Contentment or Distraction?

There were four birds upon a line

Watching cattle grazing.

Said the one upon the left,

"Isn't that amazing?

They eat the grass and then lay down

To chew upon their cud.

They have no ambition

And do no kind of good."

Another bird, one of the four,

Said, "That's not the life for me.

I'd rather go exploring

And nest up in a tree."

And still another looked at them

And said, "Traveling is best;

I'm just stopping here awhile

And then I'm headed west.

Being stuck there in one place

With naught to see but grass

Would simply drive me crazy;

On that life, I would pass!"

The fourth looked at the other three

And said, "I love to fly!

Can you imagine life

Not reaching for the sky?"

So, each of them within his turn

Found reason to complain

While they looked down from their perch on high

With comments all in vain.

Along there came a hunter

Looking for the flying dove

Who saw the birds upon the wire

Distracted there above.

He slipped up quietly on them;

When startled, they took wing

But, only a short distance

Before the shots did sing.

The lesson that they might have learned

While looking on the cow

Is that they should have focused

On the simple here and now.

Judging others from on high

Based on what you see

Distracts you from your purpose

When it might be time to flee!

(If you look closely, in the top right portion of the photo are four birds on the wire.  I didn't notice them until I had posted the picture for today.  They sent my mind down the path of this poem.)

Working Together for Conservation

Sometimes as I am searching through photographs for an image to use in a post I come across one that makes me think of something completely unconnected to the particular picture I am viewing.  This is one of those images.  It was taken on our place last November.  I remember it being one of those perfect Fall days and I decided to take a walk.

It was the kind of day that deer hunters love.  I wasn't hunting, just walking and looking.  When I see this photograph, though, I think of quail hunting.  I miss quail hunting.

When I was growing up I always looked forward to the Fall because it was quail hunting season.  We had a number of places on which we were allowed to hunt.  My father was an avid hunter and very enthusiastic about the sport.  I walked many miles alongside him in pursuit of an exploding covey.

My memories of quail hunting include the slight scent of dust from the dry grasses filling my nostrils.  In my mind I can hear the crunch of frosty forage beneath my feet and the swish of the tall plants against my clothes.  I can smell the light oil on the shotgun and the slightly sulfurous whiff from a spent shot.  Most of all, I remember the feel of the tingling nerves in anticipation of the flushing covey coming up, first in ones and twos, then in a sudden rush that filled the air with buzzing wings as the birds raced away.

The quail populations have suffered a general decline over much of the state.  There are very few coveys left in this area.  To me, the photo above represents ideal habitat that needs quail.

Fortunately, state game biologists and ranchers have been working together to help remaining populations recover from whatever caused the decline.  I have heard many theories, but I'm not certain there is a consensus on the cause(s).  On the positive side, however, is the fact that private land owners have worked closely with universities and with state agencies to aid in the recovery.  That's something the public doesn't hear much about -- the private-academic-governmental cooperation.

It makes you proud of your community when you think about it.  I appreciate those ranchers' willingness to work to conserve this precious resource.

Dove Season Eve

I've been trying to come up with a joke that goes with the photograph I took earlier this week in my mother's backyard, but it's not happening.  I keet thinking, "A dove and a starling walk into a bar...." but, that's as far as I get.  Oh, well.

We used to never see Whitewing dove in the Texas Panhandle -- only Mourning dove.  Now, there are Whitewing, White tipped and Ringneck as well as Mourning dove.  The species are spreading and intermingling.  Dove season starts tomorrow for much of the state. 

When I was a kid it seemed that everyone wanted to hunt.  The problem for many was gaining access to properties on which to pursue the high-flying game birds.  Most of the farmers were open and willing to allow hunting as long as you were respectful of their property.  Many saw the birds as a pest that wanted to eat their ripened crops before they could be harvested.

One of my favorite places to hunt was a pecan orchard owned by a neighbor to my grandfather.  The dove would be out in the grain fields during the day but, would come into the orchard late in the afternoon to roost for the night.  It was a large orchard and you never knew where the birds would enter.  The best positions were at the corners so that you could see down two sides of the orchard.

Usually, we would spend some time walking between the rows of trees hoping to flush the birds.  It was a challenge to hit them in the brief moment it took for them to cross the narrow open space between the trees.  We tried our best not to shoot into the pecan trees themselves because it would knock the ripening nuts from the trees.  Occasionally a few leaves fell victim.

