My first memory of hunting is behind our house with my dad. I was perhaps 3 or 4 and quickly got tangled up in a barbed-wire fence. Never one to be ignored, I made so much racket that I scared the grouse into flushing before my dad was ready.
I remember it, barely, but when she was alive my mom told the story often. She said I was following a family tradition. Seems she went on a hunt with my father when they were dating. She also got tangled in a fence and Dad, focused on hunting, didn’t notice. Or at least he pretended he didn’t. She got mad and yelled, “Fly away little birds. He is here to shoot you!” Apparently an entire covey of grouse flashed at that outburst, out of range of course.
The point is, I can’t remember not being a hunter. I also can’t remember not having a dog. The dog from that era was named Scotty Mac. He was an energetic Scottish terrier who was my constant companion. He ran into the road while we were visiting my grandmother in town and was killed. One of my oldest clear memories is of my mother sitting beside the road, his limp body in her lap, and weeping as only the Irish can.
Hunting and dogs have always been part of my life, and when combined are something I have always loved. I don’t care if it’s upland birds, bears, hogs, coyotes, rabbits, ducks or even deer, the addition of a dog or dogs simply makes it better.
Hunting squirrels with dogs is a popular sport, but not where I grew up. In Vermont we hunted rabbits with beagles and our squirrel hunting was dog-free. Over the years I have read often of canine-assisted squirrel hunting and had always wanted to give it a try, but the years slipped by.
I was finally able to check it off my bucket list when I traveled to Mississippi to hunt with my good friend Tony Kinton in 2017. He lives in the Magnolia State and has helped to facilitate a lot of adventures for me there, none more unique than that squirrel hunt. While it was nearly a decade ago, I remember it well.
“Guys down here are proud of their squirrel dogs, but ask anybody who has the best dog and they will say Neil Patterson has a good one,” Tony told me.
“That’s about as high as praise gets from another hunter.”
His name was Ringo, I presume after the drummer for the Beatles. He is best described as wound springs, moving parts and perpetual energy. He was relentless and capable of just about anything he wanted to do. The good thing for us is that what he wanted more than anything else in the world was to hunt squirrels.
I vowed then to do a lot more squirrel hunting with dogs, yet somehow life got in the way, and so I did not. That is something I have been forced to learn as I am dragged, kicking and screaming, into my golden years. “Life” is often a bit cruel about any plans.
We don’t always succeed, but for a long time Tony and I have tried to do at least two hunts each year. He comes to Vermont to hunt woodcock among autumn foliage while I travel to Mississippi for deer and anything else we can add for spice and adventure. So when Tony mentioned we could add a canine-assisted squirrel hunt or two to the agenda in early 2025, I jumped at it like a hobo on a hot dog.
It turns out “life” had a few surprises for me on that trip, but I ignored it and went hunting. Always the mean one, my punishment for ignoring “life” gave the guy sitting behind me on the plane pneumonia, which he shared so I could bring it home.
I know of a guy who hunts squirrels in Pennsylvania with a dog he calls his “hound.” He told me once which of the 112-plus hound breeds he is from, but I have forgotten. He is simply a hound. I guess up north, above the Mason-Dixon Line, hounds are common in the squirrel woods, but the times I have hunted squirrels in the Deep South it’s been with feist dogs.
The feist is a small hunting dog, descended from the terriers brought over to the United States by English miners and other working-class immigrants. They go back far enough in the States that Washington wrote about them. So did Faulkner, who knew something of this Delta country we were hunting.
The way it works is, we turn the dog loose and wait for him to tree a squirrel. When he hits on a squirrel the dog either tracks it to, or chases it up, a tree. It’s said that feists locate squirrels by scent, vision and sound, so they don’t leave much to chance. Unlike a hound, they tend to run the trail silently, barking only after the squirrel is treed. Once that happens the dog will stay at the base of the tree barking, sometimes circling to prevent the squirrel from running down the backside, until the hunters arrive.
