Dad is no longer able to go
in the mountain's and hunt.
He has to miss it more
then anything.

Here is a picture of two of my
Dad's pups with my middle son william
and they look like the pups in the movie.
He had a few red bones. But after a
while he went to raisen tree & Walkers
and that's all he would have.
His last one just passed away. And so
now dad doesn't even have a dog around.

The photo below is of My Daddy, my oldest
son Larry and dad's niece Kathy with
some of his pups

Old Scars got his name from fight'n,
And the marks of many-a wound;
'Cause coons can sure do some bite'n,
When cornered and run out of room.

Across the holler and near'n the crick,
Old Scars first let-out his yell;
We hurried-on in thru the brambles-thick,
Like firemen answer'n the bell.

Then... near the edge of the waters dark,
There was Scars at the foot of a tree;
He was look'n-up and continue'n to bark,
At a coon whose eyes we could see.

No... we had no use fer coon that night,
Not one of us toted a gun;
But we knew a chase gave Scars delight,
Not to mention give'n us good fun.

Now... when nights are dark from lack of moon,
And scarcely any stars;
I remember the fun of hunt'n fer coon,
Three boys... and a dog named scars.

Have ya ever known a dog that was worth his keep,
And hunted with his nose to the ground?
Have ya ever owned a dog for the sound of the hunt,
Whether a Beagle or Blue-Tick hound?

I knew a dog that was the best I'd seen,
He carried his bark loud and long;
And when he would run the hollers-n-hills,
Men would listen just to hear his song.

We credited his size to part Red Bone,
His stamina to Country Hound;
And when it came to catch'n the scent quick,
None better had yet been found.

He hit the trail first when dropped from the truck,
And ran out in front of the pack;
The only way some of those hounds found the tree,
Was by follow'n-long after his track.

Many a Fall night I sat on my porch,
Just listen'n to the distant race;
I often could tell by the tone of his bark,
How long 'till the end of the chase.

That dog hunted for nearly ten years,
You could tell he did it for fun;
'Till one night on a cross-county hunt,
It was if he forgot how to run.

Lit'l Bo was the name he'd answer to,
I can still see the look in his eye;
Ain't it sad how even good hunt'n dogs,
Are allotted a time they should die?

So now, when I hear dogs run at night,
From my porch for an hour or so;
I imagine one dog is far out in front,
And he sounds a lot like Lit'l Bo.

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Where Should I bury my Dog
This is a great page please take a look
OLD SHEP