It seems like yesterday. On a frosty morning in early November several years ago, a rusty car slowed on the highway near the end of our gravel lane. A car door quickly opened, and someone chucked a cardboard box out and sped off.  I was plenty mad, but not at all surprised. Many times, when I mowed, I could hear the familiar crunch of a beer bottle as my tractor tire pulverized it into the ground. Long ago I stopped bothering to pick up trash and litter before mowing; inconsiderate people used my field often as their personal dumping ground and I just mowed over it when possible.

I picked up a letter my wife had written and walked out to the mailbox. The cardboard box started bouncing back and forth, and what I assumed was a kitten, stuck its head out. But as I got closer, the box flipped over and two black and white pups bounced out of it. Realizing their newfound freedom, they commenced playing and chasing each other. When I saw the concrete truck coming over the hill and the pups heading toward the highway - I started running. My heart sank when the first ran right in the path of the speeding truck which quickly ended its short life. The second pup ran back toward the ditch and sat there shaking as it looked toward the highway at its dead friend. Another car was coming over the hill, and I dashed in and scooped the trembling little fellow up and held him against my chest.

As I walked back to the house, talking softly to the whimpering pup, I realized I still had my wife’s letter, now crumpled, in my hand. I pondered going back to the mailbox with it but decided to continue to the house. I took the little pup inside and poured it a small bowl of milk. Thank God puppies have short memories. His pink tongue tackled that bowl as if he hadn’t eaten in days, and judging by his well-defined rib bones, that may have been the case. When he made it to the bowl’s bottom, his tongue didn’t stop until it pushed the empty bowl halfway across the room. He finally plopped his round fanny down, licked his lips, and then looked up at me with his dark eyes. I said, “well, did you get enough?” He cocked his head and when I squatted, he trotted toward me, his little stubby tail going a mile-a-minute. I sat and leaned against the wall, and he crawled up in my lap.  The morning sun shone brightly through the kitchen window, warming my legs and the pup, and in just a few minutes he was curled up in my lap and sound asleep. At that moment in time, nothing else in the world seemed to matter - to him or me.

A couple days later, I started looking for a home for him. I already had a kennel full of Black and Tans, and my feed bill was plenty high as it was.

My wife had allergies and keeping him in the house was out of the question. I was afraid to just let him run loose; he might have the same fate as his little friend. I suppose I could have tied him up, but I didn’t really need him, couldn’t spend a lot of time with him, and didn’t think it fair to just let him live his life on a chain. I started asking around at the factory and even put a “free puppy” sign on the bulletin board. Several more days went by, but nobody wanted him. I kept him in the garage where I fashioned a place with a wooden box in the corner for him to sleep and I filled it with straw. When I went out to feed him, we played a while after he finished eating.  I found an old tennis ball in a shoebox and we played fetch. I would bounce it across the room, and he would pause for a second, following the ball’s path, then race toward it, make a couple stiff-legged bounces high in the air and then pounce on it. He’d bring it back to me and drop it at my feet and stand there with his head cocked, waiting for me to throw it again. After several minutes of the game, his retrieves came slower till finally, halfway back to me, he’d veer to the side, the fuzzy ball still in his mouth, and plop down in his box and dose off. I’d wait a minute or so and then slip out the door.

Days went by, then weeks, then months; November turned to December, “Old Man Winter” eventually relinquished his grip, and the bone-chilling cold gave way to the warming of spring. It wasn’t my intention, but I’d become quite attached to the little brown and white dog with the stubby tail. I named him Bosco. Both Bosco and I looked forward to our game of tennis ball fetch. I started letting Bosco out of the garage to play fetch in the back yard. He never left my side, and he went with me when I when I went to the kennels to feed the coon hounds. He even started going for rides with me in the truck.

Bosco seemed to like the company of the Black and Tan coonhounds, and since I had an empty kennel, I decided to make it Bosco’s home.

