It was a cold snowy December night. Grandpa and I sat huddled beside the fire listening to the echoes of the hunting dogs excited howls. We had already been out in the woods for hours listening to the younger dogs run foxes. I was impatient to turn my 'coon dogs loose, but Grandpa said that a good hunter has to have patience. It was getting late, about one or two o'clock, when we finally turned Ol' Jim out of the dog box.

Jim was a big stocky Walker hound. He was about fourteen years old at the time. I had been hunting with Jim since he was an eight month old pup. Jim and I practically grew up together. In Jim's day, he had "treed" hundreds of raccoons, but now a days, we'd just use him for a "strike" dog. Ol' Jim would pick up the scent and put the other dogs on the trail. He was getting too old to do much running anymore.

On this night, Ol' Jim wasn't on the ground long when we heard the old timer open up with two long "bellers" and soon we heard the two younger dogs join Jim in the chorus of excitement.

When me and Grandpa made it to the tree, we saw Pete, our two year old hound and Sambo who was about eleven months old, barking and clawing at the tree but no sign of Ol' Jim. Grandpa said, "Give Ol' Jim a minute or two; he'll surface". Grandpa didn't want to knock that 'coon out of that tree without Jim being near because a full grown 'coon could kill one of these hound pups.

We waited and waited, but Jim didn't come. Finally Grandpa knocked it out anyway, and we headed toward the truck. When we got there, we saw Ol' Jim curled up in his dog box. We figured that after the old boy had put the younger dogs on the trail, he'd just given out and come back to the truck. It was like he knew he had to find a coon, though.

The night Jim died remains pretty clear in my head. Me, Grandpa, and my uncle, John were hunting in Braxton County,WV early one spring. I really don't remember the name of the hollow we were hunting in, but it was pretty country...no steep mountains, just easy sloping hills.

It seemed like a pretty good night to hunt. It was cloudy and warm, almost perfect night to hunt 'coons. We had "treed" two 'coons already with my female Massie. It was the first coons she'd "treed" on her own. I was feeling real proud of her. It was getting late though, and Grandpa said, "Let's turn 'um out one more time, so Ol' Jim can at least get out of the box tonight". So we turned Ol' Jim out along with my uncle's pup.

As we walked up the ridge, Ol' Jim "struck the signal", but we couldn't hear a peep from my uncle's pup. The race didn't last long.. probably about ten minutes, and Jim had the old 'coon "treed".

We were surprised that Jim had found one this quick because we'd been hunting this area all night and not only had Jim picked up the scent, he'd run it to the tree. Grandpa yelled," Get your lights on boys, Er got meat on the hanger"! When we got to the tree, there was Ol' Jim sitting on his hind-end looking as proud as if it were the first coon he'd ever "treed". A few minutes later, my uncle's dog wandered in and started circling the tree, and "hollering" a little bit. Grandpa turned to Ol'Jim and said," Hope you still got it in you to kill it out ol' man".

Grandpa raised his 22 rifle and fired off three shots. That old 'coon hit the ground running. When Grandpa was alive, it never took him long to bring a 'coon down. He was a pretty good shot. On this night though, when that old coon hit the ground, he was fully alive!

Ol' Jim quickly grabbed it and within seconds they rolled over the bank and disapeared over the ledge. The fight must have lasted just a few minutes; then everything was quiet. My Grandpa yelled for O' Jim to come up out of there, but he never did. So we walked over to the bank and shined our lights over the ledge. Lying about fifteen feet down the bank was Ol' Jim still clutching that big ol' coon in his jaws.

I led my uncle's dog and packed the 'coon while Grandpa carried Ol'Jim's body back to the truck. It was a quiet ride home as our thoughts were on Ol' Jim riding home for the last time. No one showed any emotion, after all Jim was just a dog, but I could tell Grandpa was hurt. As a matter of fact, I was hurt too, but I didn't show it either.

When we got home the next day, we buried Ol' Jim in the back yard with the last 'coon he'd "treed" .

In the years after old Jim's death, I sometimes forget about him and concentrate on the other hounds I've trained, but I really never forget him. He was the first dog I can ever remember being around and hunting with. But like everything else; I guess nothing can last forever.
Josh