My plan had been to go the easy route and buy a four foot tall, pre-lit fake. Then, Joe asked me what I wanted for my birthday and I surprised myself by asking for a trip to the mountain with the family to pick out a tree followed by a decorating party. I’m so glad I did. The spicy smell of the tree greets me every time I walk in the room and it’s loaded with ornaments that bring special memories to mind. Scott’s girlfriend laughed as we topped the tree with a fragile paper doily angel he crafted in Sunday School when he was six. It has a photograph of his face where the angel’s head should be and he is not smiling. His sullen expression contrasts so beautifully with the laciness of his angel attire, and his frown leaves no doubts. Boys don’t like wearing dresses. Then there’s the six inch cardboard circle carefully constructed by Justin when he was about ten. He cut a picture of a large white-tail buck out of a magazine and I can still see his serious expression as he glued it onto his ornament. He had picked the most beautiful thing he could find for decking the tree. Justin’s girlfriend, Rachel, hung it tenderly in a place of honor. The lights were wrapped around the top two thirds of the tree because all of my men are over six feet tall and, as they passed the lights from hand to hand around the tree, it never occurred to them to bend over. So, the tree has a haphazard look.
But, I don’t envy my neighbor’s carefully constructed Christmas trees: lights placed just so, fragile glass ornaments which emerge from layers of fluffy tissue paper, color schemes that match the furniture. My tree is lopsided, but Justin picked it out. We took a truck up through the snowy field to the base of the mountain. Joe, Lori my neighbor, and I rode in the front, while Justin and Scott bounced in the back. When the slick snow stranded us, we jumped out and walked the rest of the way up the mountain. Scott was distracted by coyote tracks, but Justin strode up the steep face of the mountain with the chainsaw perched on his shoulder and within minutes I heard the welcome growl of the saw coming to life. It wasn’t long before he slid back down the hill with the tree in tow.
Our Christmas tree is a cedar. It was prickly to decorate and it was shaped by deer and wind, so it has a large hole on one side, but the smell and memories of the harvest make up for that. It’s not at all like our first tree. For the very first Christmas tree of our married life, I convinced Joe to go to a tree farm. I had definite ideas about what the tree should look like but Joe, having never bought a tree before, was appalled by the prices. We argued from tree to tree and when we finally brought one home it was pretty, but there was no joy in its branches. The next year we went to the mountain. I couldn’t find a perfect tree, but we weren’t paying money for it, so it didn’t matter. We laughed as we trekked around the mountain surveying our lopsided choices, and the tree that decorated our living room that year carried that laughter with it.
Ever since then, our trees have come off the mountain. I think Tip likes lying under this one because it was picked out with such joy. I hope the baby Jesus feels it, too.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Christmas Love
Orion is sprawled across the southeastern rim of the sky with his trusty dog Sirius at his heel. All of the winter stars twinkle with a cold blue light. The first sifts of what I call a sugar snow drifted from the clouds today, but they are clearing and leaving behind a sparkly sky that reflects the whirls of snow that fly up like feathers when we step out. Joe and I are headed to town to decorate the shop for Christmas. We have in mind a tool-themed Christmas tree for the big plate glass window and the van is piled with lights and the scratchy limbs of the artificial tree I used twenty years ago to display the ornaments I sold. It was up in the attic with all of the other memories gathering dust beneath the eaves. The walnut cradle I made that rocked both my boys to sleep. The wooden crib they slept in after that. An old high chair. Boxes of toys and books set aside for the grandchildren we hope to have one day. The odds and ends we took out of the house when we were remodeling. So much love tucked up there.
Love is the bravest thing most of us do in our lives. To love something means to be willing to take the inevitable pain of loss that will surely follow. This has been on my mind since Gus disappeared. But it’s not just Gus. Perhaps part of aging is that we begin to recognize that loss will surely happen in our lives. Joe and I are at such a sweet spot in our relationship. We are best friends and the hours fly when we are together. We have raised two fine boys and launched them out into the world, and although we miss them, we now have time to turn again to each other.
When we park the van in the town full of Christmas magic, we step out into a quiet night lit by swags of lights and the glitter of softly falling snow. We hold hands and my heart fills to bursting. This is love and in this season of God’s love I want to drink my fill. After the tree is decorated, we drive home listening to Christmas carols on the radio station. The snow has stopped but the roads are icy and halfway down the mountain we are flagged to a stop by a state trooper. His blue lights intermittently light the crumpled side of a pick-up truck that has just been hauled over the steep edge of the mountain. There is a big hole in the windshield and for just a moment before I can see it clearly, I panic at the thought that it might be Justin’s truck. I have been to the site of accidents that both of my boys have been involved in and the dread lurch and pound of my heart will never quite go away. And, although it’s not Justin’s truck, I know some mother’s child has just been pulled from the brink.