Where we live now is very different hunting than the open plains where I grew up.  Here, there are trees everywhere.  Fortunately, dove season starts at the end of what is usually the dry season so there is opportunity to hunt near water where the dove will come in for a drink.  To many that seems unsportsmanlike, but let me tell you, those birds are still flying up to 70 miles per hour and are great at using "cover" on their approach.  They will come "out-of-the-sun" or, from behind a line of trees.  They may be low or, they may be high.  They could give the best fighter pilots a few lessons on how to utilize land forms and natural structure for camouflage.

I laughed to myself in the middle of the night, this last day before season opens.  The reason?  It was raining.  It is still raining.  There will be water everywhere and the dove won't have to come into a water tank, or stock pond for a drink.  They will find it in many places.

It has been dry in much of the Texas Panhandle where Mom lives.  She commented that she didn't know why the birds were coming to the bird bath since she never put water in it.  I suggested it might catch some water from her sprinkler system that waters the yard.  Sure enough, the starling soon began to "take a bath" in the water as the dove looked on.  Maybe that's the joke:

A dove and a starling walk into a bar for a drink.  The starling immediately dives in and is having a good old time while the dove looks on.  The starling says, "Why aren't you enjoying yourself?  You not only can drink it, but you can splash around and cool off too!"  The dove says, "I'm waiting to see if you get shot first."

Okay, it wasn't much of a joke anyway....

Hunting the Draw

Grandma and Grandpa's house sat on a hill overlooking Runningwater Draw.  Across the dirt road which ran along the south side of their place was what I knew as the Wylie pasture.  It was owned by some people who lived in Plainview that I never met, or even saw, to my knowledge.

At various times Grandpa would lease the Wylie pasture for grazing cattle.  For me it was special because it was the first place I got to hunt by myself.

My brother and I had Beagle/Bassett cross puppies that we got from Smitty, the Sheriff who lived just down the road from us on the edge of town.  (I've mentioned him previously in the episode of riding his sheep.)  We called them Daisy and Cleo -- mine being Daisy.  It wasn't long before it was decided that Daisy and Cleo would live out on the farm with my grandparents.

When I was old enough to carry a gun and hunt on my own I persistently begged to be allowed to go hunting.  That finally occurred as long as I always took Daisy with me and stayed in the Wylie pasture.

The thing about that pasture is that Mom could see me from my grandparents house -- no matter where I went, I was in view.  I could walk from the old wooden bridge which was about 1/2 mile west of the house, all along the draw to the southeast and then up the east fenceline and end up back at the house and never be out of view.

Daisy was a requirement because she would find any rattlesnakes before I did.  She was bitten at least once that I recall although not when I was with her.

I would climb through the fence by the mailbox and head off down one of the washes toward the draw.  Sometimes I would detour by a depression in one of the hills which overlooked the draw to see if I could spot a rattlesnake.  That depression was all that remained of an old dugout that had been located there in the early years of settlement of the area.  It probably was a line shack for the old Slaughter Ranch that once occupied that land.

Sometimes I would jump a jackrabbit or cottontail.  Daisy would always give chase and her deep baying voice was a joy to hear.  Maybe she is the reason I have always been partial to hounds.  Once, I shot a running jackrabbit just in front of her (purely by luck).  It went cartwheeling to a stop and she pounced on it.  It was the only time she ever caught up to one of the rabbits with her short legs.  The episode almost ruined her as a rabbit dog since from that time on, she would only give chase a short distance before stopping to look at me like, "Well, aren't you going to shoot it?"

On the south side of the draw was a wash that came from the general direction of the Aigaki place which sat up on the hill opposite my grandparents.  That wash was filled with junk and trash which had accumulated over many years.  Dumping trash in eroded washes was common in those days as it was thought to stop erosion, which it did.  It just wasn't the best thing for the environment.

I used to enjoy exploring that old wash filled with trash.  It was a good place to jump a rabbit or, possibly a small covey of quail.  In later years, after pheasant had moved into the area, it became one of the best places to jump a pheasant.

Between where that wash entered the draw and the bridge to the west was a stretch of willow trees.  They lined an old waterhole.  In the earlier years of settlement there was probably a spring where they stood.  Due to irrigation lowering the water table, there were no longer any springs along the draw in my lifetime, but the willows still stood.  I jumped lots of quail among those old willows.

