This ol' gun has done me good...

This year marks the 30th season tramping the uplands toting an over and under, 20 ga. Browning Citori. Having suffered countless miles, in thick and uncivil places, the stock and forearm are nicked and scarred, the bluing well-worn but otherwise the old gun is as good as new.

I bought it new (can’t recall how much) from the Grice Gun Shop in Clearfield, PA. As Gale was quick to question “with a half-dozen other shotguns in the gun cabinet do you really need another?” Indeed a silly question, one difficult to answer. But we bird hunters are seldom satisfied. Miss a bird or two and well, you know, it’s never the operator, always that damned gun.

I bought it in late spring. By a strange coincidence just a couple days after getting my butt kicked at the season’s first Sporting Clays shoot—imagine? It came equipped with modified and full choke tubes but naturally I needed more of a selection and purchased several others—open, skeet 1 & 2, improved cylinder, improved modified and extra full. And don’t even bother to point out that after 30 seasons I have yet to even open the latter two containers, and not a single shot fired through the full choke tube because… Well hell, ya just never know so tis best to be prepared. Right.

Besides the 12 ga. Elsie was too heavy, choked modified/full and never did fit. The 16 ga. Model 12 was cursed with a modified barrel—worse, on the tight side, way too tight for early season grouse and woodcock, for-get-it. Ditto the Browning Sweet Sixteen and the Special Field 870—granted the spiffy as hell custom straight-grip stock was pretty to look at, but way too heavy and never did quite fit.  And while the ancient Fulton Arms 16 ga served me well as a kid, it was way too clunky, stocked beyond ugly and choked way too tight for serious bird shooting. And nobody in his right mind would tote the Browning Superposed 12 ga. ,sporting 30-inch barrels choked full and fuller.

I rest my case.

At this stage (61 seasons and counting) barring unforeseen disaster the Citori is it. Most days I shoot it pretty well and those not so honky dory well, who gives a rat’s butt. I’ve always been something of a streak shooter and would hope that by now I’m wise enough to realize, for better or worse, all things pass. Truth be known at this stage, shooting—good, bad or ugly—is the least of it. You young guys go ahead and giggle but I guarandamntee one day you too will come to agree a day still standing is a really good deal.

Patch, aka, Great White Lab

Patch: Your Basic Smart Ass, Talented, Versatile, Renegade English Setter  

Earlier I ratted a few of Patch’s many less than admirable traits and barely hinted on his many talents. So this last time I promise nothin’ but good stuff.

With few exceptions the good ones really do die way too young.  With us losing any dog—good, bad, even ugly—leaves a huge all but unbearable void.  Like his mama, Ginny, Patch hunted well for several years beyond what sadly seems to be the normal dozen or so season life-expectancy of most rough-shooting dogs.  And as we did with Ginny, as he began to slow down we let him call the shots—when and for how long.

But like Ginny, Patch didn’t know quit and even the last couple seasons most days it was me, not him who called a halt. But a couple hours into a borderline too warm November afternoon he pointed a woodcock and it fell on the far side of a creek. In typical fashion he charged across, snatched up the woodcock  with enthusiasm, turned, came running and...You guessed it, flopped down in mid-stream, with a look left no doubt...

Boss, this case is closed.

Those days he brought his A-game ( and stuck with it) my other dogs  were demoted to also rans. Blessed with a keen nose, inherent instincts, stamina and tenacity to, as I like to say, git ‘er done, running mates were left to eat his dust. Uncanny at knowing just which spots in any given covert (even those he’d never seen before) should hold birds he coursed from one objective—green briar, grape vine tangle, hedgerow, alder swale, you name it—to the next probing each one like a heat seeking missile until he struck pay dirt.

Given even marginal conditions—hot, dry, windy—he was rock steady, pointed staunchly for as long as it took for the guns to arrive, unless, of course, he deemed it necessary to relocate on a running bird.  Trailing a running bird he seemed to know just how hard to push and not bump. He rarely lost a cripple.  But unlike his Mama (and most of the rest of the pack) he fetched to hand as opposed to bringing part way before tossing bird down...

Like you got hands, see ya later... 

Patch seemed to relish jump shooting ducks and water retrieves as much as busting brush for upland birds. A friend labeled him “Great White Lab”. He jumped in with enthusiasm no matter how cold the water. Back then, geese were pretty scarce in our neck of woods and he didn’t get many chances. The first one beat him up pretty good but the next time he didn’t so much as flinch...The ensuing brawl wasn’t pretty but he won and dragged it in. Gasping for breath, he trotted off a ways, lay down and refused to even look my way leaving no doubt geese were no longer a part of his agenda.

One day while hunting grouse, he brought in a hen turkey sporting a broken wing but otherwise unscathed. Had I not already shot and tagged a turkey what to do would not have been an issue but...OK, I can put you out your misery, leave you for the foxes or...So I did what seemed more (fill in the blank), dispatched the poor thing and dropped in freezer alongside the legal one. But when this happened again and then again...Well, I got a little spooked, like what if someone sees me, turns me in to the game warden--a friend, in case you wondered...

(Let’s call him Joe to protect the guilty) “Joe, hypothetical? You’re a bird hunter, your bird dog brings ya a crippled turkey, otherwise unscathed. You already tagged a bird, so... Leave it for fox bait or what?
“Well Chuck, without a doubt first thing I’d do is not tell the game warden.”

One of his last hunts I get lucky and double on grouse. Feathers fly, both fall just a few yards apart. In typical fashion he’s on the first almost before hits the ground, snatches it up, brings it straight to me, drops in my outstretched hand, wheels about, heads for the second.  But runs right by the bell sound growing dimmer by the second.

