00:00:05 Speaker 1: Welcome to this Country Life. I'm your host, Brent Reeves from coon hunting to trot lighting and just general country living. I want you to stay a while as I share my experiences and life lessons. This Country Life is presented by Case Knives on Meat Eaters Podcast Network, bringing you the best outdoor podcast the airways had off. All right, friends, grab a chair or drop that tailgate. I've got some stories to share. Dogs and man love story. Dogs and man have been rambling around the planet for a long time now, me like I'm sure a lot of you, are never without one. There's never been a time in my life when I didn't have at least one dog. And it's to that end that I'm here today talking about these animals that we all love so But why, That's my question, and I'm going to talk all about it. But first I'm going to tell you a story. John Carl Deckleman Buddy to his friends and Booed to his grandchildren. He was a tradesman adept in agricultural related work, from cattle to lumber production. He had several jobs associated with farming. That was a natural progression in his life. Being from the Mississippi River Delta town of Elaine, Arkansas. Rabbit hunting was his pastime and beagles were his passion. The small beagles, the thirteen inch beagles, the ones that looked like little walker puppies even when they're full grown. None of my favorites too, But Buddy and his hunting pals, one being the store owner, kept a pen full of beagles out behind Sibilis Apply Store in West Helena, a small town on the bank of the Mississippi River in Arkansas. The dogs were carried for daily by someone in the group, and on weekends they'd all meet load the dogs off to the rabbit woods. They'd go a lot of trips were the Jackson Point Hunting Club, a famed piece of land along the river that both trophy deer and world class duck hunting, and, according to Buddy, a whole bunch of rapids. The group of men were also beg in to field trialing their dogs, and Buddy's favorite was his blanket backed red eared beagle named Nancy Anne. Nancy Anne was his pride and joy and the leader of the pack of dogs he called his own, and the honorable mentions for funny Face and pretty Girl, both puppies of Nancy Anne, but she was number one. A. Buddy had an opportunity to cross Nancy Anne with another champion beagle in Clarksdale, Mississis, and he carried her across the river, only a thirty minute ride away, and he left her in hopes of a successful union that would add more little Nancy Anne's to his pack, and with their mother and Buddy to show them the ropes they had any desire at all, it would be a simple task, but first we had to have puppies. But that wouldn't happen. She got out of the pen in Clarksdale not long after Buddy left her, and she was gone, and with her disappearance, the hope for a new generation of top notch rabbit chasers left with her, and Buddy was devastated. His granddaughters told me that they remember how distraught Bood was. There was no dogs in Buddy's house, but his connection with Nancy Anne was obvious to everyone that knew him. She was his hunting partner as much as either of his friends, whose dogs were kept in the same kennel, But either one of his friends were busy and unable to go. Nancy Anne was still there. She was always ready and hunted just as hard at the end of the day as she did at the beginning. She was a lot like Buddy. Her life was simple and she worked hard. Maybe that's why they were so close, each having a similar philosophy. You see a job, and you do a job to work hard while doing it. Days went by him, crossing the river and searching for her, until it seemed all hope was lost. Dole of a basket full of puppies from Nancy Anne, a faint reminder of why she was out of Buddy's direct care to begin with. Now, no number of puppies could replace what Buddy had lost. Nancy Anne was gone. The house phone in Tyler, Texas, rang, and whoever answered it announced joyfully to everyone that Nancy Ann had been found and was now home with Buddy or bood as Alexis called him. And in two thousand and one, when Boode passed away, Nancy Anne would spend the rest of her days in Texas being loved on by Buddy's daughter, his son in law, and his granddaughters, one of which just happens to be my wife. Not a unique story, but a lesson and never relinquishing hope. That's a lesson for us all. And that's just how that happened. The bond of a man and dog has been scientifically documented to fifteen thousand years ago. On the evil World War One, some dudes were digging around over in Bond, Germany and found a dog skeleton buried alongside two humans. The DNA of that specimen, it turns out, was that of a domesticated dog like we have now, running around the yard in the house and dropping hair on the floor like a crop duster. Now did they dig up the first couple who owned a pet dog? Who knows, but I highly doubt it. Can you imagine the criteria to search for the first of anything, and how you'd qualify it if you found it. You can only surmise that the dog meant something for them to have been buried with it, if folks now thought the way they did in some degree, Egyptian pharaohes were buried with all their