DON'T GET OUT OF THE WAGON, BOYS— WAIT'LL THEY CALL OFF THE DOGS

When I was young and growing up, in these mountains, the old ways were a way of life.

After church on Sunday, we'd go to a relative or friend's home for dinner, or they'd come to ours. (Dinner is the meal you eat in the middle of the day; supper is at end of the day.) Sunday dinner at Aunt Grace and Uncle Troy's home was always special to me, even though sometimes there was not enough room at the table and us kids had to wait till the grownups finished. (Jimmy Dickens wasn't the only one who had to wait). Aunt Grace and Uncle Troy lived their entire lives on Anderson Branch, off of Reems Creek.

In those days, everyone had dogs. Coon dogs, bear dogs, rabbit dogs, or just a plain old Fiest. These various mixtures of canine persuasion usually could be found sleeping in the shade of the corncrib, spring house, barn, or, even more likely, under the porch. When not actually hunting, the rest of their time was spent eating, fighting each other, or treeing anyone who pulled into the yard. The car, truck, or wagon would be surrounded immediately by as many as twenty barking, howling, jumping and threatening defenders of the estate. Even if you were well known to them, it still took a while for them to calm down and shake off the joy of doing their appointed task. If you were unknown, you had little chance of getting down from your vehicle and going to the house. Even though most of them would not bite a biscuit, you were never sure, so you'd call the man of the house. 'Troy! Call off your dogs!'

Usually about this time, Uncle Troy would appear from the house or barn and commence hollering at his dogs. Some of them (happily thinking Troy was coming to dispatch the intruders) would run to him, barking, wagging tails, and generally starting another commotion with Troy kicking and switching the dogs in an effort to shut them up. This would all send Aunt Grace's hens and pullets, which had been peacefully scratching about the yard, into a wild flight, full of wing-flapping and chicken chatter. Then Aunt Grace would holler from the house, 'Who's out there, Troy? Hush them dogs and tell them folks to come on in.' By this time the guinea hens up by the barn had added their squawks into the uproar, and one had to yell to be heard. The dogs, seeing that Troy meant business, would suddenly find an urgent need to make water on a back wheel or to scratch a bothersome itch.

Uncle Troy always eventually quieted his pack, and 'Welcome's and 'Howdy's were exchanged. Then would follow, 'Come on in and set down to dinner,' answered by the standard, 'We didn't come to eat, Troy.' This always seemed silly to me, because to eat one of Aunt Grace's Sunday dinners was why we were there.

Oh, I imagine the dogs would have settled down for my father; they were no killers. But nobody else had the right to kick or beat another man's dog-- feuds have been started for less. It was fine for Uncle Troy to kick and beat and swear at his dogs (if women were not present). But a man's dog was his pride, even though he was worthless, wouldn't hunt, and preferred chasing chickens better than coons. You kept your opinion to yourself, and left his dogs alone. And you know, it was a good way to live.

So don't get out of the wagon, boys-- wait'll they call off the dogs.

Jeep Man
December, 1999