My dog is a cur. The word's a slur for humans, as in "you lowdown, treacherous, vicious cur." For dogs, the term actually means a mongrel, and in Scout's case it's his breed: a Tennessee treeing brindle cur. This is a dog bred to sit on the porch and wait for you to pick up your shootin' iron and grab your jug with XXX on the side and go out to get some critter for dinner.
He's disappointed in me most of the time, since we have no Jed Clampett hikes in the holler. When you live in the city with humans who stare at glowing things and make clicking sounds with their fingers, the opportunities to trot home proudly with a dead squar'l in your jaws are rare. We are a great disappointment. But the chow's regular, the den is cool and the sofa's soft. He does OK.
As a hunting dog, he takes particular pleasure in chasing squirrels, but it always ends in failure and a look of quizzical inquiry: "So, again, I drove him toward you, and you didn't shoot him. Tell me what the deal is here." Sorry. I appreciate the offer, but I've planned out the week's meals, and bloody rodent didn't make the cut.
He takes great pleasure in chasing rabbits, as well. Everyone loves bunnies, right? Fluffy. Cute. Except they eat everything my wife plants. My wife could jam an iron rebar in the dirt and they would gnaw it down overnight.
The dog can't wait to chomp a floofy canapé, but we don't want to see him eat Peter Cottontail. Not our sweet dog! Hah. We think it's horrifying that he'd eat something cute, yet we play games with fluffy toys that make tortured squeaks when squeezed.
At least rabbits run. Raccoons, that's another matter. They lumber around the trees above, big, fat, nasty beasts coasting on a "cute" rep because they look like they wear sunglasses at night.
The other night, one had made a critical mistake — it climbed up a thin branch on a small bush, and was now bobbing up and down a few inches from the ground like a furry piñata. It's screaming at Scout: "Get out of my face, dog fool!" and Scout is dancing back and forth like Muhammad Ali. The huffing, the hissing, the panting, the barking. I shine a flashlight at the raccoon, and he gives me the full fang face, as well. "Oh, you want some of this action? Really? Go Google me some rabies, pal!"
So I run inside and get the box of Milk Bones, the rattling sound of which always breaks Scout's concentration. He looks at me as if I've lost my mind. "I am a treeing cur! I am treeing! This is where you shoot the enemy, dude!"
Ten loud minutes after he treed the coon, I got Scout inside, where he walked around panting for 45 minutes because "… can you believe that? It was awesome! I knocked him off the tree and he was like, 'Whoa!' and I was like, 'No way!' "
It was 1 a.m. Everyone went to bed.
Scout went to the back door and stood guard for hours, lest the threat return. I imagine that he fell asleep, the entire affair forgotten — and I hope that's the case. Because, in the battle, how had I acquitted myself? I rattled a box of dog cookies and tried to shoot video.
There's a bumper sticker that advises you to be the person your dog thinks you are. Oh, I think he's got me nailed.
james.lileks@startribune.com • 612-673-7858 • Twitter: @Lileks • facebook.com/james.lileks
