Shiloh and Other Stories - Bobbie Ann Mason [105]
He was Buddy Landon, and he tried to sell her a hunting dog. He seemed perfectly serious. Did she want a coonhound or a bird dog? The thing wrong with bird dogs was that they liked to run so much they often strayed, he said. He recommended the Georgia redbone hound for intelligence and patience. “The redbone can jump and tree, but he doesn’t bark too much,” he said. “He don’t cry wolf on you, and he’s a good fighter.”
“What do I need a coon dog for?” said Ruby, wishing he had a good answer.
“You must be after a bird dog then,” he said. “Do you prefer hunting ducks or wild geese? I had some hounds that led me on a wild-goose chase one time after an old wildcat. That thing led us over half of Kentucky. That sucker never would climb a tree! He wore my dogs out.” He whooped and clapped his hands.
There were eight empty dog crates in the back of his pickup, and he had chained the dogs to a line between two trees. Ruby approached them cautiously, and they all leaped into the air before their chains jerked them back.
“That little beagle there’s the best in the field,” Buddy said to a man in a blue cap who had sidled up beside them.
“What kind of voice has he got?” the man said.
“It’s music to your ears!”
“I don’t need a rabbit dog,” the man said. “I don’t even have any rabbits left in my fields. I need me a good coon dog.”
“This black-and-tan’s ambitious,” said Buddy, patting a black spot on a dog’s head. The spot was like a little beanie. “His mama and daddy were both ambitious, and he’s ambitious. This dog won’t run trash.”
“What’s trash?” Ruby asked.
“Skunk. Possum,” Buddy explained.
“I’ve only knowed two women in my life that I could get out coon hunting,” the man in the blue cap said.
“This lady claims she wants a bird dog, but I think I can make a coon hunter out of her,” said Buddy, grinning at Ruby.
The man walked away, hunched over a cigarette he was lighting, and Buddy Landon started to sing, “You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog.” He said to Ruby, “I could have been Elvis Presley. But thank God I wasn’t. Look what happened to him. Got fat and died.” He sang, “ ‘Crying all the time. You ain’t never caught a rabbit …’ I love dogs. But I tell you one thing. I’d never let a dog in the house. You know why? It would get too tame and forget its job. Don’t forget, a dog is a dog.”
Buddy took Ruby by the elbow and steered her through the fairgrounds, guiding her past tables of old plastic toys and kitchen utensils. “Junk,” he said. He bought Ruby a Coke in a can, and then he bought some sweet corn from a farmer. “I’m going to have me some roastin’ ears tonight,” he said.
“I hear your dogs calling for you,” said Ruby, listening to the distant bugle voices of the beagles.
“They love me. Stick around and you’ll love me too.”
“What makes you think you’re so cute?” said Ruby. “What makes you think I need a dog?”
He answered her questions with a flirtatious grin. His belt had a large silver buckle, with a floppy-eared dog’s head engraved on it. His hands were thick and strong, with margins of dirt under his large, flat nails. Ruby liked his mustache and the way his chin and the bill of his cap seemed to yearn toward each other.
“How much do you want for that speckled hound dog?” she asked him.
—
He brought the sweet corn and some steaks to her house that evening. By then, the shucks on the corn were wilting. Ruby grilled the steaks and boiled the ears of corn while Buddy unloaded