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Jigsby J. Frank SanderJigs was a pure-bred Bluetick Coonhound. He never hunted a raccoon and he never learned any tricks, but from the time he was a pup tripping over his own ears, Jigs was able to reason things out. The first day I chained Jigs to his dog house he figured out how to loose himself. One moment he was attached; next moment I heard him way across town celebrating freedom with his bay. My neighbors heard him, too. They didn't take kindly to a bugling hound running free on a muggy open-window summer night. The entire third shift of our local police department tried but couldn't catch him. He bugled with glee until dawn. After that Jigs escaped whenever he had a mind to and eluded the cops at will. One day he broke free when everyone had their trash piled neatly along their curbs waiting for the truck to take it away. Jigs was nearly full grown; eighty-five pounds of speckled clown. He frolicked up the street knocking over full trash cans as he went; spreading debris in every direction. It was bad enough when he bugled all night but he was turning into a renegade. Someone called the cops. Jigs heard the siren and made a bee-line toward home. He dove into his dog house, crossed his feet to cradle his head and closed his eyes as the squad car arrived. I had never seen him looking so innocent; trying to convince the officer that he was in his dog house all morning. After cleaning up several acres of trash, I realized I'd have to take steps to insure he'd stay put. I bought a five-gallon bucket, filled it with wet concrete and sunk a logger's eye bolt into the muck. When the cement set I buried the bucket next to the dog house. A few times Jigs had torn his leather collar, leaving the shredded remnants behind. I bought a new spiked choker collar, the kind dog trainers use, and slipped it over his head with the spikes inward. I connected one end of his chain to the collar and the other to the eye bolt. Those measures were for Jigs' own good. All fourteen officers on our village police force had decided that Jigs made them look foolish enough. Next time he broke loose they intended to capture him dead or alive. It gave me a secure feeling to think he wouldn't escape again. My neighbors didn't like Jigs much. Old Harold Graves was no exception. Graves lived across the street. There were lots of dogs on our street and all of them caused mischief on occasion; but Harold Graves knew that Jigs was the primary culprit. He committed himself to having Jigs locked away in the pound and reported him whenever possible. Jigs considered Harold Graves a challenge. The morning I chained Jigs to that cement-filled bucket, Harold Graves was in his front yard cleaning up the wind fallen branches from his huge willow tree. That was the messiest tree in town dropping twigs and branches all over his yard every time a summer storm blew in. I watched Graves for a while, gathering twigs, bending over to wrap them into bundles with binder's twine, unaware that he was about to have a confrontation with a calculating Bluetick. Jigs lay in his dog house till noon pondering how to escape from that spiked collar. I saw him through my window at lunch time; backing up and pulling the chain taught, making the collar as tight as he could. Then he took one step forward, lowered his head and shook it. The loosened collar slipped over his ears and dropped to the ground. He took off before I could react, running silently along the creek that flowed behind my house. Once he had a notion there was no way to dissuade him. I just had to wait until he decided to come home; most likely with the law hot on his heels. I returned to raking my lawn. Graves was still binding willow bundles and loading them into a garden cart. I knew that something was up when Jigs crossed over to Graves' side of the street a block away. He stopped in the middle of the road and studied Graves for a while as if he was working out a plan. I got curious when he sprinted behind a clump of Pfitzer bushes and hunkered down. Every now and then I glanced up to check on Jigs. Each time he was a little closer; lying in a bed of tall flowers or watching from behind a tree or peering around the corner of a garage, carefully making his way to Graves. If Graves looked up Jigs ducked down in his hiding place and waited until he turned his back again. It took nearly an hour for Jigs to get to the big Blue Spruce on the edge of Graves' lot. That evergreen, just fifteen feet from the last pile of willow twigs, formed a curtain of blue-green needles to hide him completely. Jigs never bit anyone before and I didn't think he would bite Graves so I pretended that I didn't notice when Graves bent over to wrap that last bundle. Suddenly a speckled streak shot from under the pine boughs and came to a screeching halt at Graves' heels. Turning sidways, he lifted his leg and released a steaming yellow stream that shot across across Grave's back and down his legs. Harold Graves jumped about three feet into the air and ran red faced into his house; shaking his fist and cussing at the top of his lungs. Jigs high-tailed it home. I could have sworn that hound was smiling, wearing an expression that said, "Gotcha!" His expression turned to one of innocence, of course, as he lay in his dog house, his head cradled in crossed paws when the squad car arrived. Submitted by Frank Tamel ftamel@ultracom.com |
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