SMOKEY
8-28-07
Walt Hampton

Fall is my favorite time of year and there is really only one reason for this, it was in the fall that I got to spend so much time with my dogs when I was growing up. Like so many young hunters of my generation I could only dream of deer and turkeys in the big woods, because they had not yet staged their comeback in those days, but I had my own shotgun and there were rabbits and I had my beagle and all was right with the world. Charlie was the first dog that I could really call “mine†and he set the bar for all that would follow him, regardless of breed, and it was he that showed me, beagle-style, what truth, loyalty and love really meant. I mention Charlie here, dead these 26 years, because he was my benchmark dog, from clumsy puppy to athletic hunter to grizzled old dog, teaching me that we can survive love and hate and mourning even though we never ever get over losing a good dog.
I never considered Smokey my dog; I bought him as a 7-week-old pup for Wade from a fellow down on the Guinea Neck, and I knew when I saw him in his stumbling charge out of the pen and between the front feet of a 150 pound Rottweiler, obviously believing that he was “top dog†even at that age, I knew that he had the heart to make a good dog. I wish I could go back and get a photo of Wade’s face when I handed him over; from that moment until the end he was Wade’s dog, and Wade was his man.
There is absolutely nothing on the face of the earth as cute as a beagle puppy. It is beyond me that there are actually people on this planet that don’t like dogs; I cannot imagine looking into those huge liquid eyes half-hidden behind those velvet ears and not feeling your heart slip away, stolen by an animal that knows nothing of taking, and everything of giving. We tried to fix up the traditional cardboard box, resplendent with old sock and alarm clock for his night bed but from the beginning Smokey let us know that was not to be; Wade eventually put his mattress on the floor of his bedroom so the little fellow could root down under the covers to get next to Wade’s warmth. So it was for the rest of his life, Smokey was a “bed dogâ€, and when he bulled his way in under the quilts and behind your knees on a cold winter night you could be assured that a good sleep was coming.
A beagle is the master of his home, regardless of what various other animals live there and without regard to their tenure. It didn’t take long for the “beagleness†to come out in Smokey and as he grew he assumed the role of lead dog over our Weimaraner and our two cats; it was never a bullying thing, or one of overt aggression, it was more an acceptance of fact that this beagle was the leader of the pack. All the animals got along with this arrangement fine, with the exception of the big cat, who always seemed to view Smokey with an air of indifferent contempt, although I did catch them playing together on several occasions. And, speaking of playing, you’ve never seen a beagle that could jump like Smokey—it was as if he were propelled from his low, short-legged stature by pure joy and the next thing you knew he was four feet above the ground! From my prospective it was a metaphor for his whole life; he couldn’t wait to get to heaven and jumping was his practice for that last take-off.
Wade went away to college and Smokey attached himself to Cecelia, a soft touch if ever there was one when it comes to an affectionate dog, and Smokey had a habit of working his way up into your lap, then rolling over on his back and putting his nose under your chin, where he would grunt and sneeze and moan and wiggle and the next thing you knew, you were both asleep, sitting there on the couch. With Wade away Cecelia and Smokey became connected; it wasn’t that he forgot Wade, or didn’t have time for the rest of us, it was that he had so much love in him that there was plenty to go around and he focused his true affection for her. With her first-born out the door and his childhood over, Smokey became the focus of Cecelia’s attention when she was home they were always together. There was never any question about where Smokey would sleep; and so it was every night for seven years.
Being a beagle is a full-time job; mischief and escape seem to be the preoccupying forces behind beagle behavior and for Smokey it was ever true, if he had the chance to get loose and run the woods he was gone faster than you could say “SHIT! HE’S OUT!†. We of course were largely to blame for this, being hunters we started him on rabbits and his all-consuming desire was the open door or the chance to slip the leash and he’d be gone for hours, only his deep, clear voice letting us know his approximate position in the cutover that surrounded the house. My one true regret concerning Smokey is that we really never hunted him as we should have; my only hope is that he could forgive us this transgression. Once Jesse wounded a doe and it made it to the cutover along side the driveway; we put Smokey on the blood and with Candy the Wimey on his heels, he rooted her out, finding her down but not anchored, and Candy held her by the ear while Smokey sounded the “treed†alarm, and we bulled our way through the honeysuckle and briars to them to finish the job. That was one proud beagle, I assure you, at our heels as we pulled the deer to the road.
There were some tough emotional times upon us and we decided to sell out, to move back to Grayson County, so Cecelia and the boys set up housekeeping in Independence, while the dogs, cats and I stayed in Gloucester to sell the property and manage the rest of the move. We were in this situation when hurricane Isabelle came to visit; the dogs, cats and I rode out the storm, and in the aftermath for 14 days lived without power; it’s easy to take for granted true expressions of loyalty and trust but I can say without qualification that it was because of the animals I made it through in fine style. The confidence and solidarity they showed me when things were at their worst I know made me a stronger person. Smokey never left my side, night or day, and seemed ready to face any challenge; how could I falter in the face of such bravery? For almost two years Smokey and his cohorts were my only companions; our daily walks helped me lose 40 pounds and when our reunion with Cecelia and the boys came to be, it was for Smokey like nothing had ever changed. With no compunction whatsoever I let him slip back into focusing his love on Cecelia but I really believe that he held our connection too; there were times after the reunion that for no reason he would seek me out (as he would do to Wade, also) and insist his way into my lap for that “close holding†that set him apart from all the other dogs I have known.
Smokey had a congenital bowel abnormality that first became known when he was only a year old, and surgery was necessary to remove an adhesion from his colon. It would be this problem that would finally bring about the unthinkable in 2007. One beautiful August day Wade drove Cecelia and Smokey to Twin Oaks Vet Hospital and it would fall once again to Dr. Nash Williams to act in Smokey’s behalf, to perform for us the supreme act of love and devotion with dignity and compassion. I know it was impossibly hard for them to follow through with what had to be done and I truthfully know that I have never been more proud of my son than at that moment.
I met them in Independence and we all drove straight to the Mountain, to the ridge where another Hampton dog has rested for many years.
I wrapped him in a good blanket, tucked in tight like he liked to do at night, and held him in my arms and faced the Mountain, asking the Spirit there to welcome our buddy, our loving friend, to the ranks of those already present in paradise. Wade and I took turns with the digging and when it was done Wade lay down on the ground next to the grave and gently lowered his first dog into the Buck Mountain dirt, an act of such pure love and fortitude, carried out for his mother’s sake as well as his own. I said to Wade and Cecelia “We bring our dead here, to this place, because this place is where we feel the most alive†and there in the afternoon glow of a perfect Buck Mountain day we sat together and remembered to each other why we loved him, all the garbage eating, cat-chasing, shoe-pissing, snoodling, jumping, baying, snoring and real affection he showed us all.
It was all of it too quick and too shocking and once again an animal taught me something profound, that the precious things are precious in the fleeting glimpse we get of them as they brush past us in life, this time in the form of a short, fat beagle with a big heart and permanent smile.
That’s my good boy; watch for me, I’ll be along someday soon.

Smokey meant a lot to you BUCKMT, I can tell - my condolences. He was lucky to have lived those years in your home.
Get yourself another Beagle puppy, thats the best remedy that there is.

So sorry to hear of your loss. My most sincere condolensces. Members of the family are hard to lose.

We lost out last puppy some years ago and I still tear up when I think about losing him.

thanks for the kind words folks. life is good and a good dog makes life better.
Walt

BuckMt

I know all too well how you feel. My heart is right there with you. Kudude