The Dogs of Natchez Trace by Geoff Reed
Driving the 440 miles on the Natchez Trace Parkway from the Northern terminus west of Nashville, not far from where I live, to Natchez, Mississippi is a great experience. Lots of historical sites to see, a beautiful, litter free road, no trucks, uncrowded and peaceful, the way driving was supposed to be.
And if you want a free dog, it’s a good place to look for one. The road travels some of the poorest counties in America and has lots of pull- offs, allowing for privacy so a person can easily kick a dog or a litter out of a car and speed away without any witnesses, leaving a park ranger, maintenance worker, or some dog-loving motorist like me, to find them.
About this time last year, my friend Scott and I decided to rent a couple of motorcycles and ride down to Tupelo, spend the night and ride back. He lives up North and doesn’t know much about this part of the country. Toward afternoon, we pull into Buzzard Roost Spring at Mile Post 320, where Highway 72 crosses The Trace in Northwest Alabama.
“Aw, Fuck,” I said, as I cut the engine and took off my helmet. Two dogs were standing by the garbage can, next to the interpretive sign and the picnic table. They both looked to be about 3-month-old hound dog mixes, skittish and feral, watching us from the woods.
Normally, I would have my stray dog supplies in my trunk- some old towels, food and water, plastic bowl, gloves, leash and a rope. Being on the bikes we had little to offer them and there was no way we were going to catch them anyway. Obviously, we were not the first people to come across the dogs, as the remnants of dog food cans and junk food wrappers that people had left for them were lying around.
We rode on, my heart heavy, my mind now troubled. That night in Tupelo over dinner and Tennessee Whiskey, despite all the sights we had seen, the conversation always seemed to come back to those dogs and to the cruel how’s and why’s of dog dumping and just what the hell is the matter with some people? “That’s just the way it is sometimes down here,” I remember saying.
The next morning we went to a big box store and picked up a sack of dry dog food and some jugs of water. We strapped the supplies on the bikes and headed back North. Just as expected, the dogs were there as we pulled off the highway. We left the supplies for them, I took a picture and told them I would report them to a ranger- maybe they would know someone who would come out and trap them.
I never knew what became of them after that and the not knowing is always the hardest part. The history of travelers on that road is full of tales of hardship, death and misery – the dogs of the Natchez Trace are just one more chapter I cannot forget.