Life Imitates Walt Disney

LIFE IMITATES WALT DISNEY

By

Sam Foster

My wife’s parents lived in Wilson, Louisiana.  Wilson is on the east side of the Mississippi, north of Baton Rouge and 13 miles south of the Mississippi State Line.  The town was so small it didn’t have a pay phone.  But you could use the phone at the general store if you wanted to make a local call and you were white.

Robin, my wife, had a cousin named Brad.  Brad was a local football hero.  He had played for Ol’ Miss’ and was drafted low by the Green Bay Packers.  In both 1969 and 1970, he went to camp and played the pre-season, but was cut in the last round when Green Bay needed to get down to the required 40-man limit.

Brad decided professional football had given up on him and     came back to Baton Rouge.  Armed with nothing more than a   reputation for athletic prowess and his good name, Brad talked  a      local  bank  into  loaning  him  the  money  to  open   a   gym.   They  did  

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it conditioned upon Brad’s ability to get deposits from 100 people to join the gym.  He got the names and deposits within two weeks.

So Brad retired to the status of aging local legend and gym owner. It was a perfect spot for Brad because his real reason for living was to hunt and fish. Brad was the guy that the Louisiana State Legislature was thinking of when they picked “Sportsman’s Paradise” for the motto on their license plates.

On my first visit to Robin’s folks place, I commented that I’d always wanted to go ‘coon hunting. One call from Robin to Brad and it was arranged.

About 6:30 p.m., two pick-ups came bouncing up the driveway. The lead truck contained two dirty, grease-stained, tobacco-spitting and scowling locals. They were Brad’s ‘coon huntin’ buddies. One was tall and skinny and plain and laconic. His name was Hal. What Hal did for a living, how he knew Brad, or how he’d come to be invited, I never did find out. In fact, I don’t think I ever found out anything about Hal, except his name.

Hal’s companion was Buzz. Buzz was Hal’s opposite in a lot of ways. Buzz was most of a head shorter than Hal, but outweighed him by 60 or 70 pounds. Buzz was one of those men with no ass and a huge belly. His only method of keeping his pants up was with 2-inch wide suspenders that ran like railroad tracks across his shoulders and chest and disappeared underneath his belly. Buzz was as loud as Hal was laconic, and he was as profane as he was loud. If you didn’t take him too seriously, he was a major character, and hilarious.

Behind  Buzz’s  pick-up,  he towed a horse trailer.   The horse trailer   contained   a  mule.    The   presence  of  the  mule  confused  me

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at first, but as soon as the hunt started, the mule’s function became obvious. Buzz was not a man to spend the night chasing after a pack of dogs  − on foot.

In the bed of Buzz’s pick-up were four wire kennels and they contained the best thing yet. Each kennel contained one long-legged, floppy-eared, speckled Catahoula hound. These dogs were just like they were supposed to be - sweet, ungainly, endearing, and very excited. And, they sang. They sang so sweetly, they enchanted everyone - - even Buzz.

Queeny was the #1 dog, and Buzz’s most precious treasure.      “The best damn dog in East Feliciana Parish!” There were also two  other dogs of lesser distinction and a yearling being taken along to  learn.

After introductions and a proper, “pleased ta meetyamam,” to Mrs. Fitzgerald and Robin, and assurances from Brad that, “I won’t let no gators eat ‘em,” we were off. Brad and I got into his truck, the little convoy hung a U-turn on the front lawn and we left.

Our destination was a stand of four or five very old and massive oak trees in the middle of a pasture about a 1-1/2 miles down a farm road, off a county road running east off of Louisiana State 19 between Wilson and Centreville, Mississippi. By the time we got there, it was almost dark. We stood around the trucks smoking and eating sack lunches for an hour waiting for full dark. Buzz finally judged it was time and got Jenny, his mule, out of the horse trailer. After she was saddled and bridled, Brad and Hal got the dogs. Except for Queeny. Buzz got Queeny.

The dogs were all strapped to long sturdy leather leashes, and    held by Hal.   They were very excited and   anxious − all   barking and

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yipping and pulling in different directions. They’d sniff the ground and bark and lunge against the leash. Hal handled them with surprisingly little effort. Not that his handling met with approval from Buzz. Buzz would curse and spit and damn Hal’s handling of the dogs, and the dogs behavior. It was hard to tell which was more excited, Buzz or the pack of dogs.