When we get home, Justin calls his dad to tell him about his day. When they hang up, I call Scott, who is on a college road trip with friends. I remind him to buckle up and tell him I love him. Then I step out onto the porch into the frosty night and look up. Above my house, Orion still sails across the winter sky. The Christmas stars remind me. God sent His son, so I am not afraid. Love has no end.
Love is the bravest thing most of us do in our lives. To love something means to be willing to take the inevitable pain of loss that will surely follow. This has been on my mind since Gus disappeared. But it’s not just Gus. Perhaps part of aging is that we begin to recognize that loss will surely happen in our lives. Joe and I are at such a sweet spot in our relationship. We are best friends and the hours fly when we are together. We have raised two fine boys and launched them out into the world, and although we miss them, we now have time to turn again to each other.
When we park the van in the town full of Christmas magic, we step out into a quiet night lit by swags of lights and the glitter of softly falling snow. We hold hands and my heart fills to bursting. This is love and in this season of God’s love I want to drink my fill. After the tree is decorated, we drive home listening to Christmas carols on the radio station. The snow has stopped but the roads are icy and halfway down the mountain we are flagged to a stop by a state trooper. His blue lights intermittently light the crumpled side of a pick-up truck that has just been hauled over the steep edge of the mountain. There is a big hole in the windshield and for just a moment before I can see it clearly, I panic at the thought that it might be Justin’s truck. I have been to the site of accidents that both of my boys have been involved in and the dread lurch and pound of my heart will never quite go away. And, although it’s not Justin’s truck, I know some mother’s child has just been pulled from the brink.
When we get home, Justin calls his dad to tell him about his day. When they hang up, I call Scott, who is on a college road trip with friends. I remind him to buckle up and tell him I love him. Then I step out onto the porch into the frosty night and look up. Above my house, Orion still sails across the winter sky. The Christmas stars remind me. God sent His son, so I am not afraid. Love has no end.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
The Day After Thanksgiving
For those who want to know, Gus is still missing. I am sad about it, but looking forward, not backwards. What a gift to have enjoyed such a happy, free-spirited, loving little beagle. If he is still alive somewhere, I am praying that he has found a good home where his keen sense of loyalty and fun will be fully appreciated.
Joe and I travelled to Staunton today to pick up chicken feed. Around every turn in the road we saw deflated Christmas decorations sprawled in soggy brown yards. They looked like the aftermath of a drive-by shooting. I know, I know. You have to wait until night for the magic to begin. That's when these scraps of cloth and thread rise to glow on lawns like blimpy aliens from a nylon planet. They are kind of neat, then, but really does the baby Jesus have to be right next to Sponge Bob on the lawn? And it's a little creepy to have a ten foot snowman towering over the manger. This time of year, right after Thanksgiving makes me a little cranky. America is so conflicted about this "holiday season." We're not even allowed to say the word Christmas in school anymore and I love Christmas carols, but I don't want to hear them as the background music to advertisements for chocolate and sodas and cars and ipods. That's why I wrote this song. It reminds me to keep my eyes on the main thing. Hope it helps you, too.
The day after Thanksgiving, Christmas shopping begins
We can’t forget Aunt Myrtle or her husband Uncle Ben
We must find the perfect present for each person on our list
It’s critically important and no one must be missed
We wear ourselves to shadows of our former jolly selves
We shop like Martha Stewart and we work like Santa’s elves
We decorate and bake and clean and decorate some more
We’ve got to match the beauty of our neighbor’s house next door
Children whine and whimper and they drag their folks around
From computer store to toy store they shop all around the town
They long for something special that will really thrill their heart
They think that they will find it at the local Walmart
Christmas presents stacked beneath a lovely Christmas tree
Christmas presents PILED UP HIGH, are all of those for me?
Christmas presents wrapped in paper, tied up with a bow
Gimme, what’d ya get me? I just really have to know
A tiny babe wrapped up in a handmade cloth of love
The shepherds wonder at the angels singing up above
The wise men cross the desert as they travel from afar
To find the baby savior sleeping underneath the star
A Christmas present in a manger underneath a tree
A present sent from heaven, is it really just for me?