I had an abundance of coonhounds, too many, in fact, so I decided to sell some. The problem was which one? I loved all my dogs and became attached to them. The first kennel housed my oldest dog, Tarzan. Tarzan was nearly fifteen and now retired. I had raised him from a pup, and selling him was out of the question. He had a home for as long as he drew a breath.

Next to Tarzan was his son, Amos. Selling Amos was not on the docket either. He was around five and was following in his daddy’s footsteps admirably.

Next to Amos was his mother and Tarzan’s ‘wife.’ Dolly was not available, either.

Next to Dolly was Bosco. Next to him was a passel of pups. One poor little pup had a deformed foot, but I didn’t have the heart to put him down. Yes, I was a softy. The remaining six pups would be for sale.

I made up a For Sale sign, let Bosco out of his kennel and walked to my truck with the sign. Bosco followed me and he hopped up in the truck when I opened the door. We drove to the factory where I worked, and I attached the For Sale sign to the fence by the parking lot.

I had a reputation for having some good hunting dogs, and it wasn’t long before I received a phone call.

A man came out to the house. With him was a boy about five or six. He limped along behind his father. I recognized the boy and his father from our annual work picnic.

“Hello Joe and Jimmy,” I cheerfully called out.

“Howdy, Bob! We came to look at the pups you have for sale.”

“Right this way,” I said.

When we walked behind the garage, all the dogs reared up on the kennels, wagging their tails excitedly.

I pointed to the kennel with the pups. “These are for sale.”

Jimmy squatted down and the pup with the deformed foot came up to him and licked his hand.

“I want this one,” Jimmy said excitedly.

I said, “Son, you don’t want that one, he’s crippled.”

Tears filled Jimmy’s eyes and he stood and pulled up his pants’ leg.

“So am I,” Jimmy said as he showed a metal brace that was attached to his frail leg.

” I tell you what,” I said, “If you want that one, I’ll give him to you, no charge.”

Joe said, “Do you think he’ll make a coon dog?”

I replied, “He should. There’s nothing wrong with his nose. He might be a bit slow, but, other than that, he should be fine.”

I cracked the gate and let the little dog out.

He went straight to Jimmy, and he picked him up and held his head against the pup’s. The little dog licked Jimmy’s face

I let Bosco get out of his pen and he ran to Jimmy and reared up and sniffed Jimmy’s new pup and licked him.

“Jimmy,” I said, “What are you going to name your pup?”

Jimmy replied, “I think I’ll call him Free.”

“Why Free, son?” his daddy asked.

“Because he was free and now, he is free, no longer locked up.”

Everybody laughed, and Joe said, “Good idea, he’s your dog so you can name him whatever you want.”

Everyone shook hands. Jimmy turned to me and said, “Thanks, mister for giving me Free.”

“You are certainly welcome, Jimmy. Free couldn’t be going to a better home!”

“Just a minute, Jimmy!”

I walked into the garage and returned with a coon hide.

“Here, take this coon hide and use it to get Free started on tracking coons.”

“When he gets a bit older, tie a rope to it and drag it around your yard and let Free try to track it. When he learns to do that, we’ll take him to the woods and let him try his nose out on a real, live coon.”

Joe and Jimmy thanked me again and returned to their truck and drove off.

“Well, Bosco, I have another coon hide in the garage, would you like to try your nose out?”

Bosco bounced up and down.

Bosco followed me into the garage, and I found the other coon hide. Bosco’s ears went and he tried to grab it.

“Wait here, Bosco!”

I closed the door and took the hide outside. I went to my truck and got a piece of rope and tied it to the coon hide. Then I went to a wooded spot behind the garage and started dragging the hide along the ground. I dragged it in various directions, and when I got about fifty yards away, I threw the rope over a tree limb, rubbed the hide up and down on the tree and pulled it up and tied the end of the rope to a bush.

I waited a few minutes and then let Bosco out. I directed him to where I started the trail. He quickly tracked it up and reared up on the tree that the hide was in and started barking excitedly!