Those were good times -- just me, my dog and a rifle alone in the pasture.  My imagination would carry me to worlds of pioneer explorers as I traipsed up and down that draw.

I still enjoy taking a walk alone with a rifle in hand to see what I might see.  I rarely fire it, but it is a habit long established.  In fact, just yesterday, I took a walk through the woods to the back side of our place where I sat down and just enjoyed watching the show of fall colors and birds flitting from tree to shrub to weed.  It was a beautiful day.  This was my view as I sat and enjoyed the fading day:

Recalling Past Thanksgiving Holidays

As we approach the Thanksgiving holiday and traditional family gatherings,  I am reminded of past Thanksgivings.  I remember that for many years, Grandpa, along with Johnny Hodges and J Cowart, would go to Sonora to hunt deer during the Thanksgiving break.  They had a deer lease on Phil Jacoby's ranch near there.  If I recall correctly, they would leave on the Friday before and return on Wednesday so they could be with their families on Thanksgiving Day.

I remember Grandpa used to have deer antlers mounted on the side of the shop in his barn.  There was a period of time when he even had a hide tacked up to dry.  It eventually ruined because no one ever took the next steps to finish the hide either as raw hide, or tanned hide.  He would hang his bridles and other small tack from the deer antlers.

Ropes were a different thing.  He never hung his ropes, but kept them rolled up and stored in old metal sodium chlorate cans.  The cans were water tight and the perfect size and shape to store several ropes.  For those who don't know, sodium chlorate was a chemical used to kill Johnson Grass.  At that time and place, it was the only chemical of which I am aware that would kill Johnson Grass.  Of course, it also killed the ground and nothing would grow in the place where it had been applied for several years.

Sometimes Grandpa would bring home a turkey that he had shot while hunting deer.  There were also a few Gobbler beards hanging on that shop wall.  The wild turkeys were never as good to eat as the store bought ones.  They tended to be tougher and occasionally would contain a piece of shot left over from the means of their demise.  Grandma would cook them though.  Wasting good meat was never an option.

There were times Grandpa came home empty handed from those hunts, but they were rare.  He always said it was more about the trip and the time with Johnny and J.  I can understand that.

Deer Hunting Season

Tomorrow is opening day of deer season in this part of the world.  I am thinking about heading out early in the morning to see what I might see.  I don't know that I would harvest one if I did have the opportunity, but I am thinking about it.

Growing up in the Panhandle/South Plains area of Texas, I didn't have a chance to go deer hunting while growing up.  In this part of the state, kids are hunting deer before they are out of diapers -- almost anyway.  It is part of the DNA of most of the folks around here.  My desires to hunt were centered on game birds -- quail and pheasant.

Grandpa used to go deer hunting every year.  He and a couple of others had a deer lease at Sonora on Phil Jacoby's ranch.  When Grandpa sold the ranch at Muleshoe, the new owners didn't want the old trailer house that was on it, so Grandpa moved it down to the deer lease as a hunting cabin.  I'm sure it made a good one.

I never had the opportunity to hunt deer until sometime in the mid 90's when we were living in Justin, Texas.  A friend of ours had a hunting lease on a ranch near Bowie that was in the TPWD's Managed Deer program.  In January of whatever year it was, they determined the ranch had too many does and needed a fairly large number of them to be harvested.  Our friend asked me along with another individual to come and harvest one apiece.  He let me borrow one of his deer rifles and I was successful.  Frankly, it was purely a harvest because there was no hunting involved.  One shot and I was done.

Since we moved to Northeast Texas I have gone out hunting a time or two on our land.  I haven't shot anything, nor have I shot at anything -- deer that is.  I enjoy the hunt though.  Perhaps that's what I enjoyed about hunting birds as a kid -- the hunt.  It was a matter of pitting your wits and stamina against the game.  It was a challenge.

Most deer hunting is not really hunting, but it is a necessary harvest of excess animals.  Otherwise, the animals would overpopulate due to lack of predators and many would die of disease or, starvation.  If hunting/harvesting is conducted appropriately it is a crucial part of managing wildlife that helps it to flourish and be available for everyone's enjoyment.

My First Quail Hunt and a Rattler

The ranch at Muleshoe was a great place to go hunting.  As we enter November I am reminded of quail hunting there.  Since the ranch was mostly in Bermuda grass, the only places to hunt were on a couple of the corners that had not been leveled and under irrigation -- and the neighboring ranches.

