Dogs

[Garth Gustafson]

I was reading The Biography of a Sportsman by Austin Haight this morning. Dogs, his story about our 4 legged and 2 legged friends that enrich our lives was very moving...

Dogs
Good duck dogs, woodcock or quail dogs are not so hard to find, but a partridge dog is one in a thousand. He is like an old Frenchman’s idea of eating rabbits in the summer: “They have been d___ good, but you can’t get ‘em”.

The game is so wary and the cover so hard to hunt that it takes the keenest nose and highest degree of intelligence. Just as I think that a partridge hunter is a fanatic, so do I feel that it takes a dog with some unusual kink in his brain to be really good. He must have a thorough training in field work and a real love for this particular game that will drive him through briars and bushes. Add to these qualities years of experience, and you have a good dog, but he is so old that he has only a few seasons left to hunt.

After Rover, our woodchuck dog, passed to the happy hunting grounds of dogs, Jack came to us. He was a black cocker and, while he was not much of a success as a hunting dog, he was the finest companion a boy in the country could have had. We slept in the same bed and as he grew older I used to have to reduce his snoring by poking him when he got on his back. I could sick him on any living thing that moved, and when it came to woodchucks in a stone wall, he would stay there and bark from morning until dark. He was just plain stubborn about them.

We never went in swimming without him and he would jump into the water with all the enthusiasm of a boy. He would retrieve from the water until someone sent him after a cake of soap. After that he declined to cooperate; his faith had been shattered.

Every person in the town was his friend, and this was his undoing. From the first light of day until after dark he spent most of his time collecting food. He had a system and worked on a regular schedule. For a radius of half a mile he knew to a minute when meals were served and he made his rounds like a postman. Our cook ate her breakfast rather early and with the first sound in the kitchen he was there. A little later he picked up a light snack at the kitchen of the next house, and hurriedly returned to our breakfast table. With the possibilities of food exhausted here, back he went next door. At the post-office he begged for candy and got it, when I couldn’t. Then, if there was nothing more exciting, he extended has range. Everyone knew what he wanted and everyone fed him. The noonday meal was rather hurried, for we all ate at much the same time. He prospected about and just located himself where the smells were most to his liking. And then he sat and begged.

Again in the evening he was on hand, groaning at every mouthful of food that was not offered to him, his great eyes following the fork from the plate to the mouth with a longing that no one could resist. He weighed forty pounds and I honestly believe he ate his own weight in food every day. This was his undoing, and had it not been for his love of going about with me, he would have died earlier. His end came when he could hardly walk from excessive weight and his sight began to fail. After he had been put to sleep, my father wiped his eyes and said huskily, “Jack never did a mean thing in his life; everyone loved him, and that is more than what I can say of any man I have ever known.”

During my years at school and college we were without a dog. The little bird hunting we did during these years did not warrant keeping one, but once I was back on the farm and hunting with my older brother became an autumn event, we felt the need for one. We could kill all the partridges we wanted to by my driving birds to him in the open, but we came to realize that a dog is nearly half the fun of hunting.

It was about the first of September one year when he said to me, “Tommy, we ought to have a good bird dog. You scout around and see if you can find one. I’ll pay for it.”

I realize now, after all the years I have hunted partridges and the experience I have had with bird dogs, that that he did not know what he was asking of me. Today I would no more expect to pick up a good partridge dog on short notice than I would expect to charter a yacht on Big Creek.

It so happened that the very next day I went to town and my first stop was in a cigar store. The first man to speak to me asked, “You don’t know of anyone who would be interested in a damn good partridge dog?” I made him repeat the question to make sure my ears were not playing tricks on me.
“What kind of a dog is it?” I wanted time to think and I didn’t want to appear too anxious. “It’s a big pointer that belongs to an old hunter down Lenox way. He has to sell him to hold his job; the man he works for has two dogs of his own and he just won’t let this one on the place.”
“What do you ask for him?” I braced myself.
“Seventy-five dollars is the price. All you have to do is take him and try him. Take him today. If he isn’t the best one you ever saw, you get your money back”. The next day Ban came to live with me.

