BOONE AND BO

Bo was a beagle, and they were usually rabbit dogs, but Bo was a squirrel dog. He cared nothing about rabbits. He loved to chase and tree squirrels around the farm. Creeks, barbed wire fences, briar thickets, or a brake-squealing car could not keep him from his mission.

Treeing squirrels was his job. Bo was good at it. He would do it all day long before finally coming home for supper. When finished, he would curl up on the porch completely worn out from his adventures.

Bo was Boone’s dog. He was a neighbor from the farm next to my Grandpa’s. Both were as independent as they could be. Boone was in his 80s.  I was 12. He enjoyed taking his neighbor buddy hunting. He was teaching me to be a squirrel hunter like he was.

Back then, we were all poor who lived in that valley in the Missouri Ozarks. It was important not to waste a bullet. It would take a while to save enough money to get more. I don’t think I ever saw Boone take more than one shot at a squirrel. I never saw him miss.

Getting a couple of squirrels was supper a lot of times. That was never a problem with Bo around. I remember how good fried squirrels and homemade biscuits and gravy cooked by Boone’s wife or my Grandma were.

Boone had worked hard on the farm all his life. His heart was beginning to wear out. He had slowed down quite a bit, took his medicine, and kept hunting squirrels with Bo and me. Like Boone, Bo was also getting old. His gray muzzle reminded me of Boone’s gray beard.

For Bo, chasing and treeing was the game. He was good at it. It was fun to watch him go after a squirrel.  When it would run up a tree, he would climb part way up it in all of his excitement to get at it.

As soon as he gave up climbing, he would sit at the bottom of the tree barking until Boone got there and shot the squirrel. A dead squirrel was no longer important anymore. He would go up to a freshly killed squirrel, smell it, and then take off after another.

Our last day was perfect squirrel hunting weather. A crisp, clear October morning was dawning when we reached the back forty of Boone’s farm. The sunrise sparkled on the frosted grass as we left the old truck. The trees were bare of leaves now.

Bo saw the movement of a squirrel, and he went to work. Boone and I took a position by an oak tree and watched. He smiled with pleasure as he listened to the sounds Bo made. He held his old .22 rifle, still in mint condition, in the crook of his arm.

Bo was out of sight, but his bark told us he was after his quarry. His voice muffled as he chased it across a gully, and it ran up a tree, as we knew it would. Boone, who wasn’t as quick as he used to be, slowly walked to the tree and prepared for the shot. The squirrel came into view out on a limb high in the tree.

Boone sighted down the barrel, but the squirrel moved a little as Boone fired. The squirrel fell to the ground and ran into a thicket of wild blackberry bushes. Boone muttered to himself. He was disappointed that he had not made a clean shot. I told him old Bo would get the squirrel.

Bo was after him, but like Boone, he was slower than before. His voice was still high and clear. He started after the squirrel at a walk. As we watched, Bo fell to the ground. Quickly scrambling to get up, he yodeled as he entered the blackberry thicket. Bo was still barking for another twenty yards or so. Then there was silence.

I looked at Boone. His face was gray, his breathing was heavy, and his old face seemed more wrinkled. “Please sit down Boone,” I said. “Bo found the squirrel. I’ll go get them.” Boone stood there holding on to a tree, his knees trembling, and didn’t say anything.

I walked through the thicket toward where I’d last heard Bo. I found him stretched out, mouth open, eyes glazed. There was no life left in him. A couple of feet beyond his muzzle, the squirrel twitched a little, and then was still. I left them both and returned to Boone. He was leaning against the tree now with his head bowed. Boone could tell by my face what had happened.

“I knew it when he fell,” Boone whispered. We walked back to the truck, and both of us were quiet with our own thoughts. Boone broke the silence. “I hope I go like Bo when it is time. Doing something I like to do.” I grabbed his hand and held on to it. “I will come back later with a shovel,” I said. “Thanks,” Boone replied, “I don’t think I could do it. One more thing, would you bury the squirrel in front of him?” I nodded as I choked back tears.

We got back to the truck. Boone reached in to get got out an oiled rag to carefully wipe his old rifle, put it in the case, and zipped it up. He looked at me with tears in his eyes, handed the gun to me, and said, “I don’t think I’m going to hunt anymore. I want you to have it.” In just a few months, Boone was gone too.

I hunted for many years with Boone’s gun and took a lot of squirrels with it. But, it wasn’t the same without Boone by my side and the sounds of Bo treeing a squirrel. The rifle sat in the gun safe in my office for many years. I am now in the autumn of my life.

My sons grew up hunting squirrels with that gun.  I taught them like Boone taught me. My grandson got his first squirrel with it after his Dad had taught him. Boone is probably smiling in heaven, knowing his squirrel gun is still getting squirrels.

Our family has had a lot of dogs and still does. They have been and are very special to us. To me, there was never another dog quite like Bo.

When I am gone home to heaven, Boone’s gun will be passed down to my son or grandson to be taken care of and used for hunting squirrels. It will be passed down later, to future generations of our family. This story will also continue to be told, to many more generations. They will all know the story of Boone and Bo.