Charger
We had slowed down running the hounds and were now still hunting for deer close to home. A lot of our territory adjoined a large swamp, if shot at or spooked, that’s where they headed. We were losing quite a few deer when the blood trail stopped at the water’s edge.
I set out to find a tracking dog, so when my friend Mac Hilliard told me about a litter he had, I got a male pup. He was half Walker and half Catahoula. I named him Charger. He had the black and grey merl color of his sire and I had never had a pup with his demeanor. Charger was all business from day one. He would calmly walk around the older dogs without fear, if one growled at him he showed a stoic superiority, the aggressor never attacking, as if they respected his fearless confidence. He never cared to be petted and would give a low growl if you touched him.
The first time I carried him to the hunting club we were greeted with much teasing and a few snickers. “What’s he supposed to be?” was a typical jab. “Well boys, let’s give him a chance.”
I started him with the hounds, and he caught on quickly, having a long, deep baritone voice that you could have picked out of pack of a hundred dogs. He didn’t have a lot of speed but proved to be a great jump dog. I started leading him in on every deer we shot and he was soon in demand. Every time someone wounded a deer, they would call for Charger. He truly came into his own when at just a year old, we put him on the blood trail of a buck Zeb had shot. He headed into the thick cutover and soon had the buck bayed. When we arrived, Charger was ferociously fighting the 6 pointer. He had earned his place in the hunt.
Charger continued his ornery personality, and no one dared to touch him, calling me to load him, which even I was cautious about. He grew to be an intimidating 110 pounds of solid muscle.
The great dog became an expert at his job of tracking. Uncle Walter shot one and called me to bring Charger. As I took him in on the blood trail, two does jumped up right under us. Charger never even looked at them, staying fast to his task. That was Walter’s last deer.
Uncle Henry shot a buck near the swamp one afternoon. We found a little blood and Charger promptly went to work. When he jumped him up, they tore off towards the water. Soon there was a ferocious commotion. As I made my way up to them, deer and dog were face to face in knee deep water. Suddenly, Charger lunged at the buck and headed him back out to the field. They went right by Uncle Henry who was standing by his truck. With no gun! Well, the dog evidently felt like he had done his job and laid down on the tailgate.
Most of the hounds we had would not take a bear track. While driving down the Dike Road one day I saw a bear crossing. I called the boys and put Charger on the trail. He went right to it and promptly ran him out the other side. He had no fear in him.
Charger was ten years old when we took him to try for a big 8 we had been hunting for behind the old Edmundson Home House to no avail. I walked him in the block where the buck liked to bed, and he soon jumped, taking the buck across a road, running and trailing for nearly 3 hours. Finally, he pushed the big buck out into a field where we couldn’t hunt. I rushed around to load him up, he was tired and was no problem to catch. The problem came when I tried to help him jump into the box. As I did so, the mighty dog whirled and bit me in the face, tearing my right ear nearly off. His jaws so big, I had tooth marks on top of my head and under my chin.
It was a great end to his career, as I retired him. He didn’t last long after that and I said goodbye to one of the smartest, meanest dogs I had ever known.
About the Author : Jim Edmundson
Visit authors website | View more articlesJim Edmundson is an avid outdoorsman and hunter. He spent over 30 years training bird dogs and horses, competing in field trials from the prairies to the southern plantations. He currently lives on the family farm in eastern North Carolina where he enjoys hunting with his son and friends.
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