He was a great liver and white pointer, weighing eighty-five pounds, perfectly broken to hunt, and spotlessly clean in the house. It was no time at all before he felt at home-so much that he sprawled out on the floor before the open fire and let us walk over him. It was like having one of those lion skins with a mounted head. You could not walk without stepping on him or falling over him.

The only thing Ban loved more than has food was hunting birds, and that is saying more than many know, for feeding him as like feeding a cow. After a long hunt I could feed him a dish-pan filled with food. He would eat it without batting an eye. He ate everything and anything I gave him.
Pick up a gun and that lazy old fellow became steel springs and enthusiasm; nothing could control him, but once in the woods he was a hunting dog. He would mind my slightest call unless he had some wise idea of his own. There were times when I honestly believe that he wished I knew more about working a dog on partridges, for I know he did not agree with my tactics- he only tolerated them. At other times he simply ignored me and depended on his results justifying his means.

In a single season he learned every piece of cover in the vicinity, and, after he saw the direction in which we were going, he ran far ahead and waited impatiently at the edge of the woods. Most of the time I did not hunt him; I just followed, and if he could not locate a bird, there was no use in my expressing my own ideas. If he found birds in a certain locality, he never forgot the place, no matter how far away or how infrequently we returned to it.

His nose was the keenest I have ever known. On moist days I have repeatedly seen him point birds that were in trees. He never raised his head in doing this, but he would roll his eyes in a manner I recognized. On all of his points he was as staunch as a rock.

He was a sure retriever in any cover; but once he started for a bird, he took matters in his own hands and would not return until he had it. You could call and be darned; he was on his own with a single purpose in mind. I do not recall a single instance where he failed. That great white beast slithered through the brush like a ghost, and when his bell stopped tinkling, he had a bird. What surprised me most was the places he often located game. I had gotten into a rut driving birds, and as my method seemed to bring results, I saw no reason to get out of it. But Ban did. He prospected fence corners and isolated apple trees that I never would have looked at, and what is more, he produced some of the most beautiful shooting I have ever seen.

I remember one evening we came out of the woods and into a pasture. So far as I was concerned the hunt was over- but not for him. Off he galloped to an apple tree fifty yards away. Then he began to trot. I recognized this slowing down process; he was walking on his toes as I motioned to my brother. Slowly he worked up to that tree and pointed. It was a beautiful sight to see him on a background of green. I left my brother and circled to kick up the bird. There was no hurry, for each one of us knew exactly what the other was doing. The bird flew back to the woods and my brother gathered it in. Ban retrieved it with a look of pride in his eyes. It was all so perfect that we sat down and hugged him. I think he knew how we felt.
I have said he was a perfectly-broken dog, yet there were times when he would break shot. That does not sound very perfect, but the results were. It was not really so much a case of breaking shot as matching his judgement against ours, and I have never seen it in another dog. To illustrate, we will say that he trailed a bird from an apple tree for fifty yards to a pine thicket. Then he came to point, and the bird was flushed. At the shot he would look for the bird, which was feathered but not killed. He might start on a beeline after that bird, even though it seemed he would have to go into the next state to find it. If he did this, he would bring the bird back with him practically every time.

On the other hand, the same number of feathers might fall from a bird, and with a toss of his head he would start looking for another. How he knew when a bird was mortally wounded I do not pretend to say, but he certainly had positive ideas on the subject. I honestly believe that sometimes he waited for a bird to die and fall from a tree; he would be gone so long. This was a fault in a well-broken dog, but it had its practical side. We brought home many a bird we never could have found, nor would many dogs have even looked for them.

