Year of the Gnome: Treed Up

The sun was growing heavy, making its afternoon descent into the horizon, when the Gnome headed out to load his hound dogs into his old, rusty pickup truck. One by one, Townes, Patsy, Blaze, Guy, Jessi, Hank, Loretta, Marty, and Dolly loaded into the bed, heads hanging out the side, taking in every smell.

With such a big pack, the Gnome needed some extra help with the hounds, so he called on the Gnomess to lend a hand. While she often spent her days digging in her garden and cooking grand meals fit for a Gnome, she knew her way around the hounds and what to expect on a hunt. And she was good company. As they took off down the old logging road, the excited yips and howls from the truck bed drowned out the George Jones crooning on the FM radio.

The road wound through forests young and old while the tires bumped over roots, rocks, and dried-up river bottoms. It was a familiar road, though it didn’t get much use, and the Gnome had been out on it just this morning. He had traded a plump billy goat from a nearby farmer for a few jars of bear grease, some elk ivory, a couple nice venison roasts, and a rattlesnake skin. The goat was now tethered to a picket, deep in the timber, munching on weeds and soaking up the afternoon sun, blissfully unaware of its fate.

As the sun slowly faded into the western skyline, the moon began peering out behind the nearby snow-dusted mountain tops. The road came to an abrupt stop, and the hunt was on. It’s difficult to hunt a saber-toothed cat on its home turf—they’ll evade even the wiliest of hound dogs—which is where the goat comes into play.

Once it realizes it’s alone in the woods, the goat will cry as the sky turns dark. Its distress calls ring like a dinner bell to the ears of the Smilodon, drawing the giant cat from its familiar haunt into lesser-known territory. The goat was already screeching in the last minutes of dusk.

The Gnome hopped out of his old pickup, his trusty Marlin Model 1895 in 45-70 Government in his hand. “Hush now,” he told the hounds; they quieted, and he listened. Gnomes have exceptionally good hearing, in case you didn’t know. He waited until he heard the goat’s bleating cries stop. And then he loosed all the dogs except one, Townes, his trusty trail dog.

The pack dogs took off on the trail, and the Gnomess followed, doing her best to keep up with their frantic pace. The Gnome pursued their trail with Townes on a lead, nose to the ground. The hounds bayed and raced deeper into the woods.

When they reached the goat, they saw that the cat had torn it to pieces. The hindquarters hung from a nearby tree limb, and blood darkened the ground. From this opening in the trees, it was clear that the saber-toothed cat and the dogs headed east. But Townes struck a trail to the west.

The Gnome knew better than to second-guess his most trusted companion. So, while the pack dogs and the Gnomess headed one way, the trail dog and the Gnome went in the opposite direction. Townes’ tail switched back and forth in counterpoint to the swinging of his head.

The Gnome’s headlight shone a path in the darkness, and Townes’ nose led the way. Deeper into the woods, higher into the mountains. Meanwhile, the barking and baying of the pack dogs grew closer and more frequent; the Gnome thought maybe they had jumped the cat. But Townes pushed on down the trail, and the Gnome followed.

Then, the Gnome saw a blur of tanned fur weaving through the trees. The cat was running, full speed, right to them. Townes started baying and barking and working to tree the massive cat. The dog pushed the cat to the ledge of a cliff band, the Gnome in tow.

The cat looked over the cliff and bared its giant eight-inch-long canines. They glistened in the moonlight, dripping drool from exertion. The sabertooth had two options for escape: a 100-foot drop down the cliff or up a nearby old, dead tree. The cat opted for the tree and, in a few great, leaping bounds, he was at the base where he scrambled up it like a bear. And the beast was treed.

Screaming, hissing, spitting, and snarling, the massive cat looked down on the Gnome and his dog with disdain. One shot from the old lever gun was all it took, and the cat plummeted, heavy from the dead tree to the earth.

As the cat thumped to the ground, the pack dogs appeared, tails wagging, with howls, yips, and bays to mark a successful hunt. The Gnomess appeared shortly after, out of breath but with a smile on her face. She drew the knife at her side, and they began gutting and quartering the sabertooth.

The Gnome would use every bit of this cat, from oversized canines to tail. The Gnome was particularly excited to make a saber-tooth cat baculum pipe. He’d split the meat with the Gnomess. And he owed a Troll a debt after some misguided gambling, so he’d get the skull or the skin, but not both. And for the hounds? They’d get to chew on the bones for a job well done.

Want to celebrate the Gnome in all his glory? Click here to get the Treed Up Gnome T-Shirt. We’ll be dropping new shirts and stories every month to commemorate the Year of the Gnome.