Without, the night is cold and wet, but in the small parlour of Cumberland Furnace, Tennessee the blinds are drawn and the fire burns brightly. The master of the house is at DVD, half-heartedly purveying "The History Boys" while pondering radical changes and unnecessary perils. "Hark at the wind", he says to no one in particular. The gale now carries a sound of impending doom for in it's wail he hears the howl of his recently deceased hound.
He wasn't much of a dog but he'd always have a home. The reason stemmed from years ago when the master was off on a gig. Upon his return he found screwdriver sized holes in every window screen of the house. Just then he noticed the hound dog chewing on a piece of blue denim. Upon closer inspection, a pocket was stitched into the hound dog's chew toy. Without much deduction a mental video of the previous night could be envisioned. A thief had tried to burglarize my house and the hound had taken a bite out of his butt; thereby, running him off and foiling the crime. Yes, despite his shortcomings, the hound would always have a home.
He had a fancy-shmansy name on his AKC registration, "Jericho Lee" the papers said. That name never stuck... he was simply, "Hound Dog". In truth, a dumber, lazier dog has rarely lived. That may have been a facade however, for Hound Dog always went where he pleased and did as he pleased - all the while, wagging his tail and going on his merry way. The one time he needed to show some gumption - he did - and in so doing attained eternal security.
Cumberland Furnace is a small town. The "Welcome" sign says - Pop: 1,250 (but that may be stretching the truth). There's a main street that flows past the town square across from the courthouse. Because there's a traffic light directing traffic between the two, we qualify as a full fledged town for only towns have a traffic light. My house is on a hill directly behind the courthouse. "Jail Hill" to be exact because the town jail is 2 doors up. I can stand on my front porch and when the mood hits me, I can pee on the courthouse roof. The mood hits me every year at tax time.
Hound Dog used to mozee down the hill and be too tired to walk up again. He'd plop down right in the middle of Main Street and stop traffic in both lanes. Horns would blow, people would curse but he was not moved by any of it. Once when I was in the square and witnessed this happening, a farmer got out of his pickup, looked directly at me and spit out... "who's damn dog is that anyway?" My reply was, "Mister, I have no idea but something really should be done about him." (stretching the truth is easy in Cumberland Furnace)
I still look back in horror at the day a couple made the mistake of getting married on the courthouse lawn. It was a beautiful affair with friends and family gathered for the joyous event. Unfortunately, Hound Dog decided to attend. It must have been the guitars that set him off or maybe the fiddle but he howled throughout the entire ceremony. It would have been embarrassing had anyone known whose dog he was.
The creme de la creme happened about 4 years ago. Miss Maebelle from next door was out working in her yard when she slipped on a pile of dog doo. She fell and broke her pelvis. Now my heart went out to poor Miss Maebelle, at her age bones don't mend too quickly. But when she accused the hound of being the culprit I had to stand up for him and request DNA testing be done before I'd admit his guilt. After all, he's not the only dog in Cumberland Furnace.
About 3 months later Miss Maebelle was backing down her driveway and either didn't see Hound Dog or more likely saw him and sped up. In any event her car whacked him and he went rolling down the hill all the way to the courthouse. If we had a vet I may have taken Hound Dog, but since we don't I called my sister, Boop, who's a Physician's Assistant in North Carolina. I described his symptoms and her over the phone diagnosis was - you guessed it - a broken pelvis. Hound Dog permanently hopped around on 3 legs after that. He never ventured down to Main Street again.
Not long ago we had a gig and were gone for the weekend. When we got back the hound was nowhere to be found and my telephone didn't work. I finally got People's Telephone Company to come check it out and we discovered a possum had gotten up under the house and chewed through all the lines. Then we smelled it. I looked over at the old abandoned well behind my house and the cover was off. Cautiously, I and the Peoples man peered down into the well and there floated Hound Dog, drowned! Once again deduction envisions a mental video. The Peoples man deduced that Hound Dog had taken off after that possum and in his excitement knocked the cover off the well and fell in. I have a suspicion that Miss Maebelle was somehow involved but I'll go with the Peoples man re-creation and try to think the best of my neighbor.
The wind ceases suddenly, although the echoes of it are still in the house. A cold wind blows up the staircase and a long loud howl of misery can be heard from just outside the back door. The master gathers the courage to run to the window and peer out at the abandoned well. The street lamp flickering opposite shines on a quiet and deserted yard.
