Seems like since we've been living in this house, every winter, we end up with hound dogs. I think, sometimes, that there must be some special marking on our house, some sign that says, "Dog people here." Like a quilt along the Underground Railroad.
Most of the time we see them first down the road and eventually they make their way to our porch, where we feel sorry for them and feed them and offer them a dog house or comfy place to sleep. And, suddenly, we have hound dogs.
First year we had Homer and Daisy. They stayed with us for more than a month until someone from over the mountain came and claimed them while I was in the hospital giving birth to Barrett. Good thing for the owner that he came when he did because I had those dogs scheduled to get fixed.
Last year, we had Honey. I really wanted to keep Honey. I'm pretty sure she was a Plott hound and boy was she a sweetheart of a dog. But she was also a chewer and she destroyed our neighbor's Christmas decorations. To keep peace in the neighborhood, we let him find her a home. Sigh. I do hope she's happy.
Last week I saw a hound dog down the road. No collar. A handsome male, perhaps a Treeing Walker? White and brown and black, with definite hound dog ears. I told Paul I'd seen him and figured he'd end up on our porch within a couple of days. Alas, I was off by only a day.
So, meet Harry. He's a fine dog, solid, beautiful, gentle-natured. Molly drives him batty, as she does the rest of us, but he seems to tolerate her somewhat with the occasional deep-throated, hound-dog "Rouf". I'll let him hang around as long as he wants, but I am certain someone is looking for this old fella.