The Winter of their years
Published 6:00 am Wednesday, November 4, 2026
Bo was a beagle dog. He loved chasing squirrels up a tree around the farm. Creeks, barbed wire fences and briar thickets couldn’t keep him from his mission. Treeing squirrels was his job, and he was good at it. He would do it all day before finally coming back home to supper. When finished, he’d curl up on the porch completely worn out from his day’s adventures.
Bo was our neighbor Boone’s dog, and both were as independent as they could be. Boone was in his late 80s, and I was 12. He enjoyed teaching me to squirrel hunt too.
Back then we were all poor, so it was important not to waste a bullet. A couple of squirrels were supper. With Bo’s help, that was never a problem. Those fried squirrels with my grandma’s homemade biscuits and gravy were delicious.
Boone had worked hard on the farm all his life and his heart was beginning to wear out. He slowed down a bit, took his medicine, and kept hunting squirrels with Bo and me. Like Boone, Bo was in the winter of his years.
For Bo, chasing and treeing was the game. It was fun to watch him go after a squirrel. When it ran up a tree, he would climb partway up, in his excitement to get at it. He would sit at the base of the tree barking until Boone got there and shot the squirrel, and then take off after another one.
Our last day was perfect weather for squirrel hunting. It was a crisp, clear morning. The sun sparkled on the frosted grass. The trees were now bare, and you can see the squirrels better. Boone took a position by an oak tree and watched. He smiled with pleasure as he listened to Bo barking. He held his old .22 rifle, still in mint condition, in the crook of his arm.
Bo was out of sight, but his bark told us he was after his quarry. His voice was muffled as he chased it across a gully, and it ran up a tree, as we knew it would. It moved slightly as Boone fired. The squirrel fell to the ground and then ran into a thicket of wild blackberries.
Bo was after him, his voice high and clear. As we watched, Bo fell. He quickly scrambled to his feet. We heard him for another fifty yards or so. Then there was silence. I looked at Boone. He was shaking. “Sit down, Boone,” I said. “Bo found the squirrel. I’ll go get them.” Boone just stood there and said nothing.
I found Bo. No life was left in him. A couple of feet beyond his muzzle, the squirrel was still. I left them and returned to Boone. His head was bowed. “I knew it when he fell,” Boone whispered. “I’ll come back later with a shovel,” I said. “Thanks,” Boone replied. “I don’t think I could do it. Would you bury the squirrel in front of him?” I nodded as a tear ran down my cheek.
We got back to the truck. Boone handed the gun to me and said, “I don’t think I’m going to hunt anymore. I want you to have it.” A few months later, Boone was gone too. When I am gone, Boone’s gun will continue to be passed down to family. They all know the story of Boone and Bo in the winter of their years.
SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT
“I want to age the way that life makes you age, because there’s beauty in autumn and winter and I think people forget that.”
– Helen Baxendale
Nixa, MO native Larry Whiteley has communicated the great outdoors across America for over 45 years through newspapers, magazines, books, blogs, television and a nationally syndicated radio show. Read more of his award-winning stories at www.storiesbylarry.com. Email him at larrywhiteley2@gmail.com.
