Coon

Coon: (n) a raccoon

The only dog I’ve had in my adult life I picked up as a rescue and selected him because he was sitting quietly in the corner, not barking and biting at the other dogs around him.

Little did I know that the reason he was so contemplative was that he was very sick and dying. I spent the first two nights with him sitting on my shoulder, petting him and praying for him. (Some people would think it’s stupid to pray for dogs, but I have a similar humorous reaction to the term “vegan.”)funny wisdom on words that begin with a C
He was advertised as a “beagle mix.”

Much mix.

But one fellow saw him as I was walking him through the park and asked if he could purchase the animal—because he was very interested in owning a “coon dog.”

I was confused. The gentleman explained that what I had was an animal which had so much hound in him that the breeding would show up under certain circumstances in the pursuit of small wildlife.

I just shook my head in disbelief.

He asked permission to take the leash, and he walked my dog toward a small rabbit which was running around in the grass. My mutt stopped, froze like a statue, lifted his nose and stared at the little rabbit like he was offering it for consideration.

The man turned to me and said, “You see? What you got here is a coon hound.”

I laughed and replied, “Looks to me like he’s more of a pointer.”


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Beagle

Beagle: (n) a small sturdy hound with a coat of medium length, bred especially for hunting.Dictionary B

Shall we discuss the word “rescue?”

For you see, when people tell me that I should get all my pets from “Rescues,” I must remind myself that these creatures have been salvaged from dire straits.

Therefore, since they do possess a brain, they just might have memories of being dangled over the flames of hell.

So when my young son wanted to get a dog, we went to the local Rescue, stepped behind the desk where they keep all the animals in cages, and were suddenly confronted with a collage of confused, frustrated, angry and sometimes even half-starved dogs crawling over one another to gain favor of this most recent human entering the room.

I suggested to my son that he pick one in the corner, who was not quite so survival-minded and seemed to have a sweeter temperament. Unfortunately, we found out that the reason this particular pooch was so silent ended up being that he was near death’s door.

But we nursed him back to health.

He really was a mutt, but the breed he most closely resembled was a beagle. We were pretty sure he would never get too large–except the other unknown portions of him did not know he was supposed to remain small.

So we ended up with a midsized dog who obviously had some brain damage from the trauma he had experienced, and therefore was a little cranky with strangers, while also picking up the personality and goofiness of our clan.

Even to this day, if you mention his name, there will be a split vote in the family on whether he was Snoopy or the Hound of Hell.

He didn’t care.

He had opinions on everything, similar to an old man at a Chinese buffet. But in his own way, he lived a full life of sixteen years before wandering away and apparently forgetting where he left his keys.

One of my favorite memories of that unique creation was his “hidden hound.” Even though I think he aspired to be a full beagle, if you began to howl like you were wailing at the moon, in no time at all, he would join you with a most baleful rendition.

He fought it.

He tried to pretend he didn’t understand, but always ended up with a bit of Southern heritage, barking at the air.

The dog’s name was Madez, and in honor of him, I will place this essay under the title of…”Beagle.”

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