The ranch was situated in the sandhills to the southeast of town and south of U.S. 84.  In the summer it was an oasis of green surrounded by sand hills covered in sage, skunk brush and other plants common to the environment.  The surrounding ranches were large -- one in particular covered many square miles of land.  They were havens for wildlife and the windmills situated periodically to provide water for cattle, also drew deer, dove and quail.

We had permission to hunt on Melvin Berry's land which adjoined Grandpa's place.  It was the first place I was allowed to go quail hunting with the men and to carry a shotgun.  It was likely at the age of 8 or 9.  When I was 8 my father first allowed me to hunt on a very limited and highly supervised basis.  I carried my mother's old .410 shotgun.  To the best of my recollection, I was carrying that .410 to hunt quail.  For those of you who have shot a .410, you will know that it is not the ideal quail gun.  The pattern is small and tight and the reach is fairly short.  It takes a highly skilled shooter to be successful with it.  I was not highly skilled at that age, but the difficulties it posed may have aided me through the years as I obtained shotguns of my own that were better designed for the sport.

It was early in quail season of whatever year it was when I participated in that hunt.  We spread out in a reasonably even line with a fair amount of distance between us and began to walk across the pasture.  My short legs made it difficult to keep up with the longer steps of the older men.  I was probably more focused on staying in line with them as we moved across the pasture than I was on spotting quail that would hopefully fly up in front of me.

As I struggled through the sand and sage and skunk brush I was surprised by a prairie rattler that decided to warn me of his presence.  I quickly raised my shotgun and proceeded to obliterate its head.  My dad quickly walked over to see what was going on and saw the dead snake lying there and joked that it probably wasn't much of a threat at that distance to me.  He asked me how I saw it and I told him it was rattling.  He again made light of it and said I must have just heard it rattling leaves as it squirmed through the undergrowth on that warm, early November day.  He was surprised that it was out, but apparently the warmth had drawn it from its den.

He had me take out my pocket knife and remove the rattles from its tail.  I probably still have them in a small medicine bottle stuffed with cotton balls.  I would be hard pressed, though, to lay my hands on it very quickly.

Just a few short years ago, we were cleaning out my grandfather's barn after his death and getting his farm ready to sell.  There was a shop in the front corner that had a pile of scrap iron piled in the corner at the end of the work bench.  Throughout my life I had known there was at least one rattlesnake living in that junk pile.  As we were cleaning out the shop I warned everyone to be aware of the possibility and so took on the task of pulling that pile of scrap metal out, piece by piece, and tossing it out the door to be loaded into the front end loader of the tractor we were using.

After awhile, the bucket was full and my uncle tried to get the tractor to start and it wouldn't.  He climbed down and commented about his difficulty and I said, "Let me try it.  It has a trick to it."

I quickly started it and was about to climb off when he said for me to just go ahead and dump it into the trailer and bring it back for more.  In the mean time, he went into the shop and proceeded to take my place removing metal scraps from the pile in the corner.

When I returned to the barn with the tractor, my dad was headed to the pickup for a pistol and my uncle was "squealing like a girl" that there was a rattlesnake in the corner of the shop.  I just laughed at them and looked in to where, sure enough, there was a prairie rattler coiled in the corner and rattling to beat the band.  It was barely visible behind the scraps of steel which partially obscured it.

Dad walked in about that time with the pistol and stood just inside the door, over 20 feet away from the snake, and started shooting at it.  I didn't really think that was a particularly good idea since the floor was concrete and he was shooting into a pile of metal and his eyesight wasn't what it had once been.

I said, "Dad, get closer."

"I'm not getting closer to that snake!"

"He can't strike further than the length of his body."

"I don't care, I'm not getting any closer!"

I said, "Well at least let me make it easier for you to shoot him."

So, I walked over to the snake and took an old piece of antenna and drug him out where he was clear of all of the metal and then walked back to Dad and said, "Try that."

By then he had taken a couple of steps closer and shot the snake in the head.  It truly was a big prairie rattler.

We carried it out into the driveway in front of the barn where it could be admired and I went back to chunking metal out of the corner where it had been for many years.

I suppose you can figure out why the two events are connected in my mind.  I smile as I think about it.

