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“Ain’t Nothin’ But A Hound Dog!” Story and Photos By
Lee McLean
The story of a zany canine and how she grew into the hearts of her agriculture family. Some folks dream of Olympic medals… of finding cures for illness… of becoming really rich or leading treks into unknown lands… My own ambitions were somewhat less lofty. I only ever wanted my own Basset Hound. Her name was Ella. The advertisement in the local paper was short, to the point of terseness. “BASSET HOUND FOR SALE, DUE TO ALLERGIES.” Well, either these folks were bald-faced liars, or they were actually hypersensitive to the dog’s manners… but I’m getting ahead of myself here. An appointment was made to view the dog. When my daughter and I arrived at the seller’s house, ramps for the hound running hither and yon to protect her “delicate constitution,” we had no idea what we were in for. Unleash the hounds! With but a second’s notice, the house door opened and I was immediately knocked over by a slobbering missile. It was love at first sight. I’d told Mike that we were ‘just going to meet her.’ Of course, he was neither happy nor surprised when we pulled into the yard with the young hound in tow. Our ageing Sheltie never knew what hit him. If Rowan didn’t manage to out-corner her on the dead run, she’d spend hours holding the haughty little dog down on the ground, his body stiff with indignation. Rowan knew – as we were all beginning to – that while Ella was in our midst, our lives would never be the same. After Ella came to stay, I never again had a good night’s sleep. From a deep and snoring slumber, atop her two dog beds piled one over the other – one of which, was Rowan’s. – Ella would awaken, look around and head straight for the back door. If I wasn’t there within four seconds, she would leave her calling card on the hardwood. She was effectively schooling me. Even when crated for the night, she would still give the four seconds’ warning upon waking – and then, wham. Gasping, I would race to the door and let her out into the garden, where she would proceed to plant herself for hours and howl at the moon. Ella’s first truck ride, we urged her to jump in but she raised her large front paws onto the truck floor and stood beguilingly, looking over her shoulder with a little tail wag. Throughout her long life, this was the signal for whomever was driving, to drop everything and give her a wheelbarrow hoist. It’s not that Ella couldn’t jump – heck, she once devoured one of my daughter’s homemade pies
that was cooling atop the ‘fridge – but Ella just preferred this method of ascending her carriage. With a groan, Mike would grudgingly bend over and huck up the rear end of the dog. Fast forward ten minutes and with the driver’s side window open a mere crack, the dog catapulted past Mike’s nose and through the window, to stir up a group of sunning cows. Handy dog, that, to keep on a ranch. Ella, who could hear a bag of chips opening at 40 paces, had almost zero recall. Once she was on the scent and baying deeply, we learned to just breathe, to go all Zen and wait for her eventual return. One of my fondest memories is of the dog, fit as a fiddle, racing after a jack rabbit in the field nearest the house. In full cry, she was unaware of my husband, also in full cry behind her, mounted on a galloping horse and trying vainly to get her to heel. It looked like an old west twist on the classic fox hunting scene. I could only double over, gasping in helpless laughter. In due course, Ella grew up but she never really ever got old. We ran an antiques shop from our home for 12 years, years that happened to coincide with Ella’s 15. The dog never once lost her enthusiasm for visitors. Generally, the more fastidious they were, the more boisterous her greeting. On one memorable occasion, a lovely blonde unfolded from her luxury auto, only to find Ella waiting at the car door. In a flash, the hound had stuck her large Continued on page 57
58 WESTERN HORSE REVIEW MAY/JUNE 2021