goodies and sometimes their favorite folks. That's right. The old saying of you can't take it with you, well, that was obviously coined long after the nose fell off the sphinx's face, because them folks thought you could what a rotten retirement plan. I bet the anxiety ran high in the Pharaoh's house every time that Rascal caught a cold. But the dog that was found in Germany at that burial site is the closest link known to exist between wolves and old Whalen. The coonhound that's currently taking up space right beside my chair, now he's a member of this family, according not only to me, but my wife Alexis and my daughter Bailey will also attest. But why how does an animal develop a place of such importance in a human's world? Of what matters? Some folks believe it's the nurture and instinct of humans to care for other beings. There's always exception, but speaking of humanity as a whole, our species natural behavior is to provide care for those around us, including animals. Now, there's also the argument that we take care of and protect things of value, things that provide and perform a service, like a herding dog, a protective dog, or in my case, a hunt dog. I've had several over the years, But just like family members and friends, there there will be a select number that will stand out above the rest. That's my focus and what I find interested. My dad was known for having good tree dogs and good running dogs, and each were cared for totally different ways. Running dogs were kept in a big pen across the road from his house, and they were fed and watered and medicated as needed. Their pen was kept clean, and they lacked for nothing in regard to their health and welfare. Squirrel dogs, on occasions were kept in there too, but the majority of the time they hung out in the front yard. The running dogs were tools and a means to an end, just like the squirrel dogs, but were not in this intimate of a setting. That was the difference. Ten or fifteen running walker hounds would be loaded in the back of his truck, and when the suitable conditions or signed was found a fresh coyode activity some are all of them would be released at once. The rest of the event was a listening party as to what dog was leading the pack, which one had the best sound in bar, and so on and so on. Outside of turning them loose and catching them, there was no other man and dog interaction. They responded to my dad because he was the guy they recognized that fed them. I couldn't get those dogs to do much of anything. When it came to commands, there was only one alpha, and it was my dad, not me. When they saw him coming, they knew they were fixing to do one of two things. They were either loading up in the truck to go hunting or they were fixing to eat. Both activities were their favorites. Those hounds were pretty stand office and not at all friendly, or how we've come to view dogs that are friendly. Now, you compare that to their hunting cousin, the Tree and Walker, like the one that's laying on his back like a dead cockroach right beside my desk right now, and you'd think they were two totally different species animals, when in fact they came from the same corral of English foxhounds brought over from England, and credit to John Walker and George Washington Mappin's cross of hounds that became the Tree and Walker coonhound. There's some intrigue and criminality that went into that story back in the eighteen hundreds, but I'll say that for another day. It's pretty interesting. Nonetheless, the running walkers and Tree and Walkers, they look basically the same, but how I interact with them is totally different and that is where the true difference is whaling my tree and Walker is as much of a lap dog as he is a hunting dog, But how we interact is where it separates. I go with him and when he hunts, following his every move, and when he gets a coon treat, he barks to call me to him, and he won't leave until I get there. He's trained where I can call him to me. But when describing the attributes of a good tree dog, it is a plus for one to be accurate, obviously, but also one that will stay until you get there. Just like my dad's running hounds and his squirrel dogs, the way he interacted with them was the exact opposite. A running hound that came back to where we were listening to the race for no apparent reason, was greeted by my dad's size ten red wing to that hounds behind to remind him that his job was to run and bark at the colt, and it was our job to listen. And just like the folks that dug up the two humans that had a dog buried with him in Germany, we were guessing as to what was really going on out there in that cold race, and couldn't testify under oath that all those dogs were actually running a cold. We hardly ever saw it. We were never close enough, especially hunting at night with the dogs in the middle of the woods and us sitting on the tailgate or in a lawn chair quarter of a mile or more away. The dogs may have cracked the cod and figured out that if they all ran around in the circles like they were chasing a coat, the dab would be happy and maybe throw out a few extra scoops of feed when they all got back home. The squirrel