Porcine Nemesis

We enjoy the wildlife on our small piece of rural property in Northeast Texas.  We see coyotes, deer, and the occasional other small animal and our game cameras capture images of those we never see, but know are present, such as bobcats.  There is one wild animal, however, that we are not thrilled to have and that is the feral pigs.

The pigs are destructive.  They tear up the ground for roots and grubs and can leave large areas of pasture looking like it has been bombed.  There are many places along the fences that are obvious trails for them and it is not uncommon to find the bottom wire broken in those places from the frequent pressure of the larger ones squeezing underneath.  They also can carry disease which may potentially spread to the cattle.

Hunting them is a challenge because they are one of the most intelligent animals.  They seem to make a circuit of a very large area and are unpredictable as to when they will be in any particular place.  Some likely stay on our place, but they seem to travel between us and several of our neighbors along the river bottom.  One can go for days watching for them and see nothing and then large herds of them may appear as if out of nowhere.  Their trails through the woods show signs of hundreds passing through and the proof of such large groups is frequently caught on our game cameras.

Trapping them is a way that some in the area attempt to get rid of the hogs.  They quickly learn about the traps which must be moved frequently to remain even marginally effective.  Most of those who trap the hogs don't do so to eliminate them, they capture the young ones and feed them for a short period and then sell them to one of the local butchers with connections to outlets for "wild boar" meat.

We also have a neighbor who likes to run them with dogs.  I have told him repeatedly to call and ask permission before coming onto our place to hunt.  He doesn't.  His dogs also are used to find stray cattle and I have seen torn ears on a couple of my cows that I suspect were caused by his dogs.  I wonder sometimes if he encourages the proliferation of the hogs so that he can hunt them.

The state now has authorized the use of poisoned bait of a specific type to help with the hog problem.  I don't like putting out poisoned bait because of the potential unintended consequences on other wildlife.

It is a big problem for which I don't have an answer.  I wish someone did.

A Remembered Opening Day

Hunting season comes around
In Fall of every year;
Through much of this great country
The quest is for the deer.

But, I grew up upon the Plains
Where deer were scarce to see;
It was hunting for the birds
That held excitement for me.

First came dove, how swift they flew
Across the bright blue skies;
To get the hang of hunting them
Took many, many tries.

I think of when the first I shot,
I was well short of ten,
But, I felt that I was mighty tall
To go hunting with the men.

I don't recall who all was there
But, it was at the ranch;
Dad was far the better shot
Upon the family branch.

But, Grandpa was the one who set me
In the pumphouse door
To watch out toward the water tank
For one, or maybe more

Of those swift creature who might
Light upon the fence.
That gave me an advantage
When my shot occurred and hence

I didn't try to take them
As they darted through the air;
No one then had told me
That it wasn't really fair.

So, I set there on a bucket
With Mom's .410 in my hand
And waited for the dull gray birds
Upon the fence to land.

And when one finally did
I carefully lined my shot
And pulled the small black trigger
While pointing at the spot.

And the blast sent me a flying
Off the bucket to the ground
And dazed, I went to looking
If the target I had found.

And sure enough I got him
Though I was somewhat bruised.
Then I dusted off my britches
And ejected the shell that I had used.

I leaned my mighty weapon
Up against the pumphouse wall
And proceeded to the place
Where my quarry had to fall.

As I showed it to my Grandpa
Who was grinning ear to ear
I had to say I wasn't expecting
To get knocked upon my rear.

A Christmas Memory

Once upon a long time ago -- more years in fact than I care to count -- I received a shotgun for Christmas.  It was my first shotgun.  It was the first firearm that I ever owned.

I was taught the proper use and care of firearms from an early age.  I have hunted about as long as I can remember.  In fact, some of my earliest memories are of hunting with my Dad or my Grandfather (my Mother's father) or, hunting in the pasture in the company of my dog, a Beagle-Bassett cross named Daisy.  Dad wouldn't let me go without the dog because he knew she would discover any rattlesnakes before I did.

Although I was able to carry a gun and hunt, I was not allowed to own one until I turned twelve.  So, you know what I asked for on the Christmas just before I turned twelve -- a shotgun.

We had travelled to Tahlequah, Oklahoma, to have Christmas with my Grandmother ( my Dad's Mother) that year.  Her house wasn't very big and my Dad's family was large so there were lots of us crowded into the tiny living room for opening presents.  I had decided that I probably wasn't going to get my wish but sure enough, from behind the door, my Dad brought out a brand new single-shot 20-gauge shotgun for me.  I couldn't believe it.