After a few minutes, one of the dogs sniffed a track and barked in a deeper, more guttural way. Queeny muscled over to smell the same track and confirmed the other dogs call with a similar one of her own.

Buzz commanded, “That’s it Hal, let the fuckin’ dogs go! They got the track of one of them sumbitches.   Let’s get ‘em.”

Hal unclipped all four dogs and they were off. Ears flapping in the moonlight and baying. What a sound. It was atavistic and the cord it struct in me was so primitive; it both frightened me and impelled me toward it.   The hunt was on.

Hal coiled and carried the leashes, Buzz mounted Jenny, Brad grabbed a scope-mounted, 22-caliber carbine from the truck, and we were off. We didn’t run to keep up, we just walked toward the sound of the dogs. It was a brisk walk. Our attempt wasn’t to keep up with them, just to keep them within ear shot. That was easy enough since the sound the dogs were making could be heard in heaven and hell.

As we followed the sound, I asked Brad about the hunt. Specifically, I asked him about the gun. Why was he the only  one  with a gun? What was a dead raccoon good for? Was there any use              for the meat? Brad told me the meat was pretty close                              to worthless.   “Coons  have  musk glands  that   make   the   meat    taste

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bad, and that musk taste is stronger at particular times of the year. Now it is especially strong.” He also said, “We shot the ‘coon to give the dogs a reward, and tonight particularly to reward and reinforce the pup.”

I told Brad that I was very pleased and excited for the hunt, but I was pleased for the treeing and they sure didn’t have to shoot the ‘coon on my account. Brad stopped walking and paused long enough to look right at me when he spoke. He said, “Sam, it’s O.K. for you to say that to me, but I’d sure prefer that Hal or Buzz didn’t hear you.” That was the last I said about letting the ‘coon “off the hook.”

Shortly thereafter, the sound  from the dogs changed − dramatically. It became louder, more excited and higher in pitch. Even I noticed the change immediately.

Buzz snorted, “That’s it! They got the bastard. Queeny don’t lie. They got him now.”

And we stopped walking and started to jog. As best I could tell, the dogs were about a 1/2-mile away. We were still in open country, but there was a wood lot at the end of the field we were crossing. The baying sounded like the dogs had the ‘coon treed in that wood lot. As we reached the end of the field, the moonlight revealed a fence. This was the first fence we’d seen since we left the trucks. It was 3-strand barbed wire, in good repair and with no break, gate or sty in sight.

The fence wasn’t a problem for Hal or Brad or me. We just  crawled under or climbed over as we preferred. But for Buzz and    Jenny it was a big problem. Buzz might be able to get over.        However  he  did  it, you  knew  he  was  going  to  get  scraped  up a bit.

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Jenny didn’t look like a jumper, and she wasn’t. And while Buzz was not above cursing the “dumb ass, inconsiderate sumbitch,” who failed to put a gate in this piece of fence, I didn’t think he was willing or prepared to cut the fence.

I was surprised to find that Hal and Brad didn’t bother about it overmuch. We left Buzz swearing in the moonlight about the farmer who didn’t put in a gate, the hunting partners who were leaving him and the mule that didn’t jump. And leave him we did.

The dogs were louder and close at hand, but while crossing a cultivated field in the moonlight had been easy enough, the wood lot proved more difficult. That was particularly so since this wood lot was mostly small cypress growing close together. Visibility was limited to the distance of the next tree. We were constantly faced with the decision of whether to go around the tree, in front, on the left, or the right. It was impossible to keep a straight line. My companions were no longer visible. The only guide was the baying of the dogs, but that was as sure as a fog horn.

And then, there they were. All four dogs, and Hal and Brad moving around a large cypress. It was far larger than the other trees and stood in a small clearing. The tree was 25 or 30-feet tall, and the dogs said the ‘coon was up there. Up there, but where?

The method of finding the ‘coon was for the hunters to shine a seal beam or multi-battery flashlights up into the tree to locate the animal. While the ‘coon’s silhouette may not show, its eyes would. In the dark, the flashlight beam will penetrate the cornea and cause the blood-red of the retina to shine back down the length of the beam. If the ‘coon will cooperate and look into the beam.

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This method works pretty well, if the ‘coon goes up a maple tree, or an oak, or an elm, or any of the other species of massive deciduous trees native to East Feliciana Parish. But it doesn’t work so well if the ‘coon picks a cypress. If the hunter stands back from the tree, his light won’t penetrate the dense evergreen foliage on the trees outer edge. If the hunter stands in close to the trunk of the tree and shines his beam directly upward, the branches are so small and dense that the beam won’t penetrate to the top of the tree. So, unless the raccoon’s curiosity overcomes his fear and he decides to come down low or out to the edge of the tree for a better look, the method doesn’t work so well in a cypress.