One of the funniest and longest points he ever held happened when we were hunting towards the end of a season. Before the morning was over, we had picked up most of the bird hunters in the town. As I recall it now, there were seven in the party. Through some misunderstanding one of our men was separated from us just before lunch. We knew he would find us, so we sat in the sun on the side of a hill to eat our sandwiches. We had been there fifteen minutes when we saw our lost partner crossing a field far below us. About that time someone who had more lunch than he cared for asked, “Tommy, where’s the dog?” I looked about, and not fifty feet below us stood trembling Ban, on a point. He had been there so long he could hardly balance himself on three legs. Then followed the maddest scramble for guns I have ever seen. The party lined up and I flushed the bird. Up it shot, high in the air, and the army opened fire. There were twelve badly-aimed shots and the bird turned and sailed down across the field. Our lost companion brought it down a quarter of a mile away. The old dog beat him to it and brought it back to me. All but one of the entire New Lebanon Trap Team had missed the easiest shot of the day and what did we hear from the man in the valley? I am glad to retreat behind that oft-used expression, “I do not remember,” which is a lie.

Ban was slow, but he covered a great deal of ground. Nothing was too insignificant to be looked over for game; every stump and corner was combed when Ban was on the job, and it was a wise bird that fooled him. I could control him easily, but often I simply followed him about, knowing that I was in the best possible hands.

On woodcock he was equally good, but, like other dogs I have seen, he did not like to retrieve them. He would stand over a dead bird with a pleading look in his eyes, as much to say, “Here he is, come get the darned thing. It gags me to pick it up.”

What a dog he was! For four seasons we had the most wonderful shooting over him a man could ask for. There were birds, lots of them, and he was as nearly perfect as a partridge dog could be. When he was still in his prime, he contracted distemper and died. He now lies with Jack in a little corner set aside for our faithful friends.

Without a dog we were utterly lost, so we began to look around for one. We did not have to wait long, for a man who had hunted often with us offered to give one to my brother. Her name was Maud. As a bird dog she was not so bad- that is, at times. Some days when she had one of her spells she would prance around making game and never get out from under foot. Then without any warning, and about when I was ready to shoot her, she would sail off and nail a bird, with all the grace and style of a field trial dog. If she had no other failing than this, I might have thought more of her.

When she was given to us, it was suggested that she be bred, and this was done with due regard to having her fit for the next hunting season, but no puppies arrived. The following September, however, she presented us with no less than fourteen cockers, to the delight of the children- until there was a mass execution.

Again she was bred with the idea of having some setter pups and again the next fall, to my chagrin, she had hounds under the barn and we could not get at them until they walked out.

Maud was a decided trial to me, for I had the questionable privilege of keeping her, or at least trying to. As a hunting dog, her virtues were few, but they might have saved her had she been less prolific in the autumn and more so in the spring. Maud was sent down South, where she worked on quail until she was bitten by a mad dog and had to be killed.

Again we were dogless, but soon the same man who gave Maud to us presented us with another. When I heard him tell my brother that he would like to give us another dog, I clenched my fist and looked him squarely in the eye as I asked, “Is it a bitch?” and I put all the scorn I could in the last word. “No,” laughed our friend, “his name is Bob and I think that you will like him, but you must remember that he will not let anyone pull him around by the collar. My man tried this and he bit him. They have been personal enemies ever since and that is why I want to find a home for him. He is a good dog for hunting but I simply cannot keep him, for there is not room enough on our place for him and the man.”

From the moment I saw Bob until the day I learned of his death I loved him. He was black and white, fairly large, and full of confidence. He had evidently fought his way up from puppyhood and found that the best defense was a quick and effective offense. Strange dogs and strange men were not allowed in our yard. He and the cat slept together, but let that cat come near his food, and there was a growl that was perfectly understood.

Bob loved hunting more than any dog I have known, and it made little difference what we were after. He would range wide after pheasants or work close on partridges. We could shoot rabbits in front of him, yet he never hunted them.

In the field he was a fast, sure worker, and it was a pleasure to see him jump over fences; he did not jump so much as he sailed. As soon as my brother arrived he became excited and I could not get out of his sight. If I picked up a gun he simply went wild, barking and capering about the yard like a pup.

