They were tied in pairs here and there. I had seen many coon hounds but none that could equal these.
There were redbones, blue ticks, walkers, and blood hounds.
I marveled at their beauty. All were spotlessly clean with slick and glossy coats.
I saw the beautiful leather leashes and brass-studded collars.
I thought of my dogs. They were tied with small cotton ropes, and had collars made from old checkline leather.
As I passed from one set of dogs to another, I couldn’t help but wonder if I had a chance to win.
I knew that in the veins of these hounds flowed the purest of breeded blood. No finer coon hounds could be found anywhere.
They came from the Smoky Mountains of Tennessee, the bayou country of Louisiana, the Red River bottoms of Texas, and the flinty hills of the Ozarks.
Walking back through the camp, I could feel the cold fingers of doubt squeezing my heart.
One look at my dogs drove all doubt away. In the eyes of Little Ann it seemed I could read this message: “Don’t worry. Just wait. We’ll show them.”
That night, Grandpa said, “Tomorrow they’ll have a contest for the best- looking hound. Which one are you going to enter?”
I told him I didn’t think I’d enter either one of my dogs. They were so little. I didn’t think they had a chance.
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