“Good Boy, Bosco!”

Winter was quickly approaching. It was October when I got a call from Joe.

“Hello, Bob. This is Joe. I wanted to tell you that Jimmy’s dog Free has been tracking that coon hide that you gave Jimmy pretty good!”

“That’s great news,” I replied. “Free is following in his momma and daddy’s footsteps! Coon season opens on November the 10^th; let’s take Free to the woods and see what he can do on a live coon.”

Joe said, “I was hoping you’d say that! Jimmy and Free are anxious to

get started!”

“I’ll give you a call when the season-opener gets closer,” I replied.

“Great! I’ll tell Jimmy!”

On November the ninth I called Joe.

“Howdy,” Bob said.

“You and Jimmy ready to go huntin’ this Friday?”

“We sure are! Jimmy has been marking the days off on the calendar,” Joe chuckled.

“I’ll pick y’all up about 6 o’clock. Be sure to wear some rubber boots!”

“We’ll be ready!” Joe said.

On November 10^th I pulled up in front of Joe and Jimmy’s house. They were standing on the front porch. Jimmy had Free on a leash, and they walked to my truck. I opened my dog box, and I told Jimmy to put Free in there. Jimmy looked at me with sad eyes.

“You mean Free can’t ride up front with us?”

“No, Jimmy, if Free is going to be a hunting dog he has to learn to ride in the dogbox.”

“How come?” Jimmy asked.

“Son, the dogs will get muddy feet, and I don’t want to get my seats dirty. Plus, sometimes dogs will get sprayed by a skunk. I guarantee you don’t want them riding up front,” I laughed.

“Bob’s right, son.”

I opened one of the dogbox doors, took the leash from Jimmy.

“Free, load up!” I commanded.

Free wouldn’t budge.

I said, “Joe, let Bosco out of the truck.”

Bosco had ridden in the dogbox before, and when he came around to the back of the truck, I said, “Bosco! Load up!”

Bosco jumped into the box and Free jumped in behind him.

When we arrived at the woods, I let Amos and Free and Bosco out of the dogbox and put GPS tracking collars on them. I unsnapped Amos first and told him, “Hunt ‘em up!” Amos tore out through the woods like a streak! Then I unsnapped Bosco and Free. Both dogs went in the opposite direction. A couple minutes later, I heard Amos let out a thundering bawl. Suddenly, Bosco and Free came tearing past us, heading for Amos!

Suddenly, Amos’s bawls changed to a tree bark!

“Amos has treed! He has the coon! I told Jimmy. “Let’s go!”

Jimmy struggled to keep up as he limped along.

Finally, Joe put Jimmy on his back and carried him to the tree.

When we got there, Amos was up on a huge White Oak tree and barking every breath!

Free and Bosco were next to Amos and barking, too.

I shined my light on the tree and near the top I spotted the yellow eyes of a big, boar coon.

I asked Joe, “You want to shoot him?”

“Ok,” Joe said.

I slid my .22 rifle off my shoulder and handed it to Joe.

Jimmy had gotten down from his dad’s back, and he looked on with eyes that were as big as golf balls!

Joe aimed the rifle and fired!

The big coon rolled out of the tree and hit the ground like a twenty-pound sack of potatoes. But the coon wasn’t dead, only wounded!

All three dogs jumped on that coon who grabbed Free by the throat! Free screamed in pain! Jimmy started crying and he yelled, “He’s gonna kill Free!”

Bosco came to the rescue: He dived in on the coon and the coon released Free and turned on Bosco. But Bosco grabbed the coon by the throat and bit down hard and he shook the coon until he was dead.

On the ride home Jimmy said, “It’s a good thing that Bosco fought that coon because he might have killed Free!”

I said, “You know something, Jimmy, on the box that Bosco was in when I got him, someone had written, “Worthless dogs!”

“I guess they were wrong, don’t you?”

“Yes sir!” Jimmy smiled.