"Are you shitting me, he's stuck again?", I thought as I ran towards the scrub oak I saw him disappear into.
A week before, Buddy climbed 15 feet up into a tree and found that he couldn't get down without my help. I thought it was a one-off and had a good laugh about it while relaying the story to friends and family. The second time made me realize this behavior is way down deep in his canine DNA and I'd have to watch him closely moving forward.
We adopted Buddy several months ago and as far as we know he's a 3 year old TreeING Walker Coonhound which are bred specifically to tree raccoons (Purist owners get pissed when you suggest they have a "Tree Walker", but this is exactly what Buddy is). His behaviors and physique lead me to believe he was, in fact, trained as a hunting dog and wasn't just a pet. His outward appearance is very typical of a coonhound, but he's pure muscle from his neck to the floor. In fact, he's so thick we often joke it appears he's wearing a child's hulk costume. He also has a v notch on his left ear, indicative of being branded. He doesn't like dog play or toys and he's intensely focused on the horizon (often siting and watching for hours). The moment I put a training collar on him, I learned he has perfect recall. He was bred to hunt.
As I approached the tree I could see he was in the canopy, some 10 feet off the ground, surrounded by smaller, protruding branches that might impale his body if he tried to jump down. He let off a small whimper, letting me know he was stuck, but his relentless DNA informed him to look upwards and continue the never-ending pursuit of critters. I spoke to him in my calmest voice, hoping to keep him from panicking and jumping down. I cleared out most of the small branches to give myself a window and prepared to ascend.
I grabbed a branch as high as I could and started pulling myself up, immediately lamenting all the days that have passed since my last triceps workout (345?) when my arms gave way just slightly. Climbing trees didn't factor into my fitness matrix in year 47 yet here I was, in a tree, rescuing a goddamn 70 lb. muscle-head with limited planning skills. When I reached his level I grabbed his collar and he immediately welcomed me up and asked me to join in the hunt by breaking into a deep, joyous, hound song, the one his tribe has sung for millennia.
If you've never had the joy of listening to this song from a distance of 6 inches, I'll try to give you an idea of what it's like. Do you remember the band Metallica? It's like pressing one ear against a 35 foot stack of marshall amplifiers turned to 11 and having James Hatfield scream in your other ear while they play Master of Puppets. Peaceful, really.
After a lot of coaxing (and promising to join him in the trees on the next hunt), he agreed to come down, jumping into my arms like a 70 lb sack of muscle participating in a game of "Trust". As I turned to set him down I saw a neighbor standing in her driveway and I waved sheepishly. It seems she also heard Buddy's 6:45 a.m. vocal solo and rose to witness the spectacle. When I turned back to to Buddy, he was already way off in the distance, on another scent, a slave to that desperate drive to track, a joyous prisoner to his DNA.
We adopted Buddy several months ago and as far as we know he's a 3 year old TreeING Walker Coonhound which are bred specifically to tree raccoons (Purist owners get pissed when you suggest they have a "Tree Walker", but this is exactly what Buddy is). His behaviors and physique lead me to believe he was, in fact, trained as a hunting dog and wasn't just a pet. His outward appearance is very typical of a coonhound, but he's pure muscle from his neck to the floor. In fact, he's so thick we often joke it appears he's wearing a child's hulk costume. He also has a v notch on his left ear, indicative of being branded. He doesn't like dog play or toys and he's intensely focused on the horizon (often siting and watching for hours). The moment I put a training collar on him, I learned he has perfect recall. He was bred to hunt.
As I approached the tree I could see he was in the canopy, some 10 feet off the ground, surrounded by smaller, protruding branches that might impale his body if he tried to jump down. He let off a small whimper, letting me know he was stuck, but his relentless DNA informed him to look upwards and continue the never-ending pursuit of critters. I spoke to him in my calmest voice, hoping to keep him from panicking and jumping down. I cleared out most of the small branches to give myself a window and prepared to ascend.
I grabbed a branch as high as I could and started pulling myself up, immediately lamenting all the days that have passed since my last triceps workout (345?) when my arms gave way just slightly. Climbing trees didn't factor into my fitness matrix in year 47 yet here I was, in a tree, rescuing a goddamn 70 lb. muscle-head with limited planning skills. When I reached his level I grabbed his collar and he immediately welcomed me up and asked me to join in the hunt by breaking into a deep, joyous, hound song, the one his tribe has sung for millennia.
If you've never had the joy of listening to this song from a distance of 6 inches, I'll try to give you an idea of what it's like. Do you remember the band Metallica? It's like pressing one ear against a 35 foot stack of marshall amplifiers turned to 11 and having James Hatfield scream in your other ear while they play Master of Puppets. Peaceful, really.
After a lot of coaxing (and promising to join him in the trees on the next hunt), he agreed to come down, jumping into my arms like a 70 lb sack of muscle participating in a game of "Trust". As I turned to set him down I saw a neighbor standing in her driveway and I waved sheepishly. It seems she also heard Buddy's 6:45 a.m. vocal solo and rose to witness the spectacle. When I turned back to to Buddy, he was already way off in the distance, on another scent, a slave to that desperate drive to track, a joyous prisoner to his DNA.
