When the moon is full and we humans can see in the dark as if it were mid-day, critters don’t like to venture out. But give them the darkest, moonless night and they go out in full force like shoppers on Black Friday. That’s the kind of night Walzie always dragged me out coon hunting.
He parked his black Ford pickup high on a hill behind a thick fencerow. We strapped on our hatlights and let the dogs loose from their kennel in the truck bed. There were two: Boss and Nig. Boss was Walzie’s pride and joy. He was a registered redbone coonhound with a reputation like Elliot Ness (he always got his man, uh … raccoon). Nig was a cur dog, part Rottie and part black and tan coonhound. She was the best kill-dog around. Together they were joined at the hip, just like Walzie and me.
We crossed through the fencerow and emerged in a cornfield. The dark was so heavy that without our lights, we couldn’t see our fingers in front of our face. Way off in the distance, we heard Boss’ choppy bark that said, “coon treed”. That’s when to run.
Ever try to run through a bouncing light beam? Not easy. Stumbling over corn stubbles, my short legs danced a Tango toward the sound of the hounds. Naturally, Walzie’s long-legged gait always left me in the dust. Tell you what. At least I was in shape back then. I should be out there right now pounding the fields … nah shucks, it hurts too much. Anyway, grandmothers are supposed to be fluffy. Sorry, I digressed a bit there.
Deep into the woods we traipsed. Finally, we reached the dogs. They were jumping at the tree, barking excitedly. I looked up and there in my lightbeam shined four yellow eyes. This would be a $100 night. I shut my eyes as the gun fired. (I’m not quite the toughie that I let on.) One coon dropped at my feet. Both dogs jumped on it and Walzie had to wrestle it away. He quickly finished it off and put its pelt in my backpack. Raccoon number two was still snarling up in the tree.
“Keep your light on ‘em,” Walzie ordered. I held steady despite the tickle in my nose; he aimed.
“Ah-ah-ah-choo!”
The lightbeam bounced onto the ground just as the gun pinged. Well, there’s nothing meaner than a wounded raccoon … unless it’s Walzie who has just missed a perfect shot. The coon leaped through the air straight at me. Suddenly, Nig was airborn. With one crunch of her powerful Rottie jaws, another fifty dollars lay at our feet.
“Well, are we ready to call it a night?” Walzie asked.
“Yep, let’s go.”
He whistled for the dogs and started to travel deeper into the woods.
“Hey,” I stopped him. “The truck is that way.”
“No, it’s this way,” he insisted.
“Sorry, buddy-boy, I know direction and it’s that way,” I argued.
“You’re not so smart. I’ve known these woods since I was a kid. Don’t tell me I’m wrong.” Walzie was getting angry.
“Look at the Big Dipper,” I pointed. “The truck is that way.”
He was bent on proving me wrong, so we went the way I said.
We walked for quite some time; I was getting a little worried. What if I was wrong? I’ll not be able to live peacefully with this man.
Suddenly, Walzie glanced up and caught a pair of yellow eyes in the trees ahead of us. Seeing more dollar signs, he pulled up and fired the rifle. The eyes didn’t move. He shot again. Didn’t even blink.
“You missed,” I offered innocently.
“I never miss,” he spat back.
He shot a third time. The yellow eyes just stared at us from the fencerow up the hill. I felt something wasn’t quite right as we approached the treeline. Suddenly, our lights fell upon a black pickup truck. In the yellow side reflector were three bullet holes.
I grinned at Walzie, “Let’s see you skin that one, Killer.”
Guess what? That old 1977 Ford still sits in our garage, proudly brandishing her scars from that night, and ol’ Walzie has never again questioned my sense of direction.
