Roscoe came into my life during my middle teenage years. I am not sure where he came from — perhaps from another planet? Roscoe was a true-blood black-and-tan hound dog. I had a couple of coon hunters from our community make me an offer to purchase him just from his looks alone, not knowing if he had ever seen a raccoon or not.

In retrospect, I wish I had accepted that $2 offer. Oh well, live and learn. As time moved on, me and Roscoe became friends. We roamed around the farm, played in the lake, chased imaginary animals and so forth.

But I was beginning to get a little bit worried. Roscoe would not bark as Daddy’s other dogs did. As a matter of fact, I could not get him to bark at all. When around the cows or a mule, he would make a sound that came out as if two cats were caught in the wheels of your bicycle as you were plummeting down a 100-foot-deep ravine. Or perhaps, two opera singers clearing their voices before a big presentation of “Madame Butterfly” at the Metropolitan Opera House in New York.

Also, Roscoe did not get along with Daddy’s other dogs. He appeared to think he was more important than they were.

“Oh well,” I thought. “I still have a few weeks until fox and raccoon season opens. Maybe I can get his voice cleared up by then.”

Well, before I knew it, cold weather and raccoon hunting season were upon us, and I had to prove to Daddy and some of the older raccoon hunters that Roscoe was not a one-time wonder. I had to prove to them also that he knew what a raccoon looked and smelled

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