sburgett
UKC Forum Member
Registered: Jan 2009
Location: oak grove al
Posts: 38 |
Steeb, Dave tried to get me a Lonesome pup but Hank was throwing me fits at the time. From what I heard I should of brought one to the south. Seem to be making nice little hounds.
Series of unfortunate events: #1
I went through months of walking to possums up bushes and armadillos in creek banks. One extra hot summer night Hank holed a Dilla about 100 yards from where I cast him. I crawled through the briars and gave him a stern reinforcement on what not to do. He eased on down the creek and struck a track. I could tell by the way he was opening he was after a ring tail. I made the way back to the truck and waited on him to tree. Grabbed the Remington 597 and my Copenhagen can I keep extra shells in. He came treeded at 600+ from the road. I stumbled along the creek and made my way to him. Eventually finding him treeing on a large red oak. I shined the tree to find three coons the size of small bear Cubs looking down. I took aim at the smallest of three and squeeze off a shot, hitting the coon in his chest. The ol Ricky decided he didn't like it to much and started to head down and take his chances with my young dog. I took aim again, pulled the trigger and CLICK. My magazine was empty. I scrambled for the Cope can that was supposed to hold my shells. Only to open it and find a pinch of dried out snuff (wrong can). The coon was almost down, so i grabbed a large stick decided that it give it a good whooping when it got in striking distance. He was about head high. I took a swing like is was 3-0 count looking fastball all the way. As my stick connected with Mr. Ricky's head the stick exploded. Yep, in my haste I picked up a rotten stick. The coon bails and takes off, Hank right behind him raising hell. They disappeared off the creek bank. All I can hear now is the coon growling a little, not a peep from Hank. I run down the hill following the same trail they went. I came to a sliding stop before I went off a small bluff. I'd estimate it was 10-12 feet straight down into the rocky creek. I looked over the edge and Hank in laying in the water having a seizure while the coon is absolutely eating his right rear leg up. I jump down the bluff, grab my rifle by the barrel and and take a Tiger Woods swing. Crack, the coon stumbles off down the creek. The rifle breaks in half. I am a firefighter, emt in one of the most dangerous cities in Alabama so I have seen a bunch of trama. I immediately think Hank has some sort of brain injury. I drag him out of the water, he is still actively seizing. I call my wife and tell her I am going to have to put him down, she freaks out for obvious reasons, at that point I realize that I'm still out of shells and my rifle is in two pieces. No way to put him down. So I pick his big ass up throw him over my shoulders and start the 600+ march to the truck. After about 20 yards he is not seizing anymore. Fortunately, I can feel his lungs expanding on my back, he is still breathing. I continue on my way. At some point out of nowhere the sorry rascal comes to and licks me on my face. I sit him down in the creek in about 4 inches of water. He gets up stumbles around for a second and takes off in the direction the coon went. I tone him back to me and we head to the house. I call the vet on the way home, he instructs me to keep an eye on him over night. My wife insists he sleeps in the house this particular night. Wake in the morning to find him still alive and ready to go again. I assume he just hit his head just right when he tumbled over the edge. The only positive is the following morning I headed out to purchase a new .17 didn't take much to convince my wife that a .17 was a little better "kill gun" than a 22 so she didn't put up much fight about the new rifle.
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02-20-2019 03:52 AM