hunting that it's different, and we used different dogs. Mountain curves, firests in every combination of each that you can think of, were what we used. Ninety nine percent of them were bobtail That hunt, like coon hunting, was more intimate. We rode horses mainly, but sometimes walked behind the dogs as they criss crossed out in front of us, looking for the center of a squirrel and occasionally checking back in to see how close we were. Following them through the woods and ideally not getting more than three hundred yards or so away before they'd make a loop back to see where we were. If there were a lot of squirrels. They never made that checking in because we were always with them. They were used to us being with them, and when they treed, the closer we got, the more excited they got. The real action started as soon as the first shot rang out, And if we didn't get the squirrel on the first shot, or the squirrel took off on our approached, the dogs would lose their minds trying to be the first one to show us what tree he ran to. It was a bona fide partnership and they knew it. They didn't get to eat the squirrel either. They were working for a pat on the head, nothing more. The significance of the relationship is one that couldn't operate without the other, and we each saw the significant role that we both played. The dog got a subserviance, and I believe love and loyalty as well. Now, if you don't think dogs have the power to reason or connect on a deeper level, don't make me quotes from Wilson rawls on here about loving a coonhand and vice versa. I'll have you all balling your eyes out on way to work this morning. Even though Where the Red Fern Grows is a work of fiction, I have witnessed that fond personally, and I'm sure a lot of you have as well. But the relationship that's what's significant, maybe even more so than we realize. Just this past week, I accidentally left my back gate open while doing some chores in the early evening, Wailing. The Wonder Hound was inside the house soaking up the ac like the rest of the family. After an evening of fun and frivolity with the girls, they drifted off to the bed while me and the hound watched TV. Around eleven, I let him out the back door and went to bed, not realizing I left the gate open. When Bailey and I left for school the next morning, just like always, I go out back and put his food out and check his water, and then we make tracks for her school. The door leading from the garage to the backyard makes a tail squeak at nine times out of ten when he hears it, he's on his way to eat his breakfast or try to scam his way inside the house. Not this morning. I walked over to his doghouse to see if he was inside it, and it was a real possibility. After all, as I've mentioned before, he has his own air conditioning unit in there. I looked back toward the gate and my stomach went on. I knocked. That's when I realized that I'd forgotten to shut it. He'd gotten out before it, and he's not running away. He's just doing what a socialized coonhound does. He goes hunting and visiting the neighbors. He usually stops by the local Dollar General store and goes inside for a treat. I kid you not. A couple of years ago he did that, and the lady that was working there gave him a snack and called the number that was on his collar. Twice. A couple months later, he did the same thing, and luckily the same lady was there and hemmed him up, gave him a bite of something to eat, and called us. Now, I'm confident that clown slipped the bonds of the backyard because he was feeling the night package so down the road he went to the Dollar General for a little snackrel. But those times were different because he'd only been gone a short while, maybe even a few minutes, when someone called. This time, he'd been gone all night. There's no telling where he could be. I've seen him cover twenty miles in the night when coon hunting in three or four hours. In eight plus hours, he could have been a long way away from home, or worse yet, run over somewhere on the highway. I called Alexis, who was already at work, and told her what happened, and Bailey and I made a loop through the neighborhood just in case we might see him, and we didn't. As I was turning onto the highway, I was praying we wouldn't find him laying on the shoulder along the way, and my phone rang with a number I didn't recognize. Sweet lady's voice said, are you missing a four legged friend? Oh? Yes, ma'am, I am. She told me where she lived in Bailey, and I little shuck headed in that direction. As far as I knew, he'd been gone eight hours, and in that span of time he'd managed to be found less than three quarters of a mile from my house. When I got there, he was soaking, wet, muddy from one end to the other, and had been apparently rambling all night somewhere, just doing what coonhounds do at night. Now was he on his way back home when the lady called him over to her and looked at his collar, and called me. I have no idea. I'd like to think that he would come home. You hear those stories about dogs crossing the country to find their family, so I'd like to think this knucklehead would do the same. But whether he was or not