Black and Tan

Who's a Good Boy?

“That’s a fine looking Black and Tan,” I said as I was paying Herb for the eggs.

“Yeah, he’s a specimen alright,” said Herb.

“What’s his name?” I asked.

“Hunter.”

“That’s a good name for a hound,” I said.

“Yeah, I had high hopes for him at one time. But I’d take fifty bucks for him now.”

“So, you mean he don’t hunt?”

“Oh, he hunts just fine,” said Herb.

“Well, why don’t you want him?”

“He’s just a little…needy, is the best way I can say it.”

The dog was nuzzling my leg and looking up at me with deep, brown eyes. He wagged his whole body when I reached down to scratch behind his ear.

“Actually, I’ve been thinking about getting a dog,” I said.

“You don’t have cats, do you?”

“No cats,” I said.

“How about kids?”

“Grown up and gone.”

“Because I’ve seen what this dog will do to a cat,” Herb said. “Not sure about kids. You have mail delivery out where you are?”

“I have a PO Box in town.”

“Well, that’s good,” said Herb.

“Why is that good?”

“No reason,” said Herb. “It’s just, you know how some dogs are about mail carriers. I’ll throw in his stainless steel bowls and his big dog bed—it’s like brand new, he never uses it.”

“Where does he sleep, then?” I asked.

“He sleeps on our bed.”

“He’s a pretty big dog,” I said. “Must get a little crowded.”

“Nah, he sleeps on my side,” said Herb. “Lorrette don’t mind. He’s kind of protective of her--does this funny, fake growl thing when I come in. I sleep in the guest room with the door closed.”

Hunter the dog was looking up at Herb with his long ears erect and forward, his head cocked.

“He looks like he knows what we’re saying,” I said.

“No, he don’t know what we’re saying. At least I don’t think he does. So, what’s your cable situation? You got ESPN?”

“I have NFL Sunday Ticket and the Golf Channel.”

“Hunter don’t like golf. American football neither.”

“Well, dogs don’t watch TV anyway,” I said.

“This one does, he likes to watch soccer.”

“Soccer?”

Hunter turned and sat down in front of me, looking up and panting with excitement.

“Soccer,” I said again and Hunter let out a yip and stood up wagging, then sat down hard, panting and smiling and quivering.

“He likes to watch it on the Spanish language broadcast,” said Herb. “The one where the announcer yells GOOOOOOOOOOOOOAL!”

Hunter jumped up and howled along with Herb, a loud and soulful baying with his eyes closed and head tilted upward, his long ears cascading along his neck.

“Does he have a favorite team?”

“Favorite team? He’s a dog for God’s sake.”

“Of course,” I said.

“But now that you mention it,” Herb said “he does seem a bit partial to Real Madrid but that could just be my imagination.”

“Well, that would go with the whole Spanish thing, I guess.”

“So,” said Herb, “Fifty bucks and I’ll throw in the bowls, the bed and a couple dozen eggs. You can take him away today.”

Hunter stood motionless facing Herb, his head held low and menacing, a vibrating growl barely audible through his barred teeth.

I inched backward toward my truck, keeping an eye on the two of them.

Herb laughed nervously, careful to keep eye contact with Hunter.

“We were just joking buddy,” said Herb. “Who’s a good boy?”

Hunter turned his low-slung head to me and watched as I got into my truck, rolled up the windows, and backed slowly down the lane.