You wouldn’t know it to look at the pictures on the calendars or the stories in the magazines, but the best sporting around here is in January. I doubt if anyone does it anymore, but back before the war, when we went by the weather and not by what someone told us about the weather, we laid out many nights in January. There were nights in many of those years when the sky was clear and star-filled and it never got any colder than thirty degrees. It was dry and no wind and I let my dogs out of the pen I kept across the road – I don’t even know who owned that lot, but nobody ever complained.
There were times I would have six or seven dogs at a time, one of them always crazy. I’d leave the one crazy one there in the pen and take the pack with me up through the streets of town, my twelve-gauge resting across my arm, and up through the cemetary and into the woods and to the top of the ridge. I’d build a fire there and let the dogs light out into the woods. I’d lay by the fire, looking up at the sky and wondering and before too long I’d hear them dogs a’yelpin.