The squirrel was up there somewhere. I had seen it run through the ground clutter and hit the trunk, circling out of sight as it climbed up the tall, straight oak. It had taken cover in the branches above rather than running out any of the long limbs and jumping into another tree. The problem was that there were just enough leaves left to make it hard to see the whole tree.
I circled the tree slowly and as quietly as possible in the dry leaves lying thick on the hardwood forest floor. Now, I was decent enough at being quiet in the woods. My Pop had taught me at a young age to move as silently as any given terrain would allow. I wasn’t as good as him, but I did okay. Still, the squirrel had my number. As I circled the tree, he circled as well, keeping me on the backside from him at pretty much all times.
I wanted that squirrel in my hunting vest.
Long about then, I looked over at my dog. Now, when I was in the woods I talked to my dog just like he was my best friend, which to a large degree he was. His name was “Bar Killer”, after a dog in a certain movie I had seen a couple of times. He was a Plot Hound.
Plott hounds are fantastic hunting dogs. They are fearless and tenacious, bold and agile, yet gentle, warm and affectionate to their people. Originating in Germany as a breed known as Hanover Hounds, the dog arrived on our shores in 1750. A German immigrant named Johannes Plott arrived with five of the original breed and promptly headed back into the mountains of North Carolina. There he settled and built a family and started breeding his dogs while using them to hunt bear and wild boar. Johannes was determined not to breed his dogs with the locals but his son eventually did, and the modern Plott hound came to exist. It is the state dog of North Carolina.
My Plott came from a litter at a yard sale. My mom saw them, picked one out and brought it to me. She told me she saw them and “just knew” I would want one, even though, at the time I already had a very large snow-white German Shepard named “Bigfoot”.
Since Plotts are bred for boar and bear hunting, and since I had recently seen that movie, Bar Killer was the moniker I hung on him. He never complained about it in front of me.
My dogs were free-range. I let them roam and they knew where home was. I could step out on the porch and yell and they’d be there as fast as their legs could carry them. They somehow managed to stay out of trouble, but we had uncounted acres below us along the shore of Lake Rhodhiss, and they could roam around without being in the neighbors’ yards, or chasing their animals. I think that’s one reason my dogs were so smart. They got out and learned from experience.
Getting back to my squirrel, I looked at my dog and thought that if he would help me out I could get that squirrel. Bar Killer was about ten feet to my right just sniffing around where that squirrel had passed through on the run. “Hey Bar Killer.” I said softly and clucked my tongue. He looked my way.
“Go around the tree!” I said, while pointing with my index finger and rotating it with my wrist. “Go around the tree!” I repeated two or three more times, finally looping my finger in a bigger circle. With my whole arm. He cocked his head at me, turned and, (if I’m lying I’m dying), walked around the tree about twenty feet out from the trunk.
That squirrel heard the dog and thought it was me and quick as a blink was around that tree on my side. I angled my shotgun up and in a quick snap shot the squirrel came tumbling down. He was mine. Well almost. You see, when I shot that squirrel he launched out into space and arched gracefully through the air to land about equal distances from myself and Bar Killer. What followed was a short property dispute. Bar Killer wanted to take credit for that kill and in his mind that squirrel belonged to him. In my mind that squirrel was halfway to being squirrel dumplings and I meant to have it.
We both dove for that squirrel. I’d like to say I was faster, but you wouldn’t believe me. Bar Killer edged me out by about a second and had the squirrel, but I managed to get his collar.
“Now Bar Killer, you know that ain’t how this works. I’m the hunter and you’re the hunting dog, and I get the game.” He wasn’t buying in. “Tell you what buddy, you give me the squirrel and I’ll make sure you get a bowl of dumplings “. He still wasn’t sure but he loosened up on the squirrel a little bit. “Okay, I’ll give you all the scraps when I clean him, plus a bowl of dumplings.” He finally relented and we went on.
We went on down that hollow and around the lake shore hunting and came out near the point of land on the right side of Hayes Neck on Lake Rhodhiss. As I recall we got five squirrels in all. Bar Killer only helped me with a couple of them, but I gave him the scraps anyway and even shared some with Bigfoot.
When mom made those squirrel dumplings I ate my complete fill. My mom made the best squirrel dumplings in the country as far as I’m concerned, but I’m a little biased, and in reality, I’m pretty certain I never ate anyone else’s until my son and I made some a few years ago.
Bar Killer certainly loved his bowl.
(C) James L Frady January 17, 2023