Brad explained the only alternative available short of cutting down the tree: “I guess someone is going to have to go up there and shake him out.” And then he just looked at me. I also noticed that Hal was looking at me. I looked intently at the tree and thought, “Do they really expect me to climb that tree? There aren’t even branches big enough to support my weight up most of that tree. What’s more, the branches are close enough together that I doubt I could get between them, even if I could find any big enough to stand on. And even if I can climb it, the ‘coon is not going to be in the bottom of the tree. He’s gonna’ be about as high up there as he can get, someplace that will barely hold his weight, much less mine. And even if I could get to him, what do I do, just hold the light on him so Brad can shoot him out of the tree? Is Brad a good shot? In the dark? This sounds like a very bad idea. But, I was the one who asked them to set this up.   Jesus!”

“Awright you fuckers, where’s the fuckin’ ‘coon? Haven’t you    got him down yet? Shit, you haven’t even found him yet? You are        all  fuckin’  useless.    Hal,   give   me  that  fuckin’  lamp.   Queeny says

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he’s here. She’s still sayin’ he’s here. That dog don’t lie. Now give me that fuckin’ light!”

Buzz. Rescued by Buzz. I was downright grateful that he’d appeared. The yoke of his flannel shirt was ripped in that “tears down two sides of a square” way that only barbed wire produces, and he was without Jenny. His temper seemed even viler than when we’d left him, but his arrival saved me, for a moment, from admitting publicly that there was no way I was going up that tree. I was grateful and relieved to see him.

Over the next 15 minutes, the hunters and the dogs slowly ran out of ideas and angles for finding the ‘coon, and even certainty that he was up the tree. Not that Buzz ever exactly gave up on Queeny’s ability. In fact, he defended her to the last. But, he did let himself be talked into agreeing that if the ‘coon were up there, he was too damn smart to show himself. And, the idea of someone going up there after him never came up again. So, Hal finally unrolled the leashes and dragged the dogs away from the tree.

As we left the little clearing, I saw Brad look at me with what I took for a smile. I thought that smile said, “the idea of me going up that tree was a little joke of his and Hal’s.” But I wasn’t sure, in the moonlight, what that look said?

The dogs protested as we left the tree. They strained against the leashes, and hung their heads back, and they bayed and yipped. But, even they didn’t seem to protest too hard. Was there a ‘coon up that tree? Had he gone up there and found some way out? Had the dogs been wrong all along? Well, we weren’t going to find out, so it was time to try again.

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We didn’t go the way we’d come. Buzz just left Jenny tied to the fence and nothing more was said about her. We worked our way through the wood lot and out to the cultivated field beyond. Once there, we stopped for a brief rest, and a smoke and then started all over. Hal led the dogs, still on their leashes across the new field. Again, they sniffed the ground and barked and lunged at the leashes. Again, they picked up a scent and Buzz ordered their release. And, again, we followed, but this time at a little slower pace to allow Buzz to keep up. As we followed the sound, there wasn’t much conversation. Mostly, I think, we all just listened to that beautiful and compelling sound the dogs were making. I don’t know what song the Sirens sang to Odysseus, but I’ll bet it had a chorus or two of Catahoula hound.

Again, the hunt led us across the cultivated field, but this time instead of a wood lot, we found ourselves in a bottom area that grew a very coarse and tall reed. We were using our arms to spread the reeds to allow our passage. All of us, that was except Brad. He had the carbine extended from his hand like a staff and was using that to part the reeds.

Just then, the dogs tone changed again, and though I’d only heard them make that sound once before, I immediately recognized the distinctive baying sound that announces to anyone within ear shot, “I’ve treed the varmint. I’ll hold him for you, but hurry on up here and get him out of this tree for me.” And, again, we started to jog. At least, all of us but Buzz. I fell right in behind Brad. He cleared a path with the carbine for both of us.