Bob was more willing to cooperate with me than Ban. Maybe I had learned how to work a dog by then. He was also inclined to look for a dead bird where I indicated, even though he had opinions of his own. After going over the ground he would dash off on his own and generally he made a find.
Pheasants had just been made legal game when he came to town and I was worried about letting him work on them, but this was so much time wasted. In a day he caught on to the game, and while he ranged wide, this never seemed to have any effect on his grouse work. I could hold him in or wave him out, just as I wanted. He liked to hunt grouse better than he did any other bird. While hunting pheasants he would constantly edge over to the higher ground and make a cast through the birches.

Like humans, he had his faults. If a bird was dead when he went to retrieve, all was well. He brought it in to me nicely. But if it was not dead it soon would be. When he was after a running bird, we knew the exact spot where he caught it, for the ground would be covered by an explosion of feathers. It was impossible to break him of this trick. I think that he must have had a bird get away from him once and never wanted to have it happen again. He was better on woodcock than Ban for he would retrieve them, but it was not with the enthusiasm that he handled partridges.

So far as he was concerned, rabbits did not exist. We could shoot a dozen in front of him and he would not even bat an eye. I never saw him work on one and toward the end of his life he would even retrieve them for us.

He and I put in a strange twenty minutes on the first pheasant I ever killed. I had no idea how they acted and when he began to make game and point, I expected results. Together we went on and on. Had I not known him so well, I should have thought he was trailing a rabbit, yes, even a fox, for we went so far. Finally the bird flushed, a great cock, and I killed it. We were pretty proud of that afternoon.

It was not until the third year that Bob and I had any serious misunderstanding. One evening I was taking him to the cellar where he had his bed, and the cat was not there to greet him. He did not want to go to bed without company. Reaching down I took him by the collar, and in an instant he had my hand in his mouth. Some sixth sense prompted me to grab his tongue, which gagged him, and in this way I was spared any serious results. I was so surprised that I lost my temper and I everlastingly cuffed him and choked him with my bare hands. Finally I picked him up and threw him down the stairs. Once it was over I felt awfully sorry, as any dog lover would.
Not a month later I found my little daughter fondling him and counting his teeth. For some time I watched them and soon saw he loved it. From that time on I never doubted him, and for seven years he never once betrayed my confidence.

Every morning he escorted her to school, and at five minutes to twelve he brought her back. Just as promptly in the afternoon he was on hand, tail up, and feeling important at performing this self-imposed task.

Bob’s end came when he was slowing up. That season he did not jump fences, but looked to me to find holes for him. In spite of his mature years he had a little love affair two miles away. I found his body filled with shot after he had failed to come home for a day and a night. I had no other proof that he had been shot by the man on whose land I found him, save the statement of a child. There was nothing I could do about the matter, so I took off his collar and buried him. I have never forgotten this act nor have I forgiven it. I agree with a friend who said, “I hope there is a hot spot in hell for men who shoot dogs.” Bob is a happy memory; he was one of the best friends and hunters we ever had. His faithful service for nine years makes him outstanding in my hunting experience.

With Bob’s death our troubles began. We had been so lucky up to this time in getting good dogs that we did not know that there were any poor ones, but we soon found out. What followed was nothing short of a nightmare. The dogs that were sent to us for trial were utterly useless. Not a nose in the lot, none of them knew game, nor would they mind. This was discounted as I did not know them well nor they me, but when you turn a dog loose where there are birds and all he does is wet the trees, you can’t get very enthusiastic about him. Filled with hope and false information, we labored on year after year until I reverted to our old driving methods. I would not have believed that there were so many “first class” dogs for sale that were not worth the price of a shell to blow them to perdition. We had a two-hundred-fifty-dollar German pointer on trial. He chased rabbits, and gave tongue like a hound. Then we had another that chased sheep. There was a setter so dumb he could not find his way home a quarter of a mile from the house. All were highly recommended and sent on trial. Maybe I do not know how to handle a dog, but I could and did find more birds to shoot than the entire lot of dogs.

