Tuckered Out

After a blistering blizzard brought record-breaking snowfall to the Midwest, the citizens of Orion, Kentucky, embraced the common occurrence. Buford Swill lived in the heart of a deep gully on the outskirts of the small town. He was a kind-spoken hillbilly who rarely interacted with townfolk but was well-liked by the citizens of Orion. His long furring beard and single ponytail fit his overhaul pitches and the straw hat he wore most days.

During the warmer months, late spring, summer, and early fall seasons, Burford spent his time fishing for bluegill and the occasional carp. He woke each morning to a swine breakfast, two eggs cooked over easy, and a piece of plain white toast. Buford gave up eating butter due to a rumor that it caused his cholesterol to rise. Each morning, he sat at the kitchen table reading books. Reading was a practice kept since childhood.

Burford remained simple, with a pocketknife, a handkerchief, and a wireframe pair of spectacles on his person during the day. Shucks! He rarely carried money in his pocket unless there was reason to retrieve some from his secret hiding place. The man relied on his cabin, a garden, and the pond behind the home. Burford lived a storybook life, hunting to survive and taking precautions basic townsfolk knew nothing about.

After he sat that breakfast plate down each morning, the scent would alarm his old bloodhound, Tucker. The dog would come running clumsily down the hallway. The circular rug in front of the fireplace was his typical sleeping spot. Tucker had turned nineteen some weeks earlier, and his eyesight had gone fast. Still, the smell of freshly cooked bacon would lead the pooch straight to where his owner sat each morning. Burford never minded pinching off a few morsels to share with his best friend.

Nevertheless, Burford took Tucker outside, and the hound would run around in their yard like a brand-new pup. He knew the landscape of his yard and pond so well that a sprint past the chicken coop and around the back porch led Tucker to leap into the pond after geese who rested six to eight feet from the shore.

Burford yelled, "Come on! Get out that water and leave them geese alone."

Of course, Burford, being his owner, the hound would swim ashore upon request. He would retrieve tree limbs and other items blown into the pond. Burford would scratch the dog's head and praise him for a well-done job. Tucker lay lazily in the yard chewing on beef-stewed bones for hours. Burford sat lonesome in his swing attached to two trees just beyond his barn. The sunset came each evening with tired eyes for Burford and Tucker, so the pair would go inside and eat dinner, then turn in early for another early sunrise.

That following morning, Burford sat down that steaming plate of smoked sausage. The aroma filled the entire house. When Tucker failed to come running through the hallway, Burford knew something must have been wrong. The man rose from his chair, growing concerned by every second, and walked down the hallway.

Burford screamed out, "Tucker! You old son of a gun. Get your lazy behind up and let's have us some fun."

When he turned the corner and entered the living room, a lifeless Tucker lay there. He was at rest, gone on into the afterlife.

Burford said somberly, "My boy—you’re in your forever home now."

A tear started to pour down Burford's face. He tried to stop the preceding droplets, but they had their agenda. He cried for about a minute and then realized. A celebration was in order. The winter came again, and without his trusty hound by his side, hunting was not the same experience. Burford caught four pheasants, three rabbits, and a might male buck. None of these animals made him truly happy.

The spring arrived with a renewed mindset. Burford had decided he required a new hound to live out its days on the property. When he made the difficult call to a trusted breeder, who he knew loved bloodhounds more than they loved themselves. One pup became available. He named the new pup Tucker and figured that even this furry friend would get Tuckered out like the last.