If William Bolton were in charge of judging which humans get into heaven instead of which canines get into the Coon Dog Memorial Graveyard, in Colbert County, Ala., heaven would be as empty as Montana. "A guy called me the other day and he thought he had a good enough dog to be buried here," says Bolton, who at age 72 has spent more than half his life as secretary-treasurer of this cemetery. "He started talking about how he just might bury it on his own land. I said, trying to let him down easy, `I think you better go ahead and do just that.' He wasn't happy, but we've got standards. Only outstanding coon dogs are buried here." Bolton knew this particular coon dog wasn't outstanding, because he conducts a physical inspection of each animal whose owner thinks the animal's good enough for the cemetery. He also does an extensive background check into the dog's character and hunting prowess. "Hunters tend to exaggerate about their dogs and what they did," Bolton says. "This one wasn't even a full coon dog. And after talking to other hunters, we found out it wasn't the hunting dog he said it was, either." There are more than 150 dogs buried here on a 10-acre site along Route 21. The cemetery is a state park run by the Tennessee Valley Coon Hunter's Association. It's a grand place for a hunter to sit quietly and remember a good dog and simpler times. The association has about 50 hunters, down from 200 a generation ago. Bolton's voice and eyes grow softer as he and his cousin, Herbert Henson, share their banked memories of working all day and hunting all night, of great dogs now dead, of the pleasure of trailing the pack, of marveling at the physical grace and the musical chorus of longing and conquest that coon dogs sing. "There's almost nothing as beautiful as the sound a coon dog makes," Bolton says. "Their voices change from a'chopping to a'bawling when they've treed a coon," says Henson, who has five dogs buried here. "I had one dog, Trael, and water didn't get too cold or too deep for him to swim across to tree a coon. That's a real coon dog, not one that stops at water." "Yep," agrees Bolton. "This generation's missing something. I got a boy who teaches school in Florida and I just can't get him interested. Wish I could." On a recent day at the cemetery, the men, both retired now from work and hunting, raked leaves, picked up litter and talked about a man's love of a good dog. The sun peeked through pine and maple and dogwood trees, insistent wild onions sprang forth between the tombstones, each adorned with a bouquet of weather-wilted silk roses. From the picnic area, covered by a tin roof, rolling hills and deep valleys provided a bucolic and respectful backdrop. Most of the dead coon dogs have manly names, etched in tombstones of marble, wood, tin or stone. There's Ole Blue, Joe, Rock, Hank, Ole Red, Loud, Ruff, Track ("He wasn't the best, but he was the best I ever had," it says on Track's tombstone). There are a few female dogs, too, such as Kate and Fanny. Then there's Bobo, who could be either male or female but who had to have been one confident coon dog to live down a name more common to a lap dog with lacquered toenails than a canine hunting machine. Coon dogs are distinct breeds of hounds, including Walker, tick, black and tan, blue English and redbone, Bolton says. A good coon dog can cost $1,500. To bury a coon dog in the cemetery, its owner must pay $50 to the hunters' association, put his pet in a "cotton-pick" sack and dig a hole at least 3 feet deep. One hunter used his coon dog's doghouse as a tombstone. Another hunter hired mourners who wept and a phony preacher who prayed and preached at the funeral, to send his dog to the hereafter in high style. As heavenly a spot as this is, there must exist a dog-mean frustration among the deceased. At night, when it's still and silent, raccoons, eternally beyond reach, dance on their predators' graves.

Caretakers Herbert Henson (right) and William Bolton rake leaves and keep the 10-acre coon dog graveyard in running order. (Photo by Jean Shifrin.)