A Bone for an Old Hound

It’s hard to teach this old hound new tricks. Lord knows, I’ve been trying.

For years, I’ve relied on the double dash as if it were an old friend that never let me down. Two little lines that could hold a thought, change a direction, or land a punchline better than most words could.

Then one day, I was told they weren’t proper, weren’t clean, weren’t “professional.” That stung a little.

I took it on the chin, though. Sat down, rolled up my sleeves, and told myself I’d learn to do without ’em.

That was about a month and a half ago, and let me tell you, it’s been about as natural as a pig at a prom. Every time I go to write, my fingers itch for that second dash the way a smoker reaches for a lighter after dinner.

Old habits aren’t just stubborn, they’re loyal.

Now, you’d think after sixty-some years of doing things one way, a man would earn the right to keep his quirks. But apparently, the world’s got other ideas.

Everything’s “streamlined” now, “standardized.” Seems like everybody’s trying to polish the edges off life until it’s too smooth to hold onto. I reckon that’s why folks slip so much these days, no grit left for traction.

Still, I’m trying. Because learning, even when you don’t have to, keeps a man from growing moss.

That’s what I tell myself, anyway, right after I grumble about how much simpler things used to be. It’s funny how your brain and your heart can sit on opposite sides of the same fence, arguing over what’s right.

The brain says, “Adapt or die.”

The heart says, “Don’t you dare change a thing.”

And in the middle stands the rest of you, like a referee who’s too tired to blow the whistle.

I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. I’ve always been partial to what’s comfortable.

The same coffee mug every morning, the same chair, the same routine of watching the sun stretch its arms across the pasture. You get to a point where repetition isn’t laziness, it’s peace. So when someone tells me to start doing something new, I don’t jump like a pup at supper time. I circle it slowly, sniffing it out, deciding if it’s safe to bite.

The trouble is, the world doesn’t wait for old dogs like me. It keeps trotting along, ears up, tail high, leaving us in the dust if we stop too long to scratch.

That’s fine, though. I’ve learned to move at my own pace, as there’s a kind of wisdom in that, knowing you don’t have to keep up with the pack to enjoy the hunt still.

The funny thing about this whole “learn new tricks” business is that it’s not really about punctuation. It’s about pride.

About realizing that just because you’ve been doing something a certain way for decades doesn’t mean it’s the only way. And that’s a hard lesson to swallow, especially when you’ve built a life around believing your instincts were usually right.

I remember an old hound, Red. He was a mutt with more heart than sense, but he never gave up trying to please.

I could holler at him all afternoon for chasing chickens, and he’d still bring me my slippers come sundown, tail wagging, hoping for a pat on the head. Red didn’t care about being right; Red cared about doing right.

Maybe that’s the bone I’ve been missing here. Trying to be right instead of just doing right by what I love writing. Whether I use dashes, commas, or ellipses, it’s the story that matters.

The heart behind the words. The truth that sneaks out between the lines, no matter how you break them up.

So, I’ll keep trying to unlearn my little quirk. I’ll do my best to play by the rules, at least most of the time.

But I’ll also keep a few dashes tucked in my pocket, like an old lucky coin. Because sometimes, when you’re telling a story, you need that pause, the one that says, “Hang on now, something important’s coming.”

Maybe that’s what life is, too. A dash between what we were and what we’re becoming.

Some folk fill that space with noise, others with silence. I fill it with stories, little pieces of who I am, scattered like bones in the backyard.

And if I bury one too deep or fetch it out too soon, well, that’s just part of learning. The good Lord, or an editor, knows I’m trying.

So, give this old dog a bone. I still got some bark left in me, and I’m learning to wag even when the rules change.

After all, a hound’s worth isn’t measured by how many tricks he knows, but by how faithful he stays to his master’s call—and to himself.