As soon as we rose up out of the bottom area, we were    surrounded by magnificent oak trees, and the baying was close in     front of us. Brad swung his light toward the sound and all four          dogs   were   caught   in  its  beam.   Queeny  was  standing  on  her  hind

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legs with her forepaws balancing her against the trunk of an oak. The oak was at least 5-feet in diameter, and rose straight for 10 or 12-feet to its first “Y”. Queeny jumped up and down against its base with the two other adult dogs doing the same dance on either side of her. The pup was behind them running 2 or 3 steps at a time to either side and doing its best to imitate the bay of the adults.

Brad swung the beam up to look for the ‘coon. I expected to see it immediately, clearly silhouetted along the top of one of the large limbs of the tree. I didn’t. Brad swept his light over the entire tree, limb by limb. When the ‘coon wasn’t immediately visible, he started to circle the tree. As he did, Hal arrived and swung his beam up also, and the two of them methodically searched. Each shadow was cause for penetrating investigation by the beam.

Buzz huffed up and said, “This one’s a smart old flicker. He’s got his eyes covered.” I didn’t understand and said so.  So Buzz explained, “They know it’s the gleam of their eyes that gives them away, so the little fuckers cover up.” I thought that displaying a bit

more cognitive process than animals were capable of, and said so.  Buzz put it clearly, “What the fuck do you know about it?”

Just then, Hal said about the first thing he’d said all night. Very slowly and clearly Hal said, “There he is.” And, 1 looked up just in time to prove Buzz’s point. The ‘coon, sitting on his hind quarters on a limb about 15-feet up the tree slowly dropped both  his forepaws down from his eyes, and his retinas glowed blood red in Hal’s beam.

We all just stared. Four men and four dogs stared at the ‘coon and the ‘coon stared back.  Buzz  finally  broke  the silence when he

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said to Brad, Well, you gonna’ shoot the little fucker or not?” And then, as though to answer his own question, Buzz said, “You probably ain’t. You and that fuckin’ telescope. Who ever heard of a fuckin’ scope on a ‘coon gun? You can’t see through a scope in the dark?”

                “Buzz,” said Brad, “if you and Hal can keep a light on that little shit, I can hit him. Don’t worry about me and this scope. I got plenty of light, as long as you can hold it still. Now, take the fuckin’ light and shine it on the God damn ‘coon.”

                Brad handed Buzz his seal beam, walked over to the closest tree, laid his left shoulder into the tree, raised the carbine and took slow and steady aim. When he pulled the trigger, there was a soft, almost gentle “whoosh.” The sound that a small caliber, slow velocity bullet makes when fired. It doesn’t sound frightening or even fearsome. It almost sounds sweet and harmless. But, it’s not harmless if you’re the ‘coon and that sound is made throwing a few grams of lead at you hard enough to penetrate skin and bone and vital organs. This time, none of that happened. What did happen was that the bark on the oak limb just above and behind the ‘coon exploded off the tree. And Buzz exploded into laughter.

                “Asshole! I told you that ‘scope was a piece of shit. if I had somethin’ with iron sites on it, Queeny would be skinning that little shit right now.”

                Brad said nothing. He just leaned back into the tree and,    again, aimed at the ‘coon. This time, when he pulled the trigger,       there was a different sound. Instead of a soft and gentle “whoosh,”   there was the high metallic ping of metal striking metal. A click.         No explosion. No shot. A misfire. And, .for the moment, even          Buzz  had  nothing  to  say.  And  then  Brad  said,   “Aw shit!”  Hal  and

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I  just  stared,  and left  it to Buzz to say,  “So  what  the fuck happened?”

“The clip is gone,” said Brad. “I had one in the chamber. That’s the one I missed with, but now the clip’s gone.”

“What the fuck do you mean gone?” said Buzz.

“Just what I said, Buzz, it’s gone.” And, holding up the carbine so we all could see Brad displayed what he’d said. There was no clip protruding from the belly of the rifle. It was gone. “I must have knocked the damned thing out while I was beating through the reeds along the bottom,” said Brad.

“Well awright asshole, stop crying about your lost clip, and load one into the chamber, and shoot the little shit so we can all go home,” said Buzz.

Brad nodded his head, set the carbine against the tree, and put his hand in his jacket pocket. And then he patted his other jacket pocket. Then he felt in his pants pockets −  all of them. And then he said what we’d all already figured out. “I didn’t bring any more ammo.”

Even Buzz didn’t have anything to say. He just glared at Brad. And, before anyone else could say anything, Brad said, “I’ll run back to the truck and get some.” He grabbed his light back from Buzz and ran out of the grove. Before he was out of sight, Buzz recovered and screamed at Brad’s retreating back. “What the fuck are we supposed to do while you’re gone?” Brad didn’t say anything. He just disappeared into the dark.