It is the hunter’s job to find the squirrel and shoot it. Tony brought a .22 rifle for me to use. The other hunters all had shotguns. I mostly used the rifle, pulling off a few shots that were impressive, at least to me. At one point, in the interest of full integration into the sport, I borrowed a Benelli shotgun to give that a try. I competed at 3-gun for years and have hunted even longer with Benellis and it felt comfortable in my hands.
While a tweedy, purist upland hunter might get the vapors at such a thought, a squirrel racing through the treetops can make for some very challenging wing shooting. The technique with each gun is completely different, and I like the methodical challenge of the rifle, but if I am honest, my type-A, full-bore self really liked the action with the shotgun.
Squirrel hunting feists are small in dimensions, but they are not small dogs in spirit. When small dogs are the topic, it suggests yappy, drooling, mentally challenged and useless lap dogs. We all know somebody who has those and if we as hunters are truthful, we find little purpose for those annoying ankle biters.
These canines, though, are anything but. They are intensely intelligent, devoted and driven. They are not trying to be the best, they are the best. The way they move and act they bring to mind a small man. Not so much the insecure bullies we all know, but the rare types like Ross Perot, Alan Ladd or Audie Murphy. Compact, concise and competent, these dogs go about the business of squirrel hunting without doubts or delay. They move quickly and with determination as they seek out the source of their employment and their reason for being. They work with precision, purpose and an ingrained knowledge that they are indeed the best. Like most who truly are, they don’t feel the need to tell you, it’s just a fact. They will accept your praise when offered, but they don’t need it.
I know one aging, childless, HR type who has feist dogs in lieu of cats. These, sadly, have lost their hunting instincts and, I suspect, any love of life.
The dogs with us today occupy the other end of the spectrum.
We had another Ringo, the dog in charge of a man named Scooter Culpepper, who was our host and a fun guy to hunt with. With a name as Southern as that, how could he not be? While the first Ringo from years ago represented the wild and chaotic rock ’n’ roll days, this one was the mature, more contemplative Ringo—not the weird, tiny train-driving Ringo, but something between the two.
This Ringo was extremely focused and devoutly driven to find squirrels. He went about that in an all-business way that found little need for me to give him a pet. Those were for later, back at the truck, after the hunt. For now he was busy and didn’t want any distractions. While my experience of hunting squirrels with dogs is admittedly a little stunted, I doubt I will ever hunt with a better performing dog.
Ringo’s lifestyle is proof that much of the South is still as I remember small town America, and Ringo is the mayor of his town. He lives outside (by choice) and is free to roam. He makes his rounds each morning he is not hunting, checking in with his constituents. He travels the neighborhood, making his stops, ensuring that the trains are on time, and collecting his treats. He is proof that while he may have a registered owner, he is in charge.
The other dog with us is named Maximus Decimus Meridius, which must always be said in the low, strong, flat tone that was only truly mastered by Russell Crow. He owns a man named David Easley, who is about as nice a guy as you will ever meet. David’s daughter is married to Scooter’s son and they are hunting buddies. David loves the movie “Gladiator” and so we were hunting with the namesake of the famous Roman general and gladiator. He is a dog that, when it comes to squirrels has vowed that he “will have his vengeance, in this life or the next.”
Because yelling Maximus Decimus Meridius is a bit awkward while running through the hardwood flats, he is just called Max when hunting. Which is the same name as my 120-pound shepherd/Lab mix who is no more a squirrel dog than (as my grandfather liked to say) I am a Baptist deacon, although on this hunt that lack of distinction made me rather unique among my companions. The only thing my Max hunts seriously is his food dish and timid Amazon drivers.
I think this all establishes that it’s not the handle that makes a dog a hunter. It is just attached to him and often defines something other than his personality.
