BJ was going through old photos, and this one inspired her to write some creative historical fiction… although it may or may not have happened…
In the heart of the Missouri Ozarks, the moon hung low over the hills, casting a pale glow on the frost-covered ground. The winter air was sharp and biting, but young Bert Pennington didn’t mind. He sat tall in the saddle of his trusty Shetland pony, Mouse, a small but sure-footed creature that had carried him on many a hunting trip. Tonight, however, was something special.
With the wind howling through the bare oak trees, Bert gave a low whistle to his two dogs, Sue and Sam, who were already in the woods, their noses to the ground, sniffing out the trail of a coon. Sam, a big, powerful black and tan, and Sue, a smaller but equally determined hound, were born for nights like these.
The distant yelps of the dogs echoed through the hollow, signaling they had found the scent. Bert urged Mouse forward, his boots crunching in the snow as they made their way through the thick underbrush. The dogs’ barks grew louder, and the sound sent a thrill through him. There was nothing like hunting coons in the Ozarks on a crisp winter night—just him, his dogs, and the wild unknown.
“Come on, Mouse,” Bert whispered, guiding the pony carefully around a fallen log. The little horse knew the trail as well as he did, always steady, always true. They pushed on, the sound of the dogs’ voices drawing closer.
Suddenly, Sam’s voice cut through the night, a deep, resonant bark that told Bert the coon was treed. “That’s it, boy,” he said under his breath, his heart quickening. He spurred Mouse on, the pony’s hooves kicking up powdery snow.
The clearing ahead was bathed in moonlight, and there, high in a towering oak, the coon stared down at them with glowing eyes. Sam and Sue were circling the base of the tree, their tails wagging with excitement.
Bert dismounted, tying Mouse to a nearby sapling. He crouched low, carefully pulling his coon rifle from its sling. The dogs, both panting and eager, waited patiently. With one steady hand, Bert took aim at the coon, his breath visible in the cold air. The shot rang out, echoing across the hills, and the coon tumbled from the tree.
Sam and Sue erupted in jubilant barks, and Bert smiled, his heart swelling with pride. It had been a perfect hunt. He gave his dogs a pat on the head, praising them for a job well done.
As he loaded the coon onto his saddle, Bert looked out over the quiet, snow-covered woods. There was a magic to nights like these, a connection to the land and the animals, and to the generations of hunters who had come before him.
“Good work, Sam. Good work, Sue,” he muttered, glancing back toward Mouse, who waited patiently, his breath steaming in the cold. The night was young, and the Ozarks were still full of mystery and adventure. With his loyal dogs by his side and his trusty pony beneath him, Bert felt like he could chase the moon itself.
BJ thinks everyone should tell Bert he needs to write another hunting book about his adventures! Check out his book about Big Boy Story of a Dog.
JP Brand Books 