GUNDOG CENTRAL - HUNTING DOGS FOR SALE

A centralized place to find your next hunting dog - since 2006.

Danny Bardwell | https://gundogcentral.com/contributors | All Hunting Articles

Posted 02/25/2024

It would have been different had Belle been at home. She would have found a safe warm spot near the hay loft. Randall would have looked in on her throughout the day, more than likely bringing her bits of leftover bacon and biscuits and making sure the pups had a clean place to be whelped. She was royalty at Bent Pine and didn’t kennel with the other dogs. She had the run of the plantation. Her favorite place to lie, be it summer or winter, was under the rail fence of the barn lot. There, she was shaded in the summer by huge spreading oak and beech trees. In the winter she was warmed by the sun shining through those same trees then leafless and unable to fend off the warm welcomed rays. She laid under the bottom rail that was positioned just right to offer a scratch to her long back whenever she chose to do so. It was perfect. The spot seemingly offered a respite, though actual work didn’t exist for Belle. Maybe she enjoyed the spot for reflection, that now, she had aplenty. From her favorite spot she could view anything approaching the main house, as well as view over a mile of cleared bottomland, a bottom that stretched eastward to the Black Warrior River and south for three miles farther than Belle could see from the rails even on a clear day.



All of Bent Pine was hers. In her youth she hunted every field edge and oak flat on the place. She had been trained at Bent Pine and after her puppy years she and Randall traveled to field trials across the south and beyond. In the spring the smell of fresh tilled bottom soil reminded her of when she hunted the big farm country of Iowa and Indiana, finding pheasants and quail, and winning tight hugs from Randall when her name was called out as the winner. In June when cotton bloomed across the bottom she daydreamed of when she and Randall challenged the muddy fields just north of Jackson, and up into northern Mississippi around Como and Coldwater where tall cotton rows and sharp stubble made her brace mate quit. That’s where Belle learned to run the balks to the headland and then look for Randall, and she learned that quail in cotton country habit ditch banks. She won and won and won. Randall and Belle campaigned for six seasons, and won everywhere they entered, save one place… Ames.

At midday early in January a cold blast of air from a northern front swept across Bent Pine and the skies darkened. Belle raised her head into the wind and then toward the main road where a small cloud of dust belied the coming of strangeness. She sensed that the low black clouds and the ominous strangeness arriving would not be good for her new arrivals, so she left the vantage of the rails and hid in the barn behind the feed bin. From there she could not only hide but also see the weather as well as the approaching strangeness.

Randall had left Bent Pine that morning to buy cattle in Montgomery. He left thinking Belle had a week to go. He was wrong. There was no cotton in the bottom at that time of year so the couple of hands retained to do winter chores paid little attention to the nervous acting pointer hiding behind the feed bin, and at the first clap of thunder they scrambled toward town, leaving only Belle to protect the farm.



Black clouds and cold rain didn’t concern Belle, she had seen this many times. And comforting to Belle was the fact that she had also many times before seen the truck and horse trailer that pulled to the front of the barn. It was the same truck and trailer she sensed to be strange and ominous only moments ago. Yes, comforting was the word, she felt a relief, as every little thing recently had brought stress to her. But not this time, it was Ben Pruitt, she knew him.

Ben stepped from the truck door, looked around the vacant farm, and then slapped his hand to his leg and called out, as if calling to a hidden friend. “Belle, come here girl. Come here Belle”. Belle ran from behind the feed bin toward Ben. As Belle greeted Ben with her high tail wagging, Ben secured his hand around her collar and led her to the trailer.

Strangeness, thought Belle, strangeness indeed. Her senses had not deceived her. This was not good, not good at all. It happened so quickly Belle had not the time or opportunity to take so much as one last glance at her home. He opened the latch and tossed her into the stall. Belle, despite her delicate condition, rebounded toward the gate as it slammed shut in her face, knocking her back. Again, she made a dash toward the door. She jumped to go over but was met with the sting of a bridle rein and then the top gate slammed shut leaving Belle in darkness. Ben searched the yards and house windows once again to be sure no one saw him. Then the pair, captive and thief, drove off into the winter storm west toward Texas.

