I took off after them as fast as I could run. A mile downstream the coon pulled his first trick.
I could tell by my dogs’ voices that they had lost the trail.
When I came to them they were out on an old drift, sniffing around.
The coon had pulled a simple trick. He had run out on the drift, leaped into the water, and crossed the river.
To an experienced coon hound, the crude trick would have been nothing at all,
but my dogs were just big, awkward pups, trailing their first live coon.
I stood and watched, wondering if they would remember the training I had given them.
Now and then I would whoop, urging them on. Old Dan was having a fit.
He whined and he bawled. He whimpered and cried. He came to me and reared up, begging for help.
“I’m not going to help you,” I scolded, “and you’re not going to find him out on that drift.
If you would just remember some of the training I gave you, you could find the trail.
Now go find that coon.” He ran back out on the drift and started searching.
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