 She's an antique Treeing Walker hound of questionable ownership.
Several people claim to have owned her at one time or another, and
many of her pups have become part of the coon hunting community
here. But she hasn't had pups since the Carter administration, and
her life today does not involve coon hunting, but slides more toward
comfort hunting.She spends the nights with whichever family she
happens to grace with her presence at suppertime. During the day,
she makes the rounds of the back doors of various cafes in town. If
it's warm, she'll waddle down to Lewis Creek and keep watch on the
children there. She's basically the neighborhood mama dog.
We're all her puppies in one way or another. She'll meander up to
each of us in the course of a day as if to inspect us as we go forth
to seek our fortunes. If we stoop to pet her, chances are terrific
that we'll collect a motherly slurp or two. Old Sally loves us all,
you see. If we pass muster, and our faces are clean, she'll go on to
the next "pup" and let us go our own way. She realizes the job of a
mother is to become increasingly unnecessary and allows us maximum
freedom.
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Her job as harbinger of spring takes place when the sun begins to
give off heat once again. It warms the pavement, and Old Sally
wanders slowly out to the middle of our main drag and sprawls across
the yellow line, soaking up the heat. This happens each day of
spring, from "finally warm enough" until "too hot to handle." Her
favorite places are in front of Fran's "Curl Up 'N Dye" beauty salon
and a repaired pothole just south of the feed store.
Someone bought her a reflective collar that can be seen from
passing aircraft, and that helps. We smile, slow down and go around.
It's just Old Sally, and it's spring.
[Text from file received from Slim Randles]
Brought to you by "Sweetgrass Mornings," a
collection of outdoor memories, at
www.slimrandles.com.
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