Elegy to An Exceptional Hound

Buried you on the knoll, overlooking the creek--
the same stream you first explored
as an intrepid, 5-week-old pup.
That day, you’d stolen away from your mother and siblings.
Only a lucky glance spied your small body
going over the hillside.

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So I followed that warm summer day
—the first of thousands of such journeys--
watching you brave a stream whose waters oftentimes came up to that tiny chest.

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The earth fought every bite of the shovel
—for even the land can be in denial.
 a hollowing-out of ground and soul.

Many came before you,
but there none were like you.
Of all the hounds we’ve raised,
—for all the good and bad--
you were the most human.

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Still hear your bawl echoing in these darkened hills,
chasing ringtails with hundreds of amber reflections
found in the upper branches of oak, white pine, and hemlock.
That last raccoon you treed,
your voice was ever strong,
lending credence to those who believe
a hound’s voice is connected
far more to spirit than body.

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Some say dogs cross a rainbow bridge--
not certain that’s true for hounds.
I suspect coonhounds simply go deep,
traveling a path we all must tread;
over the next ridge—beyond earshot
where no tracking device can locate,
unveiling the bitter reality that north
on a compass does not truly point “up.”

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Winter nears and upon
a full examination,
it is enough to say
I have wandered these forested hills
in the lands of the Painted Post,
shaped by the hand of Almighty God,
in the company of a king.

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Buried you on the knoll, overlooking
that quiet stream you knew so well
in a grave large enough for an exceptional hound
and two hearts.

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