is not the point of my story. The thought of not having him was beyond what I could have imagined. It made me wonder just how I pooring this dang dog was, and what my dad would have said. Now, my dad's work truck, he had an eight track player and a black case that held a number of eight track tapes. You youngsters have to google that if you don't know what an eight track is. I ain't gonna explain it to you anyway. I can see that case right now in the contents, and I bet I could tell you just about in what order they were in Whalon Jennings, Willie Nelson, Gary Stewart, Charlie Pride, Conway, Twitty, Moe Bandy, and Jim Reeves, just to name a few. Jim Reeves he spelled his name r ee v e s. That's the generic spelling as we call it. But he had a song called the Blizzard, and it was written by the Great Harlan Howard and released in nineteen sixty one, and the song the singer is trying to get home to his wife mary Anne, and he's describing the trials and the tribulations he faces along the way with a blizzard and the fact that his horse Dan is lame and struggling to make it. Starts out that there's still seven miles from Marianne, and he sings about the cold blowing snow. Then five miles from Marianne and he sings about the hot biscuits he figures that are waiting on him. Then three miles from Marianne. Then one hundred yards away. Old Dan can't go any further, so they bed down for the night, the cowboy and I wanting to leave his horse, and they both perish in the cold. Found the next morning froze in just one hundred yards from Marianne. I asked my dad when I was a little boy, after we listened and sang along with that song, if he'd have stayed with old Buck, our buckskin horse like the cowboy of the song. He said no, And Jim Reeves wouldn't have stayed with dead if Marianne could have fixed biscuits worth of dern. That's probably true, But I'll tell you this. I've seen my daddy cry only three times, and one of them was when he told me our squirrel dog, Peanut, had passed away. Now, I've talked about Peanut before and would usually describe him as my hairy little brother and my dad's favorite son. I never said that to my dad because I was always scared he would agreed with me. But fast forward a generation or two, and the last squirrel dog my dad had that was as close to Peanut's ability was named Buck. Now, I like Peanut. He was a mountain cerr and the heck of a squirrel dog. But my dad was from an area where dogs stayed outside, and he gave me and anyone else fits about having a dog in the house. Dogs belonged outside period. Here was a guy who wouldn't have braved the blowing snow for his horror because of a pan of warm biscuits, and had a hard and fast rule of no dogs in the house. And yet on numerous occasions my brother would stop by unannounced and catch them both asleep in the recliner. Dad reared back with his fingers interlaced across the belly of his overalls and Buck curled up on the footstool, surprised by my brother. Daddy would say, Buck, what are you doing in this house? Get out of here, my brother holding screen door open as Buck trotted out of the house. I tell you that story to emphasize the bond that comes from the intimacy of relationship between man and dog. There's some next level signs going on here that no one can map out scientifically beyond carbon dating and DNA. Both are interesting documentations of origin and history, but when it comes down to it, who cares? Not me? Interesting for sure, but I don't care if it started fifteen thousand years ago for fifteen minutes. If it can change the outlook at my dad, you could get a hold of anyone. The joy I and my family received from my four legged friend as the lady down the road calling is beyond my understanding. My question at the beginning was how and why does an animal get to play such an important role in our lives. There's so many things to look at, and there are folks out there that have dogs that can't hunt, lick, and they love them just the same as I do. Mine coincidence, I don't think so them. It is my strong belief that the dogs are a gift from Heaven that love us unconditionally, and they're here to sudden example. We're supposed to be unconditional. Love is a chore, something we as humans have to work on every day. I know my wife loves me beyond measure. I also know there are times when she probably wonders why something to be said for love and devotion and a living, breathing example of each as a dog expends his whole life just waiting for you to come home. Thank y'all so much for listening. Clay and I appreciate each and every one of you who do, and invite you to share it with someone that you might think would enjoy it as well. Leaving reviews helps get our shows in front of others who might like them, and I think those of you taking the time to drop a few lines it really makes a difference. Don't forget if you've got a good story to share about hunting, fishing, dogs outdoors are just good old country living or city living for that matter, send them in to me at my tcl story for meadeater dot com until next week. This is Brent Reeves signing off. Y'all be careful.

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