Redtick, bluetick or pinktick coon dogs?
By Rebecca Lindquist
This time of year, brings back great memories of attending bench shows with my dad. American Kennel Club (AKC) bench shows are a function exhibiting coon dogs that are judged on how well they meet a breed standard, according to that club’s criteria. Each parent club determines their own individual guidelines.
The bench shows we attended were pretty low-key and not exactly high-class events, but most attendees were hardcore competitors, who were there to take top honors. Basically, a bench show is just what it sounds like.
A coonhound jumps up onto a bench, the owner places its front and rear paws equal distances apart, then the human holds the canine’s tail arched over its back, while the hound holds its head at an upward angle, staring straight ahead. The dog is supposed to hold that stance while judges examine the breed’s lines, stature, bearing, etc., until the owner gives the command for the dog to relax.
Ideally, that is what’s supposed to occur. Unfortunately, none of our coon dogs ever quite grasped the concept and could barely perform the simplest of commands. I won’t say our dogs were simple-minded, but they had the attention span of a squirrel.
Other competitors had trucks with multiple dog boxes to transport their hounds. We had to make do with our car trunk. Funny thing about that, apparently coon dogs immediately become nauseated by the scent of a clean rug and sheets placed inside of a trunk. Every single dog invariably was carsick the entire trip to and from each bench show.
So, the first step, before each competition, was to take the dog out of the trunk, thoroughly hose it off and spray out the trunk interior. After experiencing this occurrence a couple times, we wised up and started traveling with multiple clean towels, rugs, old sheets and plastic garbage bags.
One particular time, knowing a hound’s predilection for emptying the entire contents of its stomach of anything it had consumed within the last 48 hours, Dad purchased a special powder to apply to the dog’s coat. This would be applied after the necessary cleanup, before a competition, to make the white coloring of a redtick or bluetick hound appear whiter. However, it didn’t quite go as planned (no shocker there).
The day was extremely humid, and, even though Dad thoroughly towel-dried the pup, the coat must have still been damp from humidity. When the white powder was applied, the dog’s white spots ending up having a slight pinkish tinge, which no about of rubbing could alleviate. That was probably one of the highlights of the day.
To begin with, the stench of wet coon dogs was overpowering, the mosquitoes, deer flies and little black gnats had a veracious appetite for human flesh, and all, but me, seemed oblivious of the less than desirable surrounding conditions.
Not only were our hounds not very bright, they were also extremely lazy. The seasoned veterans had canines that would nimbly leap onto the bench and automatically assume a champion show dog position. Dad had to physically lift our slugs and place them on the bench, while trying to coax them out of continually trying to lie down.
The pathetic part: every person, who showed their dog, received a small participation trophy. Embarrassing to receive an award for a distracted, apathetic pink and blue dog.
We were headed home from competition that day, when Dad stopped to pick up a young man who was hitchhiking. He crawled into the backseat with his well-worn backpack, as Dad, always friendly, tried to strike up a conversation with the grubby, disheveled youth.
I was sitting in the front seat, and Dad and I were making small talk, trying to cover the awkward silence. All the sudden, the dog lets out a very loud bark/howl…BAROOOOO- OO! The teenager’s eyes were huge, as he jumped and twisted to look behind him, as he shouted, “WHAT WAS THAT?”
I couldn’t stop laughing, while Dad explained to him we had a dog in our trunk. You could tell by his horrified expression that he thought me were mentally insane. The boy was not amused and shortly thereafter, told Dad to pull over and stop, since we had reached his destination. Highly unlikely, as we were on a major highway, out in the middle of nowhere, with the nearest town at least 30 miles away in either direction.
He couldn’t scramble out of the car fast enough. (Bet he never hitchhiked again.) Dad and I laughed uproariously the rest of the way home.
On humid days, such as we have experienced this past week, I can still see that pink bluetick coat and hear the pitiful howl emanating from the confines of the trunk. I still dissolve into fits of laughter every time, and am so thankful to have one more fun, goofy memory to hold in my heart.
