Hunting Hound Hopes

I released Moose this morning, slung his leash around my shoulders, grabbed the trash can, pulled it to end of our lane and started to walk down our township road – alone. I wondered whether Dan's chocolate hunting dog would track me down. He had sprinted back into the woods on his daily scout. I didn't intend to go far – just stretch my atrophying muscles – out in the below-zero briskness.

Moose was stretching too. He loped up beside me, circled and came into step. I said, "There you are. You found me."

I walked. Moose explored the perimeter of a "hunting range" about me. We turned the bend and continued our journey. Now and then, Moose stopped, pointed and cast a longing glance to the easterly meadows. In a deep voice, I uttered, "MOOOO-OOSE!"

This almost-three-year-old griffon-wanna-be turned to me, circled and sat obediently by my side. I pet him and praised, "Good boy!"

We continued our walk to the creek, turned around and started for home. A thundering rumble made Moose look back and come to my side. I spotted the garbage truck, grabbed his collar and said, "Sit."

The truck passed. Moose kept composure. We walked some more – around the bend, past cat hideouts and rabbit tracks. Nose to the ground, ears perked, eyes watchful, this dog was fully in control of his desire to chase – with but my "MOOOO-OOSE" call.

At our lane's end, I grabbed the trash can, rolled it back to the garage with Moose close by. We walked up the sidewalk together. The leash slipped off my shoulders onto the ground. Moose nosed it. I picked up saying: We didn't need this at all – not once – that's a first!"

I see why my hubby has Hunting Hound Hopes yet.