My late husband, Carl, had a minor
investment in a registered bird dog he’d bought from a breeder and trainer near
Belzoni, Mississippi. It turned out “Tammy” didn’t come up to sniff. She
flushed birds. As previously agreed, Carl returned Tammy to Mr. Hill, who
promised to resell the pointer and refund the money.
After six weeks or so, we drove to
Mr. Hill’s old farmhouse to check on the progress of the sale. A thin, wiry,
elderly gentleman came down the rickety steps. “Howdy,” he said, right away
recognizing an unsatisfied customer. “If you come to see about Tammy, she’s all
right. I ain’t sold her yet, but by durn I sure hate to part with that dog,
she’s the best dog I ever seen. There ain’t too many people wanna buy an
expensive dog like that, but I’m telling you I’m a-trying, even if it breaks my
heart to part with Tammy again. I took her out yesterday. I never hunt any dog
but her, you know I raised her from a pup, best dog I ever had, I hated to part
with her. If you hadn’t come around here when my pocket was empty I can assure
you, you’d never gotten that good dog off of me. I took her out for a run, and
sure enough, I lost her, just like you said you did, and I thought, well, maybe
she’s hunting a mite too wide, and I looked for that durn dog an hour, then I
came out on the road over yonder, and saw a car easing along, and I thought, by
golly, them people done picked up Tammy and stole the best dog I ever had. So I
walked on down to the store, and sure enough, that black car done stopped there
previous.
People bought five dollars
worth of gas and two Moon pies, but the boy said they ain’t had my Tammy with
’em. So I stopped over by that trailer,” he pointed in the direction of the
gravel road running away from the house, “and asked them folks had they seen
Tammy and they said no and this worried me some more.
“I come on back to the house and had
the old lady fix me lunch, took me a little nap, then got up and took them two
setters there out for a run, see if maybe they’d scare up a scent or something.
I’m trying my durnest to train them setters for a man, but they just ain’t got
it, they like to flush birds and play around, they ain’t at all like my Tammy,
best dog I ever did see.
“Well, me and them setters went
across the field, past the creek bottom and into those woods over yonder.” Mr. Hill spat tobacco juice and pointed to the
horizon where the sun streaked gold through the pine thicket. “And directly a
bird flies past me, but by the time I get my bearings and my gun up—“ he lifted
an imaginary gun to his shoulder, cocked it, and squinted a sharp eye down the
imaginary barrel— “the doggone bird is plumb outta my range. I can hear them
setters barking and raisin’ Cain, so I hurries across and into the woods and
good lord almighty, there is Tammy. That dog been holding that point
twenty-four hours.” Mr. Hill looked down at the ground. His scruffy cowboy boot
raked dirt into a little dusty hill. “You sure you won’t reconsider keeping her?”
