The Deer Catcher

It has been ten years since I said goodbye to the only dog I have ever raised, and, unashamedly, I must say that I miss him more than some of the relatives I have lost. This might seem extreme, rude, maybe even horrid, but I can say with all the honesty that I posess, my dog, Muttly, was the kindest, most intelligent, wild, charming, dedicated, respectful being I have ever known.

He was born the runt of a messy litter of puppies. His mother, a stout white lab, dug herself a nest in the gravel floor of our garden shed. She surrounded the shallow crater she made with objects meant to fortify her birthing ground: old shoes, watering cans, gloves. The pups were born in the dirt, a squirming puddle of plump misfits, all mixed colors.

Muttly was the fattest puppy anyone had ever seen. The fleshy plump folds of skin around his face were so full you couldn't see his eyes. When he finally began to walk, he looked like little dark barrel with stout wobbling legs. Having the acumen of a seasoned stock farmer, my dad refused to give Muttly away, knowing there was something special about the chubby puppy. There was nothing pure-bred about him. He had no pedigree and we still think to this day that Muttly had a large amount of Great Dane in his bloodline.

He grew out of his baby fat and became lean, muscular, and incredibly fast. Dad was never keen on having dogs in the house, so Muttly slept outside in an old plastic barrel that was used to store lard. The grease coated his fur and made him slick and shiny. No burs stuck to his coat, no thorns could rip into him when we went on hunting expeditions, and the color of his fur blended in magically with an Autumn forest, so much that I would lose him in the dark foliage if he decided to be a statue.

His legend spread across the county, as he would often leave our farm for days at a time to visit his many wives, siring more than one-hundred puppies. It wasn't the legacy of his stallion-like libido that brought him attention, but his renowned ability to track, stalk, and bring down deer. Having been given no boundaries for his excursions, Muttly came and went as he pleased, often roaming vast forests miles away from home. Farmers and hunters began talking about this ghost dog that blended in with the trees and bashed through thorn bushes and brambles with ease. He could leap across wide creek beds, landing on the opposite bank without losing any of his speed in the contest against deer.

On a brilliant Fall day, the air crisp, the forests bursting with dramatic reds and oranges, Muttly and I couldn't resist our favorite pastime, stalking deer. The forest was still and silent that day. A sunday if I remember rightly. Our family did not attend church, and mother would spend the morning preparing lunch and dinner, doing laundry, cleaning the house that me and my two younger siblings routinely destroyed.

I could always be found in the forest, Muttly keeping good pace ahead of me. I carried a .22 magnum rifle for squirrels and rabbits. The crack of the rifle broke the sabbath stillness of the forest, reverberating off the trees, sounding both angry and pure. I was not a liscensed hunter, and to this day I have never shot a deer. I had them in my sights countless times, but the trigger was never pulled. To watch a deer undisturbed in the forest is a greater trophy than some sawn off antlers mounted to a piece of cheap wood and hung on the wall. I never understood how this could be considered an achievement. I never felt discouraged when my friends brought pictures of their slain ten-point bucks into school. I have seen deer with antlers so wide that you would think them ancient spirits wandering the forest, the antlers continuously growing. The sight is nothing short of magnificent, and for the innate battle against harsh elements and the hundreds of high-powered weapons built to end them, deer have my ultimate respect.

For all of Muttly's rogue enthusiasm during the chase, his trials never ended in a kill. He nipped, poked, pranced, and challenged. This was the real sport. This, to me, was hunting. Muttly sniffed out a massive buck that day, and walking elegantly behind it were more than twenty of the stag's doe mates. I hid behind a massive oak tree, squatting down and peering around the trunk to watch Muttly approach the buck. It snorted, stomped its massive hooves as a warning. Muttly crouched low, snapped his teeth, sniffed the air, inhaled the buck's scent.

The stag was fiercely proud. His chest was broad and thick, his antlers branching out chaotically with more tips than I could count. To this day, it is the biggest deer I have ever seen, and what a magnificent fellow he was. Muttly crouched low and feigned a pounce. The stag snorted in protest, as if he were saying, "Make my day, punk."

The two stared at eachother for so long that I become bored and ditracted by the sweet smell of the bark on the oak tree. Never before, atleast from what I had witnessed in his company, had Muttly failed to send a deer sprinting. His equal stared down at him with challenging eyes, snorting and stomping, while his many mates approached confidently, never having seen their strong stag lose a battle. It was a staredown of the Alphas. Then something happened I will remember forever. I get goosebumps writing about it now.

The stag layed down a hard hoof into the forest floor- so hard I could feel the impact rattle at my feet. He snorted loudly, bravely, intimidatingly, and broadened his chest. Muttly let out a low "woof," and struck his dark chest out as big as he could. The two then lowered their heads very slightly, like they were bowing to eachother. Muttly met me behind the oak tree, smiling and panting. He seated himself by my feet and I stroked him absently while watching the herd of deer approach.

The stag passed to my right, giving Muttly a glance, paying no attention to me, and his tribe of wives walked elegantly behind him. My legs were getting stiff from squatting when the last few does passed by. I turned my head, keeping my body completely still to watch them dissapear deep into the forest.

To this day, I have never told anyone about that day in the forest. It has been something I kept all for my own, a trophy memory. It's telling, I feared, would offer it up to doubts and eye-rolling disbelief. There was magic in the forest that day, and whenever I think of Muttly, this memory is put upfont, and I cherish it.