I suffered for the next couple of days because I wanted desperately to go out and try my new shotgun but my Grandmother lived in town and there was no place to go hunting.  Fortunately, we were travelling on to Missouri to visit my Mother's grandparents and some other relatives as well.  They lived in the country at a place called "Swamp Holler."  It was just below "Jake's Knob."

Shortly after we arrived in Missouri to stay with one of my Aunts, it began to snow.  It snowed and snowed.  All of us kids sat in the house staring out the windows wanting to go out but it was snowing too heavily.  Finally it quit and we all went out in the country to Swamp Holler.  It was my first clear memory of going to my Great Grandparents house.  We weren't able to go there very frequently and so I had been very young the previous trips.

Dad let me take the shotgun with me.  I didn't realize it, but he and my Grandfather had a hunt planned.

The hunt began shortly after we arrived at my Great Grandparent's.  My Dad, my Grandfather and I headed down into the "holler" to shoot squirrels.  They were each carrying a .22 and I was carrying my brand-new shotgun.  We were planning on having squirrel for supper.  I'd never eaten squirrel and was a little unsure that it was something I wanted to do.  But, since the rule was that if you shoot it you eat it, I planned on having squirrel for the first time.

The snow was 10 or 12 inches deep as we traipsed through the fields and the woods.  I learned why the place was named Swamp Holler when my boots broke through the crusted snow and I found myself standing in the swamp bordering the creek which crossed the farm.  I was in heaven walking through the woods of Missouri with my brand-new 20 gauge shotgun looking for squirrels.  After awhile I began to wonder if we were ever going to see any squirrels.  In fact, I was getting a crick in my neck from looking up into all of the trees in an effort to spot the elusive fur-balls.  I think they must have had better eyesight than me because I don't recall ever seeing a single one.

Since the squirrels seemed to have left that part of the world, my Grandfather decided we might jump a rabbit if we would head toward my Great-uncle's place which adjoined.  He had some corn stubble that he felt sure would contain a conttontail or two.  Sure enough we jumped a rabbit.  I was excited that we finally saw game and brought the shotgun to my shoulder and let fly a blast of No. 7 shot that should have dispatched my target.  The only trouble was that it kept on going.  I just stood there in disappointment that my perfect aim had somehow missed and was beginning to doubt the quality of my new Christmas present.

My Grandfather saw me standing there and said, "Reload, he'll circle around and be back by in a minute.  Cottontails run in a circle."

I quickly took his advice and chambered another shell and strained to see where the cottontail might be.  Sure enough, I could see him bounding over the drifts and fallen corn stalks making a wide circle that looked like it might lead back my way.  Dad kept saying, "Hold on, don't shoot until he gets back in range."

I held my fire and watched until I couldn't wait any longer.  BOOM!  I let fly again and sure enough, that rabbit went somersaulting through the snow and lay in a heap.  Grinning ear-to-ear I ran to pick him up.  I had bagged my first game with my brand new shotgun.

We called it a day after that.  It seems the only purpose of the hunt was to give me the chance to try out my new shotgun.  We headed up the hill to my Great Uncle Bill's house where Aunt Lizzie was cooking biscuits in their wood-fired cookstove.  They still had a pitcher pump in the sink in the corner of the kitchen as well. 

The year was 1970.  It was a year I'll never forget.  That rabbit tasted pretty good but I still haven't eaten any squirrel.  Family and memories -- important parts of Christmas.  We must never forget however, what it is really all about.

But the angel said to them, "Do not be afraid. I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people. Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is Christ the Lord. This will be a sign to you: You will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger."  __ Luke 2:10-12 (NIV)

A Pair of Sixes From Texas

I've been tagged (sigh) by Janie over at Sounding Forth. This one is a little different so I'll play along -- thanks Janie...

The rules..."to find out from as many bloggers as possible just where they'd like to be in the state of Texas if they could choose A Dozen Places. Six of those would be places they've been before; six would be places they've never been."

Six places in Texas where I have been and would like to be right now...

1) Port Aransas fishing -- although this time of year it's a bit warm.
2) San Antonio on the River Walk relaxing at an outdoor cafe.
3) Lake Texhoma fishing -- although this time of year it's a bit warm.
4) San Antonio on the River Walk relaxing at an outdoor cafe (different cafe).
5) Possum Kingdom Lake fishing -- although this time of year it's a bit warm.
6) San Antonio on the River Walk relaxing at an outdoor cafe (yet again, a different cafe).