A Christmas present wrapped in love and placed into a stall
God sent His love at Christmas—a gift for one and all.
So when I hear commercials and see Santas all around
Or hear the registers ringing as the shoppers rush through town
I just turn my head and listen to the angel’s distant song
Joy to the world….
And then I sing along….
A Christmas present in a manger underneath a tree
A present sent from heaven, is it really just for me?
A Christmas present wrapped in love and placed into a stall
God sent His love at Christmas—a gift for one and all
As we begin the Advent season, I hope you hear angels around every corner singing "Joy to the World."
Joe and I travelled to Staunton today to pick up chicken feed. Around every turn in the road we saw deflated Christmas decorations sprawled in soggy brown yards. They looked like the aftermath of a drive-by shooting. I know, I know. You have to wait until night for the magic to begin. That's when these scraps of cloth and thread rise to glow on lawns like blimpy aliens from a nylon planet. They are kind of neat, then, but really does the baby Jesus have to be right next to Sponge Bob on the lawn? And it's a little creepy to have a ten foot snowman towering over the manger. This time of year, right after Thanksgiving makes me a little cranky. America is so conflicted about this "holiday season." We're not even allowed to say the word Christmas in school anymore and I love Christmas carols, but I don't want to hear them as the background music to advertisements for chocolate and sodas and cars and ipods. That's why I wrote this song. It reminds me to keep my eyes on the main thing. Hope it helps you, too.
The day after Thanksgiving, Christmas shopping begins
We can’t forget Aunt Myrtle or her husband Uncle Ben
We must find the perfect present for each person on our list
It’s critically important and no one must be missed
We wear ourselves to shadows of our former jolly selves
We shop like Martha Stewart and we work like Santa’s elves
We decorate and bake and clean and decorate some more
We’ve got to match the beauty of our neighbor’s house next door
Children whine and whimper and they drag their folks around
From computer store to toy store they shop all around the town
They long for something special that will really thrill their heart
They think that they will find it at the local Walmart
Christmas presents stacked beneath a lovely Christmas tree
Christmas presents PILED UP HIGH, are all of those for me?
Christmas presents wrapped in paper, tied up with a bow
Gimme, what’d ya get me? I just really have to know
A tiny babe wrapped up in a handmade cloth of love
The shepherds wonder at the angels singing up above
The wise men cross the desert as they travel from afar
To find the baby savior sleeping underneath the star
A Christmas present in a manger underneath a tree
A present sent from heaven, is it really just for me?
A Christmas present wrapped in love and placed into a stall
God sent His love at Christmas—a gift for one and all.
So when I hear commercials and see Santas all around
Or hear the registers ringing as the shoppers rush through town
I just turn my head and listen to the angel’s distant song
Joy to the world….
And then I sing along….
A Christmas present in a manger underneath a tree
A present sent from heaven, is it really just for me?
A Christmas present wrapped in love and placed into a stall
God sent His love at Christmas—a gift for one and all
As we begin the Advent season, I hope you hear angels around every corner singing "Joy to the World."
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Gus
My beautiful little rabbit beagle Gus is missing. He was born on the farm and raised by my side. When I pulled into my driveway every evening, Gus would stop whatever he might be doing and pound across the yard with a happy grin, ears flapping, tail whapping, to meet me. He would sit patiently at my car door until I gathered everything up and then place his front paws on my legs for an ear scratching before following me to the house. He could fetch a ball, sit on command, catch food in mid-air, circle, and walk on two legs but his favorite activity was jumping straight up in the air like he had pogo sticks where his pads should have been. As I walked back to feed the other dogs at night, he would bound along beside me, jumping up so his nose was almost as high as mine every few steps and laughing as he landed. Then, he danced his joy and ran it in ever widening speed circles around me.
The yard is empty and so is my heart. It’s my fault he’s gone. I didn’t tie him up when hunting season started. Last year, I remembered to chain him until the season passed, but I forgot this year. He was last seen chasing a fox across our neighbor’s mountain on Saturday morning a week ago. Various school children have reported sighting him on Monday morning sniffing his way across a field several miles north of here but I have canvassed all my neighbors to the north and no one has seen him since then.
Most people think that dogs can run free in the country, but that’s not generally the case. Two dogs working together can wreak havoc on a sheep flock and generally one or both end up shot. Maybe Gus found another canine friend and provoked the ire of a farmer. If so, then I can’t be mad. I’ve seen the damage dogs do to sheep. It’s not pretty. But, I don’t think that’s what happened. There’s only one flock of sheep near us and Glen would have let us know if our dog was around.
