Post by x - Barking Treed - x on May 2, 2006 21:21:31 GMT -5
Name: Strayer.
Gender: Male.
Age: 3 1/2.
Breed: Bluetick Coonhound
Description [or photo]: -in sig-
Behavior: [min. 5 sentences] The world is all a game... The only way to win is when you finally place your front paws on the trunk of a wide birch, and
bark treed. The coon trembles on a high branch in fear, the rifle comes out and with an enormus clammer you know what you live for. Yes, this life is
all a game, any self respecting hunter -including Strayer- lives by one rule, and one rule only.
Hunt, or be Hunted.
Four words that mean little to mankind, but to a dog? Everything.
History: Jogging down the gravel drive, Strayer barked playfully at his master's side. In his arms were sevral boxes of keepsake trinkets, assorted
stuffed quail, hunting trophies, images of himself, his master, and his master's other dogs, and then there was Strayer's pride and joy: Coonskins.
The goodies were loaded into the back of the moving van. The stable had been emptied, and Strayer accompanied his master as he loaded the last few
boxes into the van.
He ran across the grassy green lawn, his paws clinking over the stepping stones that started toward the gate. He bound through the vegetation toward
the open, wooden plank gate. Bounding toward his master gleefully. Soon, they'd be out of this hot climate, forever.
But something stopped Strayer unexpectedly.
Strayer nearly yelped as the gate swung shut and latched abruptly. He lept onto the fence and struggled to reach his head over the top, even though
his paws could easily reach it. He scratched irratibly on the wood, barking in a high-pitched tone to get his master's attention again. The truck
sputtered, letting out two huge puffs of exhaust, and began to haul the moving trailer away, the gravel crunching beneath his tires.
Strayer leapt off the fence and ran along it, struggling to get a view at all. Barking constantly. But the truck didn't stop, it just pulled onto the freeway.
The unhappy dog watched until it pulled out of sight, and then barked uneasily sevral more times. A rumble of thunder shook the sky, and Strayer
timidly took shelter in his doghouse. Head on his paws.
It was early spring when this all took place, after he'd eaten his bowl of food, hunger began to pang in his stomach. Forcing him to take up a strange,
and rather useful trick.
Fence climbing.
Gender: Male.
Age: 3 1/2.
Breed: Bluetick Coonhound
Description [or photo]: -in sig-
Behavior: [min. 5 sentences] The world is all a game... The only way to win is when you finally place your front paws on the trunk of a wide birch, and
bark treed. The coon trembles on a high branch in fear, the rifle comes out and with an enormus clammer you know what you live for. Yes, this life is
all a game, any self respecting hunter -including Strayer- lives by one rule, and one rule only.
Hunt, or be Hunted.
Four words that mean little to mankind, but to a dog? Everything.
History: Jogging down the gravel drive, Strayer barked playfully at his master's side. In his arms were sevral boxes of keepsake trinkets, assorted
stuffed quail, hunting trophies, images of himself, his master, and his master's other dogs, and then there was Strayer's pride and joy: Coonskins.
The goodies were loaded into the back of the moving van. The stable had been emptied, and Strayer accompanied his master as he loaded the last few
boxes into the van.
He ran across the grassy green lawn, his paws clinking over the stepping stones that started toward the gate. He bound through the vegetation toward
the open, wooden plank gate. Bounding toward his master gleefully. Soon, they'd be out of this hot climate, forever.
But something stopped Strayer unexpectedly.
Strayer nearly yelped as the gate swung shut and latched abruptly. He lept onto the fence and struggled to reach his head over the top, even though
his paws could easily reach it. He scratched irratibly on the wood, barking in a high-pitched tone to get his master's attention again. The truck
sputtered, letting out two huge puffs of exhaust, and began to haul the moving trailer away, the gravel crunching beneath his tires.
Strayer leapt off the fence and ran along it, struggling to get a view at all. Barking constantly. But the truck didn't stop, it just pulled onto the freeway.
The unhappy dog watched until it pulled out of sight, and then barked uneasily sevral more times. A rumble of thunder shook the sky, and Strayer
timidly took shelter in his doghouse. Head on his paws.
It was early spring when this all took place, after he'd eaten his bowl of food, hunger began to pang in his stomach. Forcing him to take up a strange,
and rather useful trick.
Fence climbing.
