Parker Gun Collectors Association Forums - A Parker story behind the picture

The age old question of which breed of dog is the best is simply answered “The one you have”. I’m sure my favorites and yours are different. However, having owned or been around most of them from “Curb Setters to a couple exotic and rare Dandie Dinmont Terriers I’ve found it is what is common to them rather than what separates them that makes them “mans best friend”, unquestioning love and loyalty. I have a special warm spot in my heart for Springer Spaniels and Golden Retrievers, which is strange because they are almost complete opposites. I firmly believe that if you have a child and a Springer neither will ever be lacking a playmate, Both have boundless energy and are ready to play at every opportunity. The Golden is as laid back, as the Springer is active and will tolerate pretty much anything you or a child wants to do as long as it doesn’t hurt. The only thing they ask for is attention and to be with its people.
This story is about a time in my life that I had one of each and lived in the country where I could hunt on my own land. The Springers name was Ginger and she lived to retrieve. If you wouldn’t throw a ball or a stick for her to retrieve she would go out and find her own, bring it to you and put it at your feet. If you wouldn’t throw that one she would find another and bring that one and so on and so on until she found one you would throw. Some of the “sticks she drug out of the woods were big fallen branches several times bigger than her and a couple were small downed trees (if it was laying loose it needed to be brought to you.
The Golden retriever’s name was Fred. Yes, my dogs were named Fred and Ginger, named by my daughter who was a dancer, go figure. Fred was everything you could ask for in a Golden Retriever. He loved everyone he ever met, was quiet, gentle with children, liked to play and retrieve but not with Ginger’s intensity. About the only thing he wouldn’t tolerate were four-footed intruders into his territory.
The folks that lived across the road had a Spitz that was extremely aggressive and had bitten our houses previous owner as well as several other people and was well known locally for his bad attitude and aggressive nature. One warm sunny day my father-in-law was helping out by installing a new rural mailbox. The old one was rusted out and I hadn’t gotten around to installing the new one. Fred was lying in the sun “supervising” when the Spitz came charging across the road with my father-in-law dead in his sights. Lazy, lovable Fred who never had been known to even growl at anyone, sprang to life in an instant and homed in on the Spitz like a Patriot Missile. The Spitz was on his back with Fred’s teeth around his throat not three feet from my father-in-law screaming in terror. My Father-in-law got Fred to let him go and he ran home yelping all the way. My Father-in-law who didn’t much care for dogs suddenly became Fred’s biggest fan. Needless to say Fred came home a hero and we never did get another visit from the neighborhood bully.
Fred was death on four feet to squirrels that invaded our bird feeders and would bring home his broken victims and lay their brown bodies on the deck so we could see he was on the job. One dark winter morning he pounced on a raccoon that was raiding the garbage can. It wasn’t even a fight the raccoon was dead before I even knew what was happening. But, Fred saved his favorite game for people. That game was scaring the snot out of them as a form of getting to know them. One day the local Conservation Officer came by to drop off some materials for a Hunter Education class I was teaching and stepped out of his SUV only to see a big orange dog charging him at full speed. He didn’t have time to jump back into the vehicle or draw his gun, he braced himself for the impact and bite that were milliseconds away only to have Fred come to a screeching halt and nuzzle his hand to be petted. Fred did the same thing to a friend of mine who was returning from deer hunting on the property in the fading light. All he saw was a shadow streaking along the ground. His heart skipped a beat as he rose his gun to defend himself from whatever monster had risen from the forest floor but before he could even get it cocked Fred was sitting in front of him tail wagging and tongue lolling looking for attention. Fred would also toboggan with the children, stand in line at the top of the hill and when it was his turn he would roll over on his back, squirm over the edge and slide down on his back head first. He could also open a door as quick as a person could and it was all self taught.
Now with dogs as active, alert, and intelligent as these two you just know they had to be great hunters. That was what I thought too! From the time they were puppies we would plat “Hunt Bird”. I had a canvas bag stuffed with pheasant feathers that I would hide. The dogs had to sit in the TV room and I would roam the house hiding the “bird” behind furniture, under pillows, between cushions of the couch wherever I could think of. When I returned the TV room I’d find the two of them sitting side by side quivering with excitement. I released them by telling them to “Hunt Bird” and they would explode into activity. Being opposites they each hunted differently. Fred, the Golden, relied mostly on his nose, sniffing for a sent of the bird. He would explore every likely spot starting with the place the bird had been hidden before. Ginger, on the other hand relied on aggressiveness. She looked everyplace. No corner, cranny, pillow or cushion was safe from her probing nose and eyes. High speed, low drag, look everywhere, do it quickly and just in case turn it over and check again, never slow down and never quit. They both loved the game and competed with each other to find the bird and bring it back so I would hide it again. They were about equally successful at finding the bird but Fred was much neater. You could always see where Ginger had searched. Pillows were off the beds, blankets were tossed around, cushions were off the couches, rugs lay jumbled into corners, moveable things moved and closet doors stood open with shoes overturned and abandoned. I was positive that between those two nothing could escape or hide for long.