The temperature would drop to ten degrees after the rain stopped and that’s cold anywhere, but in the deep south it seems colder. It only gets that cold in January and people and animals alike are just not prepared for it. They hunker down for a few days and eventually the expected warm weather returns. But Belle didn’t have the luxury of time to hunker down. As the trailer bounced down the bumpy roads Belle tried to scratch a bed into the dried hay and manure. Had Belle been younger and given more time she would have prepared an excellent bed for the task ahead. Instinctively she circled and circled at the corner of the dark trailer, scratching and clawing, biting and chewing and pulling. All to no avail, so she laid down and began her travail.



For nearly four hours she labored. Six pups were born. The truck and trailer continued into the night and straight into more frigid weather. Belle was cold and her tongue was swollen from thirst. After she had birthed them all she stood wobbling from weakness and from the swaying of the conveyance. She made her way to a seam in the trailer wall that was letting rainwater trickle in. She licked the cold stream until her pups called. Her thirst wasn’t quenched but the calls were strong. Through the night she arranged and rearranged her litter, rotating the colder ones next to her belly and nudging those that had sucked off to the edge. She had no favorite, and she didn’t dwell on her circumstances. Her only focus was to do the best she could with what she had. Instinctively she knew it wouldn’t be enough.

For another day and well into the second night the truck and trailer continued to roll. Stopping only to refuel. On that second night the rig came to a different kind of road. Belle knew that kind of road, soft and quiet, marked occasionally with the sound of mud and water splashing onto the fenders. At one stop she heard a gate being opened and latched again. We are at a farm, thought Belle, maybe Randall will be here, with warmth and food and care for my pups. But it wasn’t that way. The truck came to a stop. Someone was waiting. She heard men talking and felt the trailer sway as Ben uncoupled the trailer from the truck. “Yeah, I got her. She’ll be alright in there tonight. Let’s go, I’m cold and hungry.”
Belle barked, and then barked again. The second man yelled and banged loudly against the trailer wall. “Shut up in there!” After a moment more Belle heard two trucks drive away.

The hunger could have been dealt with. Within minutes of the pups being whelped, milk began to fill her bag. She could feed them for a time. The cold however was different, merciless. Shivering herself, she couldn’t rotate the pups often enough. At daylight only three remained alive, and they were cold. Belle could not smell their breath. She licked the pups briskly, reviving them, rolling them over and over, warming them. She curled her body against the freezing trailer walls fending off the frigid night and offering all the warmth she could. Occasionally one sucked but the milk wouldn’t last long.

It was well into the morning before Belle heard a truck arrive, and with the truck came the voices she had heard the night before. The sun was hidden by clouds, but the day warmed enough to allow a light snow to fall. The second man spoke first. “Don’t let her out without a leash. She’ll be gone and so will our thousand bucks.” Belle heard the men at the door and thought about rushing out as it rattled open. It was Ben Pruitt. He held a leash in one hand and a thick walking cane in the other.



Belle growled instinctively but knew she couldn’t or wouldn’t leave her pups. “Easy now Belle.” He raised the cane and slowly knelt down to Belle. Ben reached to Belle’s collar, unbuckled it, and replaced it with another. As Ben’s eyes grew accustomed to the lack of light, a dim ray of the cloudy morning exposed the pups to the man. Ben shouted to the man outside. “She’s had pups! Preston wanted a brood bitch, I guess he’s in luck,” Ben sorted through the litter, feeling for warmth but he only found coldness. He called again to the man outside. “They’re all dead.” He placed the frozen pups in his coat pockets and backed out of the trailer. Standing outside he tossed a handful of meat scraps toward Belle. She remained curled in the corner and did not move to them. After the door was shut and the voices and truck had driven away, Belle shifted ever so slightly, revealing a little bundle of warm fur from under her inner thigh that she had kept hidden from the strangeness of Ben Pruitt.

Account Login

Email Address

Password

Remember Me -

* Recover Password
* Create a FREE account