Beagle Song

I often think about how I attempt to peel back the layers of sounds while archery hunting in the autumn forest. The leaves rustling in the breeze. The incessant chatter of gray squirrels. The skittering of chipmunks on the forest floor. The drop of acorns. But, one sound I want to hear again in autumn is my Daisy’s beagle song. This will be the first autumn afield where I will not hear it. And, I am heartbroken. After fifteen years of crossing hill and dale, forest and field, I will not have the honor of being in the company of my beloved hunting partner.

In her passing I could only thank her. Thank her for giving me all her heart in every hunt. For teaching me how to hunt pheasants and rabbits. For bringing me closer to my father and brother, who accompanied me on so many hunts. The friends and family that hunted with Daisy and I over the seasons always seemed to walk away with a smile and a harvest. More times than not, fellow hunters were left in awe of her ability. She was a scant 20 pounds, but it seemed like no gamebird could trick her. No rabbit outwit her. I learned her different barks and bays, and in time, I could tell by her songs exactly which quarry she was tracking. There were times when we hiked out with game pouches laden with pheasants, rabbits, turkey, and grouse. She hunted them all.

Daisy was a marker on my life. I was in my mid-twenties when she was a puppy, and now I am beyond 40 in her passing. In the early years, I recall the sheer joy of rushing home from school in October and November, so we could get in a few hours hunting before sunset. I felt like Billy Coleman from Where the Red Fern Grows...just me and my little dog, and all was right with the world.

I can still feel my heart hammering the first time I trained her on birds and watched her flush seven roosters. I knew I had not only a rabbit chaser, but also a bird hunter. In college I hunted the local game lands sans dog, and all I had to show for it were three pheasants in three years. The first season with Daisy she was but six months old, and we harvested 25 roosters and hens...and probably missed more than we should have. What ensued was more than a decade of everything I could have ever hoped for in a dog. Saturday mornings and weekday evenings immersed in the pursuit of game, roosters and rabbits hanging off the back porch seemingly every time. Crock pots simmering with fresh meals of barbeque or apple cinnamon wild game.

Her final hunt was on Christmas Eve this year past. She was feeling a bit better. With tears in my eyes I listened to her sing her song, while roosters lifted, wings beating, and fortunately, fell one for Christmas dinner. I knew it would be her last harvest, but she saved some time for the snows of late winter when we folded over into rabbit walkers with my sons, Kale and Quinn—who over the years loved to go out and watch Daisy find a late season hen or bunny.

In her passing I know I was lucky. Thank you girl! You picked me! Me! You taught me! You loved me! And, my heart is broken. But, forever will I be thankful to have been the hunter at the center of your heart…the center of your beautiful beagle song-a song you sung so many times for me. I miss you girl! I miss you. But, I know one day...I’ll hear your song again.