- Joined
- Jan 30, 2002
- Messages
- 7,269
Young Bert
Memories of a good day with a good dog
Three birds went up, but only one came down. Two points
for Young Bert (YB), the not-right dog: one with head up,
getting air scent from a pheasant in a pile of brush, overgrown
with grasses (I missed); and then . . . .
He wouldn’t leave the pile, which was right along the crik. I
figured he had still locked on to the scent of the sitting bird I’d
missed. Then he locked into a point - a great point - while standing
in the crik! He wouldn’t move.
I walked the top of the brush pile and darned near broke my
leg. No bird up; YB still wouldn’t move. He was just standing on
point in the crik. I kept walking on the brush pile, then around
it, jumping up and down until finally, a rooster went up from
where no rooster should have been--and went down.
Whatta dog.
Later, a search and run and search and run on a second bird
until finally the darned bird went up. I shot (20 gauge. single,
open cylinder) and nothing.
Then back up the drive to the house; YB got interested in
the brush pile between the road and the house, and darned if a
young bunny didn’t bolt up the drive to the shed. I tagged him
and then directed YB to go get him and finish him off.
A good morning. Sometimes I remember why I feed that dog
Did I tell him he was good? Well, yes. But, frankly, I think he
is indifferent to my praise or condemnation. For five years, he
has been like a little kid let loose in Toys R Us.
Every day is a joy, every outing a chance to pursue mystical
creatures, every intersection with the crik demands that he
walk in the mud and swim in the water and search for the diamond-studded
muskrat that he KNOWS is there.
I have to examine him closely during
most hunts, because he does not acknowledge
damage to his body during an
outing. He’s split his chest open twice on
something, maybe barbed wire? Old farm
equipment? Three inches long, one inch
deep.
He is currently in the end stage of healing
from what was almost a disembowelment
- with the flaps of skin hanging down
on his belly - again, probably from barbed
wire. Thankfully, dogs are not subject to
tetanus.
I sometimes think of what it must have
been like with his original owners, to have
his life-drive and be tied to a tree for two
and one-half years. One of the blessings of
being a dog must be the lack of reflection,
or comparison, with the past.
But he was born to be out here, doing
this, and maybe, with me.
I think I got very lucky.
Memories of a good day with a good dog
Three birds went up, but only one came down. Two points
for Young Bert (YB), the not-right dog: one with head up,
getting air scent from a pheasant in a pile of brush, overgrown
with grasses (I missed); and then . . . .
He wouldn’t leave the pile, which was right along the crik. I
figured he had still locked on to the scent of the sitting bird I’d
missed. Then he locked into a point - a great point - while standing
in the crik! He wouldn’t move.
I walked the top of the brush pile and darned near broke my
leg. No bird up; YB still wouldn’t move. He was just standing on
point in the crik. I kept walking on the brush pile, then around
it, jumping up and down until finally, a rooster went up from
where no rooster should have been--and went down.
Whatta dog.
Later, a search and run and search and run on a second bird
until finally the darned bird went up. I shot (20 gauge. single,
open cylinder) and nothing.
Then back up the drive to the house; YB got interested in
the brush pile between the road and the house, and darned if a
young bunny didn’t bolt up the drive to the shed. I tagged him
and then directed YB to go get him and finish him off.
A good morning. Sometimes I remember why I feed that dog
Did I tell him he was good? Well, yes. But, frankly, I think he
is indifferent to my praise or condemnation. For five years, he
has been like a little kid let loose in Toys R Us.
Every day is a joy, every outing a chance to pursue mystical
creatures, every intersection with the crik demands that he
walk in the mud and swim in the water and search for the diamond-studded
muskrat that he KNOWS is there.
I have to examine him closely during
most hunts, because he does not acknowledge
damage to his body during an
outing. He’s split his chest open twice on
something, maybe barbed wire? Old farm
equipment? Three inches long, one inch
deep.
He is currently in the end stage of healing
from what was almost a disembowelment
- with the flaps of skin hanging down
on his belly - again, probably from barbed
wire. Thankfully, dogs are not subject to
tetanus.
I sometimes think of what it must have
been like with his original owners, to have
his life-drive and be tied to a tree for two
and one-half years. One of the blessings of
being a dog must be the lack of reflection,
or comparison, with the past.
But he was born to be out here, doing
this, and maybe, with me.
I think I got very lucky.
