Jerking off his hat and throwing back his head, he let out a yell.
It wasn’t a whoop, or a screech, it was about halfway in between.
Everyone laughed. The coon was running upriver toward our campground. We turned and followed.
I could tell by the dogs’ voices that they were running side by side, and were hot on the trail.
Closing my eyes, I could almost see them running, bodies stretched to their fullest length,
legs pounding up and down, white steam rolling from their hot breath in the frosty night.
Grandpa got tangled up in some underbrush, and lost his hat and spectacles.
It took us a while to find the glasses. Papa said something about getting them wired on with bailing wire.
Grandpa snorted. The judge laughed. The coon crossed the river and ran on upstream.
Soon my dogs were out of hearing distance. I told Papa we had better stay on our side of the river and keep going until we could hear them again.
Twenty minutes later we heard them coming back. We stopped. “I think they have crossed back to our side,” I said.
All at once the voices of my dogs were drowned out by a loud roar. “What in the world was that?” Grandpa said.
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