Maybe Gus crawled through a fence and was snagged by a coyote snare. Coyotes are ravaging the last flocks in the county and snares are one of the few ways farmers have found to create a line of safety in wire fences. But, dogs get caught in them, too. When Gus was a pup, he disappeared for a day. I discovered him just a quarter mile from the house caught in a neck snare. He had been chained before, so rather than struggling against the snare he lay down patiently to wait. It saved his life. When I found him he howled pitifully but he didn’t move. I remember trying to free him and after several unsuccessful attempts to trip the latch, running screaming to the house for Joe. Gus never moved until Joe got back and cut him loose. So, if he’s in a snare, he’s been lying there a long time waiting. But, we’ve let our neighbors who set snares know he is gone and no one has found him, so I don’t think that’s where he is either.
He could have been shot by a hunter, angry at a happy little dog who chased deer for sport, never catching them, but running until his tongue scraped the ground. Hunters have been known to do things like that. They've also been known to steal dogs.
Gus was a handsome dog. He might have been snagged by a hunter who thought he scored a prize. Good rabbit beagles are worth some money and Gus would hunt rabbits tirelessly when he could roust them out. I hope that’s what happened, but what I cling to is the hope that he’s just still hunting and has found a kind soul to feed him who doesn’t yet know my pal is gone. Every morning I wake up and run to the window, hoping to see him prancing across the lawn. Every evening I stand on the hill and call, hoping he’ll hear me and decide to come home.
I should have kept him tied. His mother and aunt are tied and only leave the chains to hunt or trade off for a day of freedom. Our chains are long and light. The dogs can touch noses and have plenty of water and shade, chickens to watch and a good ear-scratching each night as they are fed. But, still, I hate a dog on a chain. Gus was free because he was my buddy, and now he’s gone and I miss him very much.
The yard is empty and so is my heart. It’s my fault he’s gone. I didn’t tie him up when hunting season started. Last year, I remembered to chain him until the season passed, but I forgot this year. He was last seen chasing a fox across our neighbor’s mountain on Saturday morning a week ago. Various school children have reported sighting him on Monday morning sniffing his way across a field several miles north of here but I have canvassed all my neighbors to the north and no one has seen him since then.
Most people think that dogs can run free in the country, but that’s not generally the case. Two dogs working together can wreak havoc on a sheep flock and generally one or both end up shot. Maybe Gus found another canine friend and provoked the ire of a farmer. If so, then I can’t be mad. I’ve seen the damage dogs do to sheep. It’s not pretty. But, I don’t think that’s what happened. There’s only one flock of sheep near us and Glen would have let us know if our dog was around.
Maybe Gus crawled through a fence and was snagged by a coyote snare. Coyotes are ravaging the last flocks in the county and snares are one of the few ways farmers have found to create a line of safety in wire fences. But, dogs get caught in them, too. When Gus was a pup, he disappeared for a day. I discovered him just a quarter mile from the house caught in a neck snare. He had been chained before, so rather than struggling against the snare he lay down patiently to wait. It saved his life. When I found him he howled pitifully but he didn’t move. I remember trying to free him and after several unsuccessful attempts to trip the latch, running screaming to the house for Joe. Gus never moved until Joe got back and cut him loose. So, if he’s in a snare, he’s been lying there a long time waiting. But, we’ve let our neighbors who set snares know he is gone and no one has found him, so I don’t think that’s where he is either.
He could have been shot by a hunter, angry at a happy little dog who chased deer for sport, never catching them, but running until his tongue scraped the ground. Hunters have been known to do things like that. They've also been known to steal dogs.
Gus was a handsome dog. He might have been snagged by a hunter who thought he scored a prize. Good rabbit beagles are worth some money and Gus would hunt rabbits tirelessly when he could roust them out. I hope that’s what happened, but what I cling to is the hope that he’s just still hunting and has found a kind soul to feed him who doesn’t yet know my pal is gone. Every morning I wake up and run to the window, hoping to see him prancing across the lawn. Every evening I stand on the hill and call, hoping he’ll hear me and decide to come home.
I should have kept him tied. His mother and aunt are tied and only leave the chains to hunt or trade off for a day of freedom. Our chains are long and light. The dogs can touch noses and have plenty of water and shade, chickens to watch and a good ear-scratching each night as they are fed. But, still, I hate a dog on a chain. Gus was free because he was my buddy, and now he’s gone and I miss him very much.
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