Short Story: Hunting Dogs & Hiding Spots
Postcards from the Ozarks
As a kid growing up in the Missouri Ozarks, I spent a lot of time with my dad. He was a hunter— he used to trap, but he loved listening to the dogs on cold winter nights. I have a similar affliction even though I don’t make it home or have any Blueticks, Walkers, or Black and Tans anymore. This little bit of creative nonfiction is based on real events. I don’t remember the year so 1993 is a good guess. Dad was going hunting, I wanted to go, I got threatened with a whipping, and one of dad’s hunting buddies, Roy Greene, stepped in because “you don’t whip a kid that wants to go hunting.”
Carter County, Missouri — Winter, 1993
The chill was just starting to bite down hard in the bottoms around Fremont, Missouri. The sun had dipped behind the hills, and the trees whispered secrets through dry sycamore leaves as Bert Pennington checked his gear one last time. A battered Stanley thermos of coffee clanked against the battery pack of his big hunting light, and his one hand tugged a tangled leash free from a heap of barbed wire in the back of the little red Ford Ranger.
Bob Crafton stood nearby, boots muddy from going after one of the coon dogs earlier, leaning against the tailgate like he was posing for the cover of Full Cry Magazine. Roy Greene, the high school principal and coon hunter, stretched out stiff knees and pondered the evening sky.
“Gonna be a good night,” Roy said, eyeing the sky. “Air’s right, moon’s new, and these hills are whisperin’.”
“They’re whisperin’ somethin’,” Bert said, “but it might just be the dogs in my truck bed.”
In the truck bed , the hounds were already pacing, ears up, breath fogging the back glass when they got towards the front. Just as Bert reached in to grab a leash, he heard it—that tiny, unmistakable sniffle.
Then a squeak of leather. Then silence.
“BJ,” Bert said, standing up straight.
The truck door creaked open slowly. Caught in the act, BJ stood frozen all of 5, holding a coon light like it was a holy relic and trying her best not to cry.
“You don’t listen worth a damn,” Bert said, stepping down and setting his jaw. “Didn’t I tell you no? It’s too cold, and it’ll be after midnight before we’re home."
BJ didn’t argue, just bit her lip and blinked hard. “I’ll stay in the truck, Daddy. I won’t get in the way.”
"You need to go inside. I ought to whip you're butt!"
“Now hold on,” Roy said from behind, stepping up with a grin. “Don’t go whippin’ a kid that wants to hunt. There’s worse things a little girl can want than coon dogs and a nice hunt.”
From the porch, Maggie’s voice cut in. “Bert Pennington, you let that girl stand out here much longer and she’s gonna catch more than a chill.”
Bob whistled low. “She’s got that huntin’ fire. Same look you had as a kid Bert."
“That’s different,” Bert muttered.
BJ looked up at him then, her eyes not angry—just hurt. “I just want to be with y’all.”
Bert sighed and scratched at his beard with his hand. “I know you do, baby. And one day you will. But tonight ain’t the night.”
Maggie appeared then, wrapping a knitted shawl around BJ’s shoulders and steering her back toward the porch. “Come on, my girl. You help me keep the cocoa warm for when they get back. They’re liable to need it.”
“I don’t want cocoa,” BJ grumbled. “I want to go hunting.”
“You can want both,” Maggie said, pulling her close. “And you’ll get both. Just not tonight.”
As BJ was led back toward the glow of the porch light, Bob stepped up beside Bert and clapped him on the shoulder. “We’ll bring Mark and the boys next weekend. Let the kids run a short trail together. You can bet BJ’ll be leadin’ the pack.”
Bert nodded, watching the door close behind his daughter. “Yeah. She’s got it in her.”
Roy chuckled as he swung up into the cab. “She’s gonna out-hunt all of us by the time she’s ten.”
Bert cracked a grin. “If she don’t burn the woods down first.”
And with that, the dogs were let loose into the dark, howling like the hills themselves had come alive. And back in the house, a little girl pressed her face to the window, not bitter—just waiting. The woods would still be there next weekend. And so would she.
Disclaimer:
Hunting is a time-honored tradition deeply rooted in cultural heritage and the responsible stewardship of wildlife. It serves not only as a meaningful connection to nature but also as a sustainable way to supplement one’s diet with natural, locally-sourced food. This activity, when practiced ethically and within legal guidelines, contributes to conservation efforts and helps maintain ecological balance.
