 |
| Young ruffie, Chuck Robbins photo |
A snowy, frigid (like 20 below) Christmas morning Gale and I drove over the mountain on icy roads to choose a setter pup. While we knew the breeder, both personally and by reputation, we’d never seen his place before. So were a bit surprised when directed to an obviously hastily constructed wire-enclosed pen and a slapped together wooden box with a tattered burlap bag covered opening.
But before we could reflect on its flimsy construction and how cold the precious pups must be, out bounded a handful of white and orange, 12-week old pups, each crashing the fence, rolling and jousting each other in a wild melee. Oblivious to the cold each bore that look...take me, take me! Except for one which was hell bent to steal the show, chase the others back into the box—though with pups going every which way was pretty much a lost cause.
“Which is ours?” said Gale.
“That little bitch beatin’ up on all the others. Man look how she rules the roost. Believe it or not she’s the only female and as you can see is for sure boss dog.
So while I settled up, Gale—with Ginny in her arms already sound asleep—headed for the truck. When I got there she was curled in her lap snoring way too loud for such a little thing—a trait she would take to her grave 17-years later. She hunted long and hard for 16 seasons. Given she did everything at warp speed, how she maintained the fire and stamina for so long was beyond baffling.
Sired by Explosion, a big Ryman/Llewellyn setter cross—nicknamed “The Meat Dog” for his prowess at putting birds in front the gun—we registered her Explosion’s Ruffneck. As turned out the name pretty much said it all and at times proved to be wildly understated. She was indeed explosive, by far the fastest dog I’ve ever blown a whistle over. A real ruff-neck, she was oblivious to idea of avoiding self-inflicted pain and at times appeared to harbor a bit of a death wish.
Like the early winter morning I heard her barking and growling ferociously and discovered her terrorizing a hole beneath a large fallen oak. The same hole a sow black bear had birthed four cubs two winters prior. Though no bear sighted this time around from the way she was carrying on I can’t shake thinking Mama Bear had indeed again took up housekeeping. Another time we heard her barking and discovered she’d treed a visibly and audibly distraught hen turkey. We got to the slightly leaning tree just in time to see her run out of limbs a few feet below the turkey. Judging how she clung to the tree, obviously hadn’t quite thought the operation through to a satisfactory conclusion.
When became apparent no amount of coaxing was going to bring her down, naturally I set the gun down, shed vest and shinnied up there. And yes I had a helluva time holding her and not losing my grip as we came back down.
But even that episode paled to the day we found her impaled chest first on a dead chestnut limb. Bleeding profusely, I yanked her free, wrapped the hole tight with a couple shirts, grabbed her up and headed for the truck, at least a mile distant. Maybe half-way there I stopped to catch my breath, she wriggled free and took off hunting as if nothing had happened!
Gale, who was toting my hunting vest and shotgun, screamed, “Holy shit, Chuck, you gotta catch her before she bleeds out.”
Bellowing dire threats along with countless whistle blasts for once she obeyed and came slinking back. But the real wonder was the hole in her chest, though ugly, apparently didn’t penetrate the chest cavity and the bleeding had all but stopped. I muttered another string of unprintables, snapped a lead on the bitch and dragged her to the truck. Later our vet confirmed the wound looked way worse than was, cleaned and dressed it, said, “She’s sure lucky but otherwise good to go.”
She died with shredded ears, the result of too many encounters with razor-sharp multi-flora rose thorns. Which she plowed through going full bore as if it were tall grass. While my buddies carried blood stop powder in 35mm film canisters I toted a full jar. Instead of white and orange she ended most hunts pretty much blood red, with orange and white accents. Jack the Ripper would have been proud.
The good news is when not hell bent on destroying herself Ginny developed into a reliable and easy to handle bird dog. She rarely busted birds, pointed staunchly, hunted down cripples as good as any and fetched, if not always to hand, at least tossed them down in plain sight.
When conditions were just right, cool, light breeze, damp enough underfoot to muffle our approach and improved scenting, Ginny did okay too. But given warm, dry, no air, like most dogs, she struggled to get it done. A faux pas obviously bothered her way more than me. And it was pretty neat to watch how careful and plotting she worked after bumping even a single bird. Such that it was a rare day she didn’t give me at least a good chance or two—and should I blow them... Well if looks could kill...
The flip side Ginny when woodcock were the quarry, she seemed to kick it up a notch regardless the conditions. I shot more woodcock over her points than all the rest of my dogs together. To be fair during her time afield the woodcock migration was still pretty strong. And she was uncanny at finding ‘cocks in places we’d never dream of looking. In mature oak woods, harvested crop fields and once atop of a rocky ridge—for sure no country for earthworms—in a blinding snowstorm she pointed not one but several. Another time I found her on point in the old apple orchard out back of our hunting camp—at least two months after the season and the last migrants had winged their way south. And later same day at the very edge of a beaver pond all but frozen with winter fast approaching. And on and on...
Hunting prowess aside she was a easy to live with house dog and a great companion. That she endured all those injuries and still got it done for 16 seasons I think pretty much says it all.
All these many years later we still miss ya gal...
To Be Continued...
No comments:
Post a Comment