Outdoors—by Ross McGehee
Cornbread and Jack
It never fails. Clients show up at the lodge for a weekend of hunting and relaxation, and someone will notice that Cornbread will take his meals and eat them on the back porch. It doesn’t matter how many or few people there are to feed or how important the clients are to the business; he still eats outside. Kind of peculiar behavior but you’ve got to know Cornbread. He likes to eat with his dog. But we don’t allow dogs at the lodge. So is there a dog in the back yard? Well, there is, and there ain’t. But the back story is pretty amusing. So here goes.
Cornbread is a devoted coon hunter. Actually, he is a devoted anything-that-is-in-season hunter, and coon hunting just gives him an excuse to go out all night as if the days aren’t long enough! Of course, the only practical way to hunt coons is with dogs. Good coon dogs are pretty common. Great coon dogs are a little harder to come by. Once-in-a-lifetime dogs are, well, just that. What in the world does it take to reach that level? The dog has to have the ability to detect whether or not the coon he is trailing is really up the tree or has just “tapped”? That is, has the coon run up the tree a little ways and jumped to the ground far off from the base in order to evade pursuit. A great dog will stay on the track, barking regularly so he can be followed by the hunting party. Then, when the coon goes up a tree, the dog should stay at the tree and bark “treed” until hunters catch up. All the time, every time! If the prey leaps into a creek or river to swim to safety, a topnotch coon dog will not only pursue but also recover said prey from the water after whatever combat is required! Cornbread had one of those. His name was Jack. Jack and Cornbread were companions for years.
Nothing lives forever, and Jack was no exception. He got to where he couldn’t hunt anymore because his vision was failing, as were his kidneys and his hips. Cornbread had to pick him up out of the kennel and help him walk near the end. Finally, the vet pointed out that the dog was being kept alive for Cornbread’s benefit not for the dog’s, so the difficult decision was made, and Jack was put to sleep. All right, this hasn’t been very amusing so far but hang on.
You would have thought the Pope had died! Cornbread cried like a little girl and had to be helped out of the vet’s clinic and driven home. Then, he wouldn’t leave Jack in the truck alone. After considerable gnashing of teeth by a spouse, the recently departed hound was delivered into the living room! Oh, yeah. Right in front of the fireplace where he was laid in state on his doggie bed, curled up like he was asleep! Cornbread slept on the couch. I won’t say how long Jack remained in the living room but it was far longer than most folks I know would have allowed. At some point, he was wrapped in a bed sheet and transferred to a cardboard box. That was an improvement to most of the guys that were summoned to pay their respects and offer condolences. Actually, his wife was being solicitous in her support for the grieving process because she knew that it was going to be the help of Cornbread’s friends and not her conniptions that got the dog out of the house and into whatever final resting place that awaited.
Hints were dropped. Direct inquiries were made. Carefully crafted questions were asked. Cornbread was oblivious. He was in grief and needed more time. Finally, his best friend announced that a burial was fixing to take place, and Cornbread could decide who and where.
“Who and where?”
“Yeah. If we don’t get that dog in the ground, there’s going to be another death in the family. I’ve seen the look in your wife’s eyes, Big Boy!”
So not one but TWO garbage bags were slid over the box containing Jack. Then careful measurements were made to ascertain the size hole needed to accommodate the package. Three buddies volunteered to excavate a suitable burial spot since they figured that it would a darn sight easier to dig a hole for Jack than it would be dig a six-foot deep hole for Cornbread. They chose a spot in the back yard, but that idea was vetoed by a wife that decreed Jack had dug up her yard enough already.
Finally, Cornbread agreed that the back yard at the camp was a good spot since he’d be out there often enough to visit. A hole was presented for his approval, but it failed in specifications. Cornbread was fearful that wild animals might dig Jack up so the hole went down another two feet. One of the shovel hands mentioned that the hole was almost deep enough for someone whose foolishness he’d had about enough of. Guys can say that to each other’s face. Cornbread didn’t hear it. He was sitting with “Jack-in-the-box.”
All right. The hole was finally deep enough. Flies hadn’t begun to gather. The smell wasn’t evident yet. The deed was about to be done, and it started to rain. The grave diggers implored Cornbread to hurry up and deliver the box so they could fill the grave before they got soaked.
“Oh, no. Not now. I can’t bury him in the rain. He might get wet!”
“Cornbread, the dog is wrapped in two garbage bags, a cardboard box, and that bed sheet that your mother-in-law gave y’all when you got married. I really don’t think a little water is going to get to him.” Cornbread refused to bury Jack under the weather conditions, so the crew found a tarpaulin and covered the hole. Jack went back to the house with his devoted master. Devoted or demented? Hmmm.
The next day the sun shone bright. There was also a pretty good glow coming from Cornbread’s wife. Once again a burial party gathered to usher Jack to a final resting place and, hopefully, Cornbread back to reality. Alas, the tarpaulin had caught enough water in the rain that it had sagged into the hole and leaked. There was about an inch of water in the bottom; and even though friends reached far down and dipped it out, Cornbread wasn’t satisfied.
Blood pressure rose among the group. It was the last straw for an overly patient and understanding wife who had apparently in the last few minutes turned into a Chickasaw War Priestess! After laying the law down for several minutes, she finally convinced Cornbread to quit “dragging this out” among other choices of words that shall not be repeated in this forum. To the great relief of everyone in attendance, he acquiesced but suggested that he had forgotten to put Jack’s favorite chew toy in with him and would like to do that before it was too late. The gag factor was enough that the silent-for-too-long group elected to point out what an incredibly bad idea that would be after this many days. Jack was buried behind the camp without his toy.
So when guests inquire as to why Cornbread takes his meals on the back porch, we just say he likes to throw scraps to the dog back there. Some don’t realize that the scraps are still in the yard the next day. Some figure it out. Some sympathize. Some don’t. My friend Buster told me one time that “if you get emotionally attached to ANYTHING, then you’ve had it too long.” Gee, I wish he’d mentioned that to Cornbread!
