Nothing but a hound dog by John C. Street

Back when I was first kicking around the idea of getting my very own dog, I fell in with a group of people who enjoyed field trials almost as much as they did hunting.  They belonged to a group called North American Versatile Dog Association and they had some of the neatest canines I’d ever been around.  They had German short and wire hairs, a full color range of labs (gold, brown and black), a new breed – at least back then – known as a puddlepointer and several different styles of spaniels, mostly Britts and cockers. 

The whole idea behind a versatile dog is that it will do most anything from following ground scent to water retrieves and everything in between.  And the best of the best at all these versatile breeds, at least from my perspective, was the Weimeraner.  They loved people, they took their work – hunting – seriously and they were beautiful in the field, covering ground like they had wings. 

Quite a few years would go by before I got my first dog and, as you already know, it was a Weimeraner.  She was everything I’d ever wanted even though I never put her to the ultimate test, retrieving ducks and geese from frigid water.  She had the heart of a tiger and the desire to please and was as sure as death and taxes on grouse.  She even turned in a few exemplary performances on pheasants on the rare occasions when we crossed their paths.   

She was not, however, the most versatile hunting dog I’d ever been around.  That honor goes to another breed, one not typically associated with hunting, more of a house dog really.  Purchased as a companion for my mother when her two boys got old enough to be mobile on their own, this little wolf in short haired clothing was nuts to be in the woods.  Whether the quarry was swimming, flying or running, it was all one glorious game to this … dachshund. 

Built so low to the ground, blinding speed was not her forte but she made up for it with tenacity and courage, stamina and a good nose.  In short, she had everything a person could want in a hunting dog with one exception.  She always looked like she should be sitting in mother’s lap. 

At the time, my father had one of those Volkswagen beetles, the original models before they got trendy and Heidi’s place was on the lap of whoever was sitting in the passenger seat.  In the winter, when the passenger’s window was rolled up, her nose was pressed against the windshield.  In summer, her front feet were on the window sill with her head and hound dog ears flapping in the breeze. 

It was from this position – sitting on my, the passenger’s, lap - one hot and humid evening, that she decided to teach a German shepherd some manners, not that I could see that he’d done anything wrong but he must have provoked Heidi with a glance as we passed.  Before I could get my hands on her collar, she launched herself out the car window and landed smack dab on top of that poor shepherd.  Before we got the car stopped and went to the owner’s assistance, Heidi had the poor beast rolled over and was standing on his chest, a low throaty growl advising him not to move.  

Big German shepherds were small potatoes compared to some of the other critters she went after like the droopy eared old bear that was in the habit of knocking over my father’s bee hives.  One late afternoon as we made the last turn into his garden, we caught this bruin in the act and, just as I had when we passed that man walking his dog, I went – unsuccessfully - for her collar. 

Two hours later, both Dad and Heidi strolled back into the clearing of the garden, their tongues (figuratively for Dad, literally for Heidi) hanging to their knees.  They’d chased the bear, or, Heidi had chased the bear and Dad had tried to keep up to see that no harm came to her, until the bruin jumped into a sizable stream and lost them.  What either of them were planning to do if they caught it was beyond me.  I was laughing so hard, I couldn’t keep up. 

Many times when trout fishing or scouting a stream for our trap line, Heidi would run raccoons into holes in the bank.  One time in particular we thought she had gotten herself lost but paid no mind since she could always put her marvelous nose down and find us.  Several hours later as we were starting back down the stream, we could hear muffled barking but couldn’t pin-point it. 

After some searching, Dad discovered the barking coming from underground.  With the aid of a piece of flat rock and a stick, we finally got a hole dug right over top of her and Dad reached in and got hold of the first fur he felt - the tail of the raccoon - and proceeded to pull the whole ruckus above ground.  Before the hapless coon could make it back down the hole, Heidi had a death grip on its throat and in short order the ordeal was over.  

She was the only dog of any breed that I ever saw - consistently - get the best of a coon, presumably her low-slung stature giving her an advantage.  Porcupines, however, now there was another story.  If we had been given a dollar for every bristle pig she waded into we could have more than covered the cost of a high priced hunting dog.  She never got it through her head that she couldn’t kill them without paying a price. 

Whether it was carp in shallow water or rabbits on a hill side, the chase was all that mattered.  One afternoon, a playful fox ran her up and down a dusty back road while I sat in a tree and watched.  It was hard to tell which of them was having more fun, the fox surely seemed to be enjoying himself, running just enough ahead of our slow hound to keep things interesting and Heidi barking her fool head off the whole time.  Finally, tiring of the game, the fox made several longish jumps, back and forth across the road, and disappeared into the brush.    

She routed out grouse and would have done the same for pheasants if there’d been any around.  She ran rabbits and treed squirrels and thought fox and bear and raccoons about the finest thing she could imagine.  Perhaps she was  nothing but a hound dog but she was the huntingist – and most versatile – danged dog I ever knew.