A Piedmont Porchlight Story
When I was a boy, I thought old dogs slept because they got lazy. Turns out little boys ain’t nearly as smart as they think they are.
Daddy had an old Black and Tan Coonhound named Queen. Now, where she came from, I couldn’t tell you. By the time I was old enough to remember anything, she’d already been part of the family so long it seemed she’d always been there. She wasn’t much interested in impressing anybody.
She had scars on her nose. One ear had a fair-sized notch missing. Her muzzle had turned almost completely white. When she walked, she didn’t waste a single step. Every move had purpose. Daddy used to tell folks that Queen was the finest coon dog he’d ever followed. I believed him. Not just because he said it. Because I’d heard her work.
If you’ve never stood on a cool Alabama hillside in the middle of the night listening to a good coonhound strike a fresh trail, well, you’ve missed out on one of God’s finest concerts. She’d open with one long bawl that rolled across the hollows like it had somewhere important to be. Then another. Then another. Pretty soon every man carrying a lantern knew exactly where she was headed.
You could’ve heard that old girl forty-leven miles away. Or at least that’s what all the hunters claimed. I never argued. She sounded big enough to cover the whole county.
Years passed. The hunts became fewer. Daddy’s knees complained more than they used to. Ol’ Queen’s muzzle turned whiter still. Eventually, she quit asking to go. Instead, she’d stretch out in the warm patch of sunshine beside the porch.
Sometimes she’d sleep all morning. I’d look at her and think, “Poor old thing.” Daddy overheard me once. He looked at the gal for a long minute before speaking. “Ain’t nothin’ poor about her.” I wasn’t sure what he meant. He reached down and rubbed behind her ears. “You know why she sleeps so much?” “Because she’s tired, I reckon.”
He smiled. “Naw. Because she earned it. She’s got it comin’ to her.” That answer didn’t make much sense to a little boy. It makes all the sense in the world to an old man.
These days I see old dogs stretched out on porches all over Piedmont. One sleeps outside Curtis Pope’s barbershop every afternoon. Another lies beneath the pecan tree over by the Dixie House whenever the weather turns cool.
Every now and then one raises his head just enough to see who’s walking by. If it’s somebody familiar, his tail thumps the porch twice. That seems sufficient. He goes right back to sleep. Young dogs don’t understand that. They’re too busy chasing every squirrel, every butterfly, every truck that dares to pass the house.
Old dogs know better. Most things ain’t worth getting up for. They’ve already investigated. Already barked. Already chased. Already learned.
I reckon people aren’t much different. When we’re young, we think we have to answer every argument. Attend every meeting. Win every point. Run everywhere at once. Then life has a way of wearing the sharp edges off of us. We begin choosing peace over proving something. Silence over noise. Porch swings over busy highways.
One afternoon not long ago I found myself sitting on the porch watching an old coonhound asleep beneath a maple tree. A breeze stirred the leaves. That dog never moved. Somewhere off in the distance, a freight train gave one long whistle. Still, he slept right on.
For just a second, I found myself wondering if he was dreaming. Maybe he was young again. Maybe he was following a fresh trail through the woods. Maybe somewhere in that old dog’s dreams his voice was still echoing across the hills while Daddy hurried to catch up.
I hope so. He’d earned that dream. The older I get, the more I think rest isn’t something you take. It’s something life gives back to you after you’ve spent enough years showing up. Loving your family. Doing your work. Keeping your promises. Following the trail put in front of you. Maybe that’s why old dogs sleep so peacefully.
They ain’t hiding from life. They’re rememberin’ it. And every now and then, if you happen to pass an old coonhound stretched out in a patch of warm September sunshine, don’t wake him up. He’s probably running one more raccoon through the Alabama woods.
And Lord knows, after all those years of leading the way…
He’s earned the chance to finish the chase in his dreams.
olbigjim 