Ain’t Nothing But A Hound Dog

If a picture is worth a thousand words. This one is worth a thousand fence repairs, a thousand apologies to the neighbors for chasing their cats, a thousand holes dug in my garden, a thousand jump-ups to lick my face.
These two Black and Tan Coonhounds — Sweetpea and Elwood — are probably the cutest and naughtiest dogs I have ever encountered. Their eyes scream mischief. The mud on their noses screams trouble.
Where the Red Ferm Grows was one of the most tear-filled books I read to my son when he was younger. And it was the reason behind the newest members of our family. Like Billy, my son needed a pair of coonhound of his own. To nurture and love — and become part of his boyhood.
A few lucky Internet searches turned up a rescue shelter with a litter of puppies that needed homes. It was love at first sight. We needed not one, but two. My son proudly held his puppies on his lap all the way home to our five-acre wonderland, where we already had three children under six and two dogs over six. (What were we thinking?)


These puppies grew and their legs soon doubled, then tripled in length. Perfect for jumping 6-foot fences, which became 10-foot fences with added wire. Perfect for running loose through our woodsy neighborhood to roll in deer poop and scout out skunks, raccoons, and porcupines. The pair returned home, after one adventure, with faces full of porcupine quills. (Removing quills is a story for another time.)
It was never a dull moment with this dynamic duo. My intentions were good, but it wasn’t the boy-and-hound experience I had envisioned.
Elwood and Sweetpea were nurtured and loved and, indeed, were part of my son’s boyhood. They left a footprint of memories, multiplied by eight.