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And we stood there. Hal almost never spoke, and I wasn’t about to try to engage Buzz in idle chit-chat now. Buzz did mutter a periodic obscenity, but neither Hal nor I was willing to give him a target for his invectives, so there was no response. The dogs were confused. They stared at the ‘coon, and bayed a bit and every now and again jumped toward the tree, but they were no more used to this than anyone here. Something was supposed to happen now and it wasn’t. The ‘coon was the only thing that seemed at ease. He had settled down on his limb. Sometimes he’d watch us. Sometimes he seemed to snooze. He, like the dogs, expected the next move from the hunters. That was the expected and ancient order of things.   Next move was ours.

But, something changed the ‘coon’s mind. He decided to upset the ancient order of things. Or maybe he decided we, by Brad’s mistake, had upset the ancient order, and so he was free to behave as he wanted. As Buzz had said, “What the fuck did I know about it?” But, at any rate, the ‘coon moved.

The first to notice was Buzz. He said, “The ‘coon’s comin’ down. The fuckin’ ‘coon is comin’ outta the tree.” And sure enough the ‘coon had stood and was walking down the limb to the ‘Y’ in the trunk. “Walk” is not really the right work. He was strolling. Each step included a leisurely stretch as though he’d just awakened from a nap. It certainly wasn’t the stride of a beast about to engage in mortal combat.

And so to again prove what Buzz already knew, that I didn’t know a fuckin’ thing about ‘coon hunts, I said, “No he’s not. He’s just…” I didn’t finish. In mid-sentence, the ‘coon leaped straight out over the dogs.

6~

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When the ‘coon had started to move, the dogs had, again, begun to jump up and down at the bottom of the tree. Aggression being what it is, the most dominant dog, Queeny, was closest to the tree. The two other adults flanked her and the pup was alone at the rear.

When the ‘coon leaped over the dogs, they immediately turned to give chase, so now  −  for a moment −   the pup was in the front of the pack and Queeny at the rear. The ‘coon took advantage. He planned to run, but not yet.

As soon as he landed, the ‘coon turned to face the pack  −   the pup in the lead, and hit the pup with a roundhouse right that laced its nose open and knocked it head-over-tail into the closely following pack. A pack that the pup literally bowled over.

They were up and after the ‘coon in less than 5 seconds, but it was 5 seconds that got the ‘coon down the length of a fallen log, across a path and gone  −    into the dark.

As the ‘coon ran into the dark, Brad ran into the light. Dogs ran by him on both sides and Buzz screamed incoherent obscenities. The chase was on. Brad and I chased the dogs out of the wooded area and, for the first time since he’d abandoned Jenny, Buzz kept pace. Hal had a very scared young hound leashed up and followed along.

We could hear the dogs with their trailing yips and barks. They were moving away from us fast and straight. Straight toward a two-lane black top called Louisiana State Route 19.

Again, Buzz was the first to notice. His announcement came, seasoned  with  the  usual  expletives.      “That  fuckin’  ‘coon’s  headin’

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for the highway. He’s gonna kill my dogs. The fucker’s trying to get my dogs run over!”

The thought of a ‘coon running hound dogs back and forth across a highway hoping they’d get run over was, again, giving the raccoon credit for more cognitive ability than I would have thought reasonable.

But, Buzz had been right every time so far.

Soon we came to the black top and crossed it, just in time to see the dogs loop back across the road about 100-yards ahead of us. The ‘coon was crossing and re-crossing the road. Buzz came unglued. As far as he was concerned,  the  ‘coon  was  now  hunting  the  dogs −  his dogs,   his − Queeny.   It was no fun anymore.   The hunt was over.

There was a little problem telling that to the dogs. They kept hunting no matter how much Buzz called. Hal brought up the leashes. Buzz held the pup. Hal went back for the truck and Brad and I chased dogs.

In the end, Brad got all 3 dogs, and we eventually got them all into the kennels on Buzz’s truck. Someone got Jenny and put her in the trailer. I said, “Thanks and pleased tameetya,” to Buzz and Hal, and Brad took me back to the Fitzgerald’s place.

When I got back to the Fitzgerald’s, no one was waiting up. As I got into bed, Robin awoke and in a very sleepy voice said, “Did you have fun?” and I said,   “Ya, Robin, I had fun.   A lot of fun!”

“The End”