In the mid 1970s I hunted with my buddy George. George had been badly burned in a fire where he worked. George had an fairly good coon hound. One night the dog was killed on a back woods road as we hunted.
George wanted me to find him a good pup we could train. I checked with all the breeders I could and with all the coon hunters I knew. I was ready to give up. One night George called me and said he just bought a old coon hound for $20.00. Could we hunt him that night.
When I got to Georges house, he was leading a yellow colored hound toward my truck. This was one old beat up hound. His ears were torn and scared. His face looked like old scare face. He seemed to be strong and moved well. On the way to the woods George told me the dog was deaf and could not hear a thing. We could only get him at the tree that he was tree on. We could not call him cause he could not hear us.
We turned him loose in a corn field and the old guy did a great job with the track and tree.
We found out later not to let him loose again until we moved to a new place. If you did the next coon treed may be miles away. One time we turned him loose at a cornfield. He was just off the chain when I found a hot cigar butt on the road. I told George than someone had just left this spot.
George drank beer a lot to ease the pain from his burns. He could get mad at the world at the drop of a hat. He carried a 6 inch barrel 357 Mag revolver. That night Yellow took forever to check the corn field. After an hour we heard him coming our way. The old dog stepped unto the gravel road, looked at us and headed the other way. We both tried to call him, but he just kept going. George chased him for a few steps. Out came the big 357 mag. George shot all six shots. The gravel hit the old hound from back to front. Not one shot found its mark, The old dog just froze in his tracks. George just walked up and put the chain on him.
George held on to that hound and cried. Findly he brought the dog to the truck. They got in the front seat. From then on we always rode in the front of the old Chevy truck. That was one big hound and had bad breath. What could I say I was just an on looker.
We hunted for years after and when the old hound was out you could wisper his name and lookout. He would run over you to get to the truck. George was amazed that the old hound could now hear. I just smiled when he would try to figger it out. I tried to tell him the shooting did it.