Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE PACK'S LAST HUNT, by JR. HART IRVING H. First Line: No, boy, I haven't had a pack or run Last Line: "seems like I have damn rotten luck with dogs." Subject(s): Animals; Dogs; Hunting; Hunters | ||||||||
"No, boy, I haven't had a pack or run Behind them since that time you last were here; Seems like I have damn rotten luck with dogs." Alse paused to fill my glass with foaming beer And switched the talk. I saw the memory Of that last chase still angered, sorrowed him. I was content to speak of daily chores; The price of wool and mohair; how his traps Had run; and yet, when he had gone to pen His goats and fold his sheep for night, I found Myself back once again behind the pack. That night, three years ago, it rained like hell Till almost midnight. I awoke to see Alse standing by my bed, his light in hand. "Rain's stopped," he said. "You want to make a run?" Spot heard, or sensed his meaning, whined and bayed. "Sure thing," I answered, pulling on my clothes While Alse went out to gather up the dogs. The sky had cleared, almost, but now and then A stringy cotton cloud would veil the moon. The wind was sweet with dampness and the scent Of rain-washed leaves and freshened pasturage. Far off a coyote yapped, the pack replied, Straining and lunging at the leash -- Old Bob, Young Red, Spot, Rowdy, Fanny-bitch and Queen. Down through the little trap we held them in, Then at the outer gate we set them free. "We might as well set here," Alse said, "Down wind, Until they hit a trail.... Old Clubfoot's back; I seen his track this morning by a kill. Sure like to get that devil. That makes five Spring kids he's left his mark on. -- Listen! Bob!" Old Bob was speaking, low and hoarse. "Cold trail?" I asked. "Cold trails are all washed out," Alse said. Then Queen joined in, a softer, higher voice, Calling the pack; then all were in full tongue. Down through Mac's canyon, up the farther rim, Then circling, heading south toward Cetzer's Creek. We ran that way. Wet brush slapped soggily At face and hands. Sharp Agua Rita leaves Raked Duckin suits. Loose rocks -- a headlong sprawl -- Then up again, after the lantern flash Denoting Alse. Panting, we slid to stop On top a cliff while far below the dogs Whimpered and splashed to find the cross-creek trail. This time the raucous Rowdy led off first; Then Queen's soft tongue, and then the pack joined in. Slipping and stumbling, using crag and bush, We dropped to stream-bed, forded, scaled a bank. Alse touched my arm. "Damn Cat is circling wide... Yeah, now northeast toward Hale's; we'll lose it sure." Yet on we ran, the pack, full-tongued, ahead. "Spot's out, "Alse said abruptly, "Young Red, too.... Here's Queen come back, and Fanny-bitch! Old Bob And Rowdy quiet, too; now, what the hell?" -- His horn was out. "Toot, toot. To-to-to-toooot." Again the horn; again the echo answer. Again and yet again while Fanny, Queen, Wriggled and whined, as puzzled as the rest Of us until at last Alse hunkered down To soothe them. Then he said, "I know what's wrong. They picked up poison pellets on the trail. I didn't think Old Hale had laid it yet. It's set against the law because he can't Drop it each night and take it up at dawn A hundred miles away. The dirty crook -- " "Can't we go find'em, Alse?" I asked. "We might --" "Too late -- they're all tied up in knots or else Run crazy through the brush. No, not a chance -- And anyway -- I just don't want to see My dogs, their guts on fire, crawl and die. Now Fanny-bitch and Queen, I raised myself; You see they wouldn't ever eat on trail .... Snap Queen, or she'll go back to look for Spot. Come on, we're going home." The dusk had come And Alse loomed in the door. I must have jumped, Or something to betray my thoughts to him, For he spoke low, "Yeah, I remember, too. Sometimes it seems I hear the pack again, Full tongue across the creek -- I know it ain't. I guess I'm getting soft. -- That's why I don't Get me a pack and run them any more. Seems like I have damn rotten luck with dogs." | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE LAMENT OF QUARRY by LEONIE ADAMS KILLDEER by KENNETH SLADE ALLING THE YOUNG FOWLER THAT MISTOOK HIS GAME by PHILIP AYRES A POEM ABOUT THE HOUNDS AND THE HARES by LISEL MUELLER |
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