We trained all summer. I tied pheasant wings to the bird, threw it, “shot” it with a blank gun and they would retrieve it, pushing and shoving each other like a couple of kids trying to get the prize. Finally fall and pheasant season arrived. Early one clear and frosty morning I grabbed my favorite old double barrel and headed out to the field with my two dogs. I was probably almost as excited as they were. We walked the cornfield borders and the fencerows and it was truly beautiful. The dogs were working just like you see on the hunting shows on television. They ranged back and forth busting through brush and shouldering their way through tangles staying within shotgun range. If they got a bit to far out I’d blow my whistle and they would stop and look back until I caught up and gave them the go ahead. It was perfect! Then, suddenly, Ginger flushed a bird! A huge hen turkey went up and Ginger chased it but I didn’t shoot. She neither knew nor cared that turkey was not in season. When the turkey finally got out of range Ginger stopped and looked at me with disappointment showing in her eyes. All that work and I didn’t even shoot at it so she could go get it. Soon, her disappointment at letting that turkey get away was forgotten and she was hunting again.
A string of cackles and a flutter of wings about 40 yards ahead of us announced that a Cock Pheasant was flushing wild. The dogs hadn’t put him up but he had heard us approaching and decided to vacate the premises. He flew along a heavily overgrown creek bank calling us vulgar names in Pheasant. It was a classic crossing shot with the bird moving from my right to left. The battered old Parker Trojan shotgun came to my shoulder effortlessly, swung past the bird and my finger found the front trigger launching 1 ¼ oz. of number six shot down the modified choke barrel. There was a puff of bright feathers in the air and a tumbling pheasant disappeared into the tall grass and brush. I had lost birds before in heave cover like this and knew my only chance of finding him was my dogs.
Unless a Pheasant hits the ground stone cold dead he will run like the hounds of hell are chasing him, and from his point of view I guess they are, until he dies or finds a tangle so thick only the nose of a dog can locate him. Many a Pheasant has been lost to hunters without a dog to track them down. My two were already running to where the bird fell and didn’t need my encouragement to “Hunt Bird” Ginger didn’t even break stride melting through the barbed wire fence between her and the bird. Fred couldn’t squeeze through the wire and I had to step on the lower strand and pull up on the middle strand so he could snake through. In a moment he disappeared into the tangle. Boy Oh Boy was I proud of those dogs at that moment. I was a lot slower getting over the fence. Four strong strands of wire were to close together for me to slip through. I had to unload my gun, climb over at a pole large enough to take my weight and then retrieve the gun and reload. The growth was so thick I soon found myself hopelessly tangled in multa flora rose tendrils. Multa Flora Rose is a brutal plant with large thorns and heavy vines that will stop you in your tracks. I had to slowly untangle each vine collecting several punctures and back out of it and find a way around. By the time I worked my way to the dogs they were no longer actively hunting the bird. Instead they were exploring all the interesting new smells along the creek bed.
“Hunt Bird”’ I told them and they perked up and went looking. A few minutes later they were back and I started leading the hunt myself. I poked under tufts of grass and under each bush and rose plant. The dogs would come over and see if I had found anything interesting and then would check out a few places on their own until they noticed I was looking someplace new and would come over and join me. This continued until I felt I had stuck my nose under every plant along the creek. No Bird! I was not a happy camper.
I slowly began to realize that I was doing most of the hunting and the dogs were following my lead! Just when was it that we had changed roles?
“Hunt Bird” I said, and they looked at me as if to say “You can’t fool us with that one again, there ain’t no bird”. Eventually I gave it up and went back to hunting. It bothered me that I had made such a nice shot and that darned bird had sure looked dead when he tumbled form the sky so, after another hour or so we circled back to where I had taken the shot. I stood there rerunning the whole thing in my head. “The bird flushed about there. I took the shot when he was about there, and he fell right about there just to the left and this side of that tree. I made a beeline toward the spot I thought the bird had fallen. I climbed the fence again and this time used my knife to fight off the carnivorous, flesh eating Multa Flora Rose. Then I bulled my way through buck brush and tall grass until I came to a game trail with a dead Pheasant laying right in the middle of it not ten feet away. Ah Ha, I thought, a teaching moment. I called the dogs over to me and had them sit.
“Hunt Bird,” I said and pointed to the dead Pheasant. They jumped up and took off in the direction I was pointing and, had the bird been alive, would have trampled it to death. I walked over to the bird, called the dogs back, pointed to the bird and said
“What’s this?”
They sniffed it, gave me a “Damned if I know” look and ran off hunting whatever it was they thought we were looking for.
Until now, whenever anyone asked me about the picture Cecile took of us that day where I have my shotgun over my shoulder, a Pheasant in my hand, and Fred and Ginger sitting by my side I always tell them
“I would have never retrieved that bird if it hadn’t been for the dogs.”
I let them think it was the dogs that retrieved the bird when in fact it was me, but then if you expect loyalty from your best friends you have to give it. The dogs are both gone now and now you have the story behind the picture.