Recalling the time he ran off after fetching a grouse and I found him a short time later upside down sound asleep in his kennel, well, right off I get on him pretty good. But when I can no longer hear the bell naturally I'm really pissed and, cussing such to make a muleskinner blush, head for the truck.

It starts as a barely audible tinkle, then for sure bell clanging and here he comes--of course proudly  toting the missing grouse. 

“Hey Boss, wait up, I got somethin' for ya.”

Twas a wise man once noted, "Trust the dog."  Amen.

A young Ginny pointing a woodcock; the bird she seemed to love best.  

Explosion’s Ruffneck (Ginny)--The Last Hurrah...

For Ginny our final Pennsylvania grouse season before moving to Montana would be her last. But as always she kicked it off with a bang and...

If you would have asked me, say 10 years ago, if Ginny (16) would still be  alive, let alone be bouncing about like your basic energized, though somewhat worn-out bunny, at the mere sight of the Boss lacing up hunting boots...Well, I would have bet the farm...

Skinny as a rail, well-scarred, shredded ears, missing teeth, eyes seeming to grow dimmer by the day, all but deaf and a wobbly gait such makes you wonder if next step might be the old gal’s last. But obviously obvious "the end" has not yet crossed her mind. No longer the fastest dog on the block but she can still pick ‘em up and lay down pretty good—though an hour or so every few days is about it. So, for several seasons now, Ginny get’s the day’s first dibs and we let her blow the whistle when had enough. 

A spot we call the Spring Hole is relatively flat and easy to hunt as grouse spots get. It’s also private, only a few of us locals have permission and those do forego hunting whenever I let them know Ginny’s good to go...as mentioned earlier not always a sure bet.

As grouse coverts go this one has it all. Water, wall-to-wall good grouse eats, conifer cover to dodge nasty weather and just the right mix of brush and grassy openings to make for tough though not impossible opening day shots. 

It had rained some overnight but the morning dawned bright and cool with just a hint of breeze. A nearly perfect set-up it seemed for an ancient bird dog whose nose, like the rest of her, wasn’t quite what used to be.

So I bell her up and we start down along a little spring seep, bordered on one side by brush and grass—mostly clover—and the other a hemlock thicket with oak forest beyond.  Betting the grouse would have spent the night in the hemlocks and relish clover for breakfast instead of paralleling the crick we attack at right angles...Too and fro, back and forth from the crick through the good cover and back again, doing my best to keep her out of the trees and into the best of it. 

Twice the bell stops clanging and I find her locked up at the edge of the spring seep.  But woodcock aren’t yet in season.  As you might expect, I want badly to kill whatever she points... You know, just in case. But somehow I manage to hold fire and ignoring her nasty look, send her on...

About an hour into it she starts to fade. And now I'm really beating myself up for not saying the hell with it and dropping at least one of the woodcock. So I whistle her in, take a seat on a stump, and feed her an energy bar. All the dogs love the smelly things but she is the only one ever seems even a little bit re-fueled. And as usual gulps it down, stands, shakes and off we go.

Anyway now we cross through the hemlocks and she turns toward the truck coursing back and forth through the heavy laurel (evergreen leaved bushes) under-story. The white oak mast crop is heavy and though grouse somehow figure how to swallow even the largest acorns, these are among the smallest and a favorite.

Halfway to the truck a pair of grouse flush wild, out of range and head in the wrong direction. She sees them go, starts after, but turns, comes back, circles part-way around a big blow-down and...

And POINTS!

With the red gods on my side for once the grouse rockets out, straight away, in the wide open. I slap the trigger, grouse tumbles, Ginny trots to it, picks it up, brings it just far enough there can be no doubt. Tosses me a conspiratorial look, throws it down and bell clanging vanishes into the greenery...

Ginny was no brag dog. Wonderful companion, easy to train, lived to please the Bosses and on her good days—those days she wasn’t nursing/recovering from injury—a pretty darn good bird dog. Like Patch she fetched whatever fell on land or water and seldom lost a cripple. And no dog I know hunted harder for so many seasons. She didn’t know quit and no amount of pain and suffering diminished her desire to git ‘er done even a little bit. 

Stay tuned: Next up Ol’ Patchy closes out his career with a flourish...

With several decades running rough-shooting dogs under my belt, two things stand out:
1)You just never know what might happen next and...2) Whatever it is no longer surprises... 

Dead genes? Whatever? Despite giving Mertie pretty much first dibs all season she did not once so much as stop at the flush of a grouse or woodcock; worse not once did she even act surprised or interested. While she was really easy to live with she showed zero interest in birds, any birds.

Over winter with the help of Buck Parsons and Bill Scimio we planted dozens of chukar and put her on released quail at least a couple times a week.  No dice.  To be fair toward the end of winter when a bird flushed she did appear to slow down just a little.

About to give up, one morning we dizzied a chukar and tucked it in the snow beside a bush. On lead she trotted up and, wonder of wonders, this time she stopped dead beside the bush where the chukar lay hidden in the snow. Not a point mind you but the puzzled look left no doubt she at least knew something was up.

For us a monumental moment.

Bill said, “Finally...”

Speechless I didn’t say anything aloud but I recall thinking something along the lines...Geezus mighty, about time.

I moved up alongside and knelt down, one hand grabbing her collar, the other wrapped about her flank. Bill tip-toed to the other side to kick the sleeping chukar to flight.

“Go ahead, flush it.”

About to nudge it to flight with his foot, he stopped in mid-kick, “Damn Chuck, she’s got her foot planted on it or goddamn close.”

Releasing my grip I said, “Give it a kick anyway, see what happens.”

He did, the chukar hopped a couple steps forward and