Then the lightning struck. We wanted a dog more than most anything else and I heard of a man who had one. When the man arrived, he had a fine-boned white female pointer that, except for her size, looked more like a whippet. When we took her out, I hoped that she would not work.

We were just nicely started when she pointed a bird. My brother wingtipped it and she found it without any full or bother. It was a corking shot and we were all pleased. The next bird fell to my gun and I began to become a little interested. The third was one that flew over my head; I hate a shot like that, but I was on them that day and the twenty folded it up. It hit the ground, as I supposed, dead, but it bounced, took wing, and passed within a few feet of my brother. Just snapping, he killed it. With all this noise and commotion we had not paid any attention to the dog and when we did, she was pointing. “That last bird is yours,” called my brother as he walked in and filled his quota for the day. An hour later he paid for Peggy and I had another female on my hands.

She was a headstrong old girl and it took most of the season for us to team up but all of the time she was finding birds and we were shooting them. Not a cripple got away from her. One afternoon when we were hunting with Bill Day, she did the prettiest piece of work I have ever seen a grouse dog do. Bill had a bird located in a little clump of hemlocks. He insisted that it was in a tree and that it would be better for us to go to the other side and let him drive it out. He was right, as usual and my brother killed it. The bird fell into a ravine and I sent Peggy down after it. She bounded along at full speed until she was within ten feet of it, then she snapped into a point. I could see her in plain sight of the dead bird. We walked in and flushed the second bird which I rather stole from my astonished brother. Then she did another thing I have never been able to account for. Calmly she put her foot on the back of the second bird, tore off a wing and then the head. She had been retrieving well for years and she never did such a thing again.

Peggy had two litters of puppies, which were sent South for Pete to handle. The first lot turned out to be good, but the second batch died off soon after they got there. It was a laborious task raising those pups. I would not have done it for anyone else but my brother.

The last time I took the old girl out was also the last hunt we brothers had for partridges. He had been away much of the season but this day he made a special effort. We were alone and I was glad to have him all to myself. The first bird we moved flushed wild but the second was in a pile of brush and old Peggy had him pinned there, when I walked in. My brother insisted it was a rabbit and was not ready, but I knew the dog, and it was my bird. The second was a horrible miss. I wake up at night seeing that one sail away. Never in all of our forty years could I get my brother to have absolute faith in a dog. He saw this bird fly into a little clump and when she began to work to the right, he insisted it was down by a brook to the left. I turned my head to motion to him to follow me and just then the bird got up. It was an open shot but I foozled it. Sheepishly we went on, both of us were ashamed of the way we had handled that one.

Then came the last point. We were working up a little brook, with the dog between up. I saw her begin to make game and whistled softly to my brother. Then she stopped. There we were in the bright autumn sunshine, two brothers who had hunted so long without a single misunderstanding, the old dog between us staunch and true. I nodded to him and we walked in. Two birds broke out almost over my head and a third went up the run. My brother tried for a double but he was too anxious and he missed his first. I nailed mine and we had a pair of birds tumbling in the air at once. Peggy brought mine in and I picked up his and handed it to him.
“I might have had a double, Tommy, but I am out of practice. You can’t shoot birds cold any more than you can run a race or pitch a game of ball.” I wish that he might have made that double, for it was our last hunt together. Before the next season came around his busy life came to an end.

Without him I did not care so much about hunting, not enough to keep a dog, especially one so closely associated with him. I could not bring myself to sell her, but I did find a home where she is spending her remaining years being waited on by a couple devoted to her. She knows me when I call to see her but I don’t think she cares to hunt as much as she did. Peggy is decidedly over-weight and exercise is too much of an effort. She has earned her rest.

There is talk in the family that we may have a cocker, just a house dog. Well, if we do, I hope he can be taught to hunt. Living in the country without a dog is a new thing to me. Nothing adds so much to the day in the field as a good dog; but, like the Frenchman’s summer rabbits, you can’t get ‘em.

Austin D. Haight
Biography of a Sportsman