My day as a nine year old boy, began at 5 o'clock in the morning. I did not need an alarm clock. My eyes would just flutter open and at the same time my little bare feet would hit the floor running. I normally put my jack pants on as I was running out the door to my dog's house. My dog Boy was waiting with his tail wagging. He was a large breed with long hair, black and white dog, crossed between a Shepherd and a Walker Hound. He was true grit, a John Wayne type; yes, as tough as they come. With a single whistle, we would be off to the hills.       Being we lived at the edge of a farmer's field, it was easy access to some very fine hunting. We would walk along the wagon road, climb the wooden fence, jump down into waist high orchard grass and from that point on it was up to my dog, Boy. The grass being so tall, it would only take a few minutes before he would be out of site. Now it was time for me to sit on the wooden rail fence and listen.       Hunting was year round for me. Being only nine years old, hunting meant I was to hunt ground hogs without a weapon. A groundhog was a furry little animal that lived in a burrow in the ground. It weighed 15 to 25 pounds, and although being furry, do not make the mistake of thinking it was docile and cuddly. It was a vicious fighter. The ground hog's front teeth were about 2 inches long and when it clamped down on its opponent, the ‘hog' would not let go until it was knocked out.       First things first. Waiting for my dog to find a hog was an exciting time. Sometimes it would take just a few minutes and other times you would wait for an hour or more. The waiting was fun, because old Boy would bark from time to time and the sound and how often he barked determined whether he was trailing or had found one. As I look back, I think the trailing and barking was the best times of the hunt. A short bark meant that he was trailing and a long howling bark indicated that he had one in the hole. Getting to the hole was not always so easy, because normally it was located on the side of a steep hill and you would have to wait to hear your dog bark for relocating the den. Once I got to the den, things would start to happen fast.       Digging out the ground hog was a tough task. Boy would dig and then I would dig. Depending on how deep the den was in the ground, this part of the hunt could take hours. I normally used a stick to dig the dirt and stones out of the ground and Boy would dig with his paws. As I said, Boy was true grit. He was as tough as they come.      Nearing the underground den was a tense moment. Sometimes the hog would stick his head out and try to grab your hand or the dog's nose. You had to be ready to get hold of it when the right moment occurred. That moment belonged to your hunting dog. It was his moment of glory. Boy had the ability to grab it by the head and pull it out of the hole and not let go until it stopped trying to bite him. My job was to just stay out of the way. Sometimes it meant rolling or tumbling down the hill, but the rule was, never let go. Now there were occasions when the hog had hold of the dog and the dog had hold of the hog. When this happened, I would step in and give a knockout blow to the hog.       Giving a knockout blow, seemed to always take a little thunder away from Boy and the great prize. Never-the-less Boy seemed happy that he no longer was in the grasp of those 2 inch teeth. Just to let the hog know who was boss, Boy would get a second hold and toss it around awhile. Once he was through, we would go down to the creek and take a good swim. This was always refreshing and it sometimes led to another hunt.       Getting the hog home was our next job. I would tie it to a pole and let it swing over my shoulder for the walk home. This was a moment of pride for me and Boy. We would march through town with the town's folk admiring our catch. When I close my eyes, I can still hear their voices, "WOW, what a dog that Boy is. MAN what a hog. Boy is some kind of dog. BOY is the best dog in the country." Arriving home, Boy would lay down under the old pear tree and take a nap while I dressed the hog out. I was near by, so I would check in on him and notice that as he slept he occasionally would kick his hind legs just like he was dreaming of the battle and the trophy that we held for all to see.       Boy was a special once in a life time dog. He never once bit me, no matter how much I aggravated him, and he always minded me. He was a champion among champions. No, he was never in a dog show, nor was he ever in a parade. He did follow me to church one time and laid down right in front of the altar. I remember the priest saying that he was a good holy dog. He said that even though many people did not come to church, the dog had more sense than most.       Boy remained with me for 21 years. He lived 22 years. When I was 21, I move to Charleston, West Virginia, to go to school. But before I left, I sat down on the front steps of our home and I had a long heart to heart talk with him. I was always able to tell my deepest secrets to Boy and to talk to him now was real special. I told him I had to leave him but I would be back in a few months. I told him things would never be same. The fields and woods which occupied our time would never look the same again but our friendship would always be true and I would always remember him as a champion among dogs and none would ever be his equal.       That evening we took a nice quiet walk through the areas where we shared our experiences. As we walked I relived the stories of the many battles we had fought and the trophies brought home. We would stop and sit down and he would press against me, like he was telling me it was okay and not for me to worry so much about him. This would be our last walk together and the last time we saw each other. When I return to the little town of Barrackville some thirty years latter with my children to fish the Buffalo Creek, I can look up at the hills along the stream and still hear the fine hunting cadence of my dog, "BOY THE GROUND HOG DOG"

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