Front Page Champion

I remember that day as if it were yesterday. The editor of The King Sentinel News said he was sending me on assignment to take photos at the Angus Macpherson homestead. His prized dog, a black and tan Coonhound, had recently won ‘best in show’ in the hound category at the Canadian Kennel Club. The editorial staff agreed to publish a photo of the celebrated dog on the front page of the upcoming issue.

My editor explained, “Old Angus said he’ll meet you on his property tomorrow at ten sharp. He lives in a densely wooded area off Eighth Concession Road, west of Pottageville. There’s a grassy clearing behind his house. You can take the photos there. But, make it fast, we have a deadline to meet.”

The next morning I arrived on the property at ten o’clock on the nose. It was a chilly March day, but Angus was waiting for me as expected, sporting a traditional tam-o’-shanter hat in keeping with his Scottish tradition. Standing loyally beside him on her leash was Esme, his world champion Coonhound. I introduced myself.

“Congratulations, sir. You must be so proud of her. I’m from The King Sentinel News, and I’ll be taking the photos of you and your dog for the front page of the paper.”

Truth be told, I knew nothing about dogs let alone how to photograph them, but, to my eye, Esme was a magnificent beast. She stood tall, poised and regal, and had the aura of an exalted breed. I watched as she strutted alongside her owner as if to vaunt her pedigree of grace and beauty. She boasted all the hallmarks of her bloodline. A cleanly modelled head, chiseled muzzle and muscular shoulders. Yes, the camera would certainly record her coal black and rich tan markings well.

The property was thickly wooded, just as my editor had warned me, so there were few options available to set up my gear. After surveying the area, I chose a spot on the grass about thirty feet behind the old man’s house. A thin, wired fence separated us from the building. There were patches of snow in front of the house and, with Angus wearing dark clothing and Esme’s palette of blacks and dark tans, the snow would provide separation between my subjects and the background.

I began setting up my Tachihara 4×5 on the tripod. It was a beautiful field camera used for landscape photography, but with the right lens, it took excellent portraitures. Though made of brass and four-hundred-year-old cherry wood, the Tachi was lightweight with fixed tapered bellows. Perfect for this assignment.

I positioned my two subjects on the patch of grass in front of the fence and assessed the ambient light. It was an overcast morning, so the light would be soft with no harsh shadows.

“Sir, I need to meter the light on you and your dog. Then, I’ll take a test shot. Could you and the dog stand still and look at the camera?”

With my metering device in hand, I approached my two subjects. The light reading was lower than I expected so I stepped back to the Tachi to adjust my camera settings and ensure I had the correct exposure. Then I slipped the black focusing hood over my head.

Through the viewfinder, I saw Angus with Esme by his side. The old man’s pride was palpable. After all, it was not every day that someone from the King community had their picture plastered across the front cover of the biggest newspaper in the township. Imagine the bragging rights. Everyone read The Sentinel. He and Esme would be the talk of King Township.

I took my test shot, but then realized Esme had become distracted. She had turned her head away from the camera with her eyes fixed on the wooded area to her right. But this was only a test shot, so I didn’t worry. I advanced the film. Now for the real deal.

“Mr. Macpherson, the next shots count. Please keep the dog as still as possible and both of you look straight at the camera?”

I refocused the lens and composed the photo. Just as before, Esme was standing alert, her ears pointed forward, her eyes intense and still locked on the dense woods to the right. She snarled and bared her teeth.

Angus responded, “C’mon now, girl. Sit, girl. Sit! Sorry, lad, must be her predatory instinct, you know. She’s picked up a scent. Must be a dang critter in those woods.”

Angus yanked her leash to settle her down, but she would not comply. As the photographer, I knew part of my job was to coax the dog to obey our commands.

“Esme, over here, girl. Be a good girl and look at the birdie in the camera.”

I whistled as best as I could to get her attention, but Esme acted as if I was invisible; she remained fixated on the woods. Angus yanked her leash again—and again, but the more he yanked, the more agitated she became. She started howling hysterically, bounding up and down on the spot. Still tethered to her leash, she lunged forward in a frenzy trying to free herself.

Angus shouted at her again, this time in a sterner voice than before, trying to restrain her.

“Down, girl! Down! Bad dog!” It became obvious to me that the old man’s patience was unraveling. He was no longer in control of his champion.

Then suddenly–startlingly, she bolted forward, breaking free of her leash. She streaked across the grassy clearing towards the thick brush behind me. Her deep guttural baying—ear piercing and unrelenting as she ran. Seconds later, she had disappeared into the woods. It all happened so fast. I had never seen a dog act this way before. In a panic, Angus pursued her, hobbling through the backwoods and calling out to her as he went.

In the distance, I could hear Esme’s bays echoing across the countryside, gradually fading with each passing moment. Then silence. Only the sound of the wind rustling through the trees in the woods.

For a half hour, I waited beside my equipment. Neither Angus nor Esme returned. The wind was picking up, and it was getting cold. Snow was in the forecast for that morning, so I packed up to leave rather than risk damage to my gear.

On the way home, I felt mortified. The fruits of my labour for that day? One shot. And it was only a test shot. What happens if the photo did not turn out? It would infuriate the editorial department. The standard protocol for Sentinel photographers was to submit a minimum of five photos for any story. Even more for a front-page story.

The next morning I brought the film into The Sentinel’s darkroom for developing. The test shot—my only shot—turned out okay, although a bit too dark for my liking. I explained to the editorial staff that what happened at the photo shoot the day before was totally beyond my control. When I offered to go back the next day for a reshoot, my editor told me there was not enough time and they would run with the one shot. Yes, my test shot. I was relieved to hear that for the sake of keeping my job, but as a photographer, I was disappointed I failed at this assignment.

A few days later, my editor informed me that, sadly, Esme never returned home. The locals had organized a search party, but they never found her. There was a rumour that a local hunter mistook her for a coyote and shot her in the woods. Others said a farm plow hit her while she crossed a busy section of the highway.

As for poor Angus, he would live to see the photo of his prized hound gracing the front page of the King Sentinel News with the headline reading:

LOCAL HOUND, ESME,

WINS KENNEL CLUB CHAMPIONSHIP