Still, if it is to be a squirrel hunter, a dog must have a cool name. I have never met a squirrel dog named Bandit, Buddy, Thor or Fido. We can argue that Max is common. In fact, it is in all probability the most popular male dog name. I didn’t pick it for my dog, or even like it much if we are being honest, but he came from the shelter a year old with the name. In the case of this squirrel dog, it’s not his real name. It is simply what he will respond to in the woods. His real name is about as cool as it gets. A fighter, warrior, strategist and survivor: Maximus Decimus Meridius! He might tolerate you calling him Max for the sake of logistics, but never assume it’s really his name.
We met in the morning at a wildlife area near the Mississippi River, and as I watched the rest of the crew suit up I realized that I had again made the Yankee mistake of not bringing the right boots. They all had knee-high rubber boots, except Tony who had the 16-inch version of the famous Bean Hunting Boot. I brought my regular, too-low, hunting boots and they were soon filled with muddy Delta water.
We were hunting a large oak bottom that was as level as a pool table. Any deviation in elevation was filled with water and hidden. I found most of them while trying to reach the tree with all the noise below it. I failed measurably at remaining upright and ended up soaking my aching bones once or twice in the magical medicinal properties of the muddy Delta water.
Just as I joined the crew at that first tree, the squirrel lost its nerve and broke out on a run that included several death-defying jumps from tree to tree. A multitude of shotguns was roaring, but he made good his escape.
By the time we realized what had happened the dogs were bellowing at the bottom of another tree a hundred yards distant. I think the water sloshing in my bilge added enough ballast this time and I stayed on my feet. This squirrel broke too, but I managed to pull off a running head shot with the .22 as he dived for a nest. I was very impressed and looked around, expecting accolades. Everyone, even the dogs, seemed to have missed it.
January is late in the season and the acorns had been picked over by just about everything that lives there. This had the squirrels a bit scattered, so that we wound up walking over a lot of ground, although the dogs stayed busy and we never lacked action. I was either walking hard to get to the squirrel, looking up until my neck ached or shooting for so long that all of a sudden it was over. The long walk back to the trucks took us through some perfect river-bottom land, ground that was filled with the tracks of deer, hogs and other wildlife. Finding the burrow of an armadillo reminded me that I was nothing but a visitor in another world. I had left deep snow, frozen ground and thick ice coating my truck a day ago, and here I was sweating through my jacket and looking at the excavation works of a living dinosaur.
Our other companion was Jamie Shepard; we headed to his camp where we had a huge lunch with iced tea and good camaraderie. This was meat lover’s paradise, and I ate so much I could hardly move. We ate a representation of multiple mammals, and some of the venison was seasoned with a Delta-made Hoover Sauce. It tasted so good I found a bottle a few days later at the Piggly Wiggly to take home, figuring the Delta deer I shot would be expecting it.
That evening Tony and I sat in a deer blind overlooking more miles of Delta land than I would have thought possible. I was hunting does for management and meat and will say that I had a very good evening. I was trying out the new Harvest Collection ammo from Barnes and it impressively added a couple of deer to my freezer.
The next morning we were back in another wildlife area near the river. The morning was a bit slower with the weather keeping the squirrel activity down, but we found just enough action to make the day go fast. These are gray squirrels by species, but there is a variation of them living here with red fur. I indicated an interest and the dogs finally treed such a specimen, but we were behind as Tony and I were using a photo shoot as an excuse to let our old man legs take a break.
We were hunting that day in country with hills and deep ravines carved and re-carved by floodwaters until I was starting to feel a bit more comfortable with the land. However, those hills were just as tough on old bones as the mountains back home.
Jamie told us the dogs were holding a squirrel for me, but I better hurry. So, I jogged to the tree, which was farther than it should have been. (I have been told that it was more of a waddle at the end.) I found the bright red squirrel, posing quite nicely, rested the rifle on a small tree, tried to suck some air, aimed carefully at his head and … missed. That set things in motion, and again the shotguns started to sing in harmony. The beautiful, red-phase squirrel got the hint and took a dive for Scooter’s game bag. It also ended the squirrel hunt that I hated to accept was over.
It’s said that when you begin to miss it before you even leave, you can be sure it was a good hunt. This one qualified.
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