Every year, it’s the same here in Northeast Florida and I presume, elsewhere in the nation, based on what I see on Petfinder and Facebook.
Hounds. Coming out of the woods, the swamp, the fields. More hounds. Wandering lost on the side of a highway. Still more hounds, wandering up to someone’s yard looking for, and begging for, some bit of food, some scrap of love and attention.
Still more of them, landing in a kill shelter somewhere with virtually zero chance at adoption, and only a slightly better chance at rescue being able to take them on. And more hounds, laying dead on a road or in a ditch, either having starved to death or having been hit by a vehicle, or shot by someone who didn’t appreciate having their chickens killed, their trash raided or their sensibilities disturbed by a baying, crying, hungry hound.
Far too many people (yes, I know not all, but it seems the vast majority) believe that a coonhound, regardless of the flavor, is no different from a weed eater, a lawn mower, a rake or a shotgun — a tool to be used during hunting season and then discarded in a myriad of ways, none with a happy ending, or just ignored (the lucky ones?) until next hunting season.