Six places in Texas where I have never been and would like to go...

1) Toledo Bend Reservoir fishing -- although this time of year it's a bit warm.
2) Lake Fork fishing -- although this time of year it's a bit warm.
3) Running the rapids through Santa Elena Canyon in the Big Bend -- although it's a whole lot too warm this time of year.
4) Hunting mule deer in the Davis Mountains of far West Texas -- wrong time of year.
5) Whitewing dove hunting in McAllen -- wrong time of year.
6) Hiking the Devil's Canyon in southwest Texas -- it is waaaaaaay too hot this time of year!

I guess you can tell that my mind is not on work. In fact, I'm taking next week off.

Part of this Meme is to tag six others to post. I'm not going to do that -- sorry Janie -- but I would encourage all of y'all from Texas, or anywhere else for that matter, to take it upon yourself to post your pair-of-sixes. (Visions of dice and six-guns just popped into my head.) If you do post, put something in the comments here and provide a link back -- it would be appreciated. Y'all Texans especially need to keep this going. A little promo for the Lone Star State is always a good thing. You know there's only two kinds of people in the world -- Texans and those who wish they were.

Bo

For some reason, I grew up wanting a coon hound. It might have been from reading, and then seeing the movie, "Where The Red Fern Grows", or it might have been in my blood since one set of grandparents grew up in the Ozarks of Missouri. For whatever reason, I wanted one.

In the Texas Panhandle we have a few raccoons, but they usually live in the attic of some broken-down farmhouse or barn. They are definitely not a critter that attracts a lot of hunters in our neck-of-the-not-woods. Running coon hounds is unheard of. If people have hunting dogs, it is usually for hunting birds, or possibly for running coyotes.

Some years ago we moved to Nebraska. We lived in a house that overlooked the Republican River Valley in the south-central part of the state. There were actually trees there that grew naturally instead of having been planted by someone. There were deer and other wildlife in substantial numbers. One day we even had a bald eagle perch in the tree at the end of our driveway.

People in that part of Nebraska also have hounds. So, I bought a redbone coon hound. I named him Bo. It probably should have been bonehead, but it wasn't.

I never trained Bo to hunt coons. He had a natural instinct for it. I raised him alongside a chocolate lab named Cocoa which we still have. I had to keep Bo and Cocoa in a pen because if they were out, they were hunting.

I loved to hear him baying when he got scent of some kind of game. He might be a mile or more away, but you could hear him baying off down toward the river. Calling him did no good, because when he had a scent, he had a one-track mind. I think when his nose smelled coon his ears must have stopped up.

Immediately upon letting the dogs out of their pen, Bo's nose would go to the ground. He would work back and forth until he picked up a scent. It might be a rabbit, or a 'possum, or possibly a raccoon. It didn't matter. When he came across one, he would beeline on the trail of whatever it was until he caught it, or lost the scent. He didn't bay on a cold trail, he'd just follow it. He would bay as it became a warm scent. If he caught a scent that crossed the highway, look out, because he was going without looking. It didn't matter whether a fleet of trucks was coming, or not, he had his nose to the scent, running as fast as he could to catch whatever made it.

I could tell a lot of stories about Bo. Most of them would revolve around him getting out in the middle of the night and treeing a coon, or catching an opossum, or something else. He woke us up many nights in full voice. We frequently awoke to find fresh offerings on the porch with a tail-wagging Bo standing over it saying "look what I've done!" I loved it, but my better half used to get a little irritated.

When we moved back to Texas, we brought Bo with us. We rented a house in town until we could find a place to buy. Bo wasn't too good in town. The neighbors didn't appreciate his baritone at 2:00 a.m. One day we came home to a note on the door from the local officer informing us that Bo's midnight serenades would have to stop. So, I move the dogs to my workplace that, at the time, had a big yard where I could keep them.

One morning I came to work to find that someone had let Bo out during the night. Apparently he had found a scent and headed across the highway. I'm sure that he never knew what hit him.

I miss Bo. But, the Panhandle is really no place for a coon hound. We still have the lab though. Cocoa must have learned a lot from Bo because she constantly brings us offerings that she lays on the porch of our country home. They are a not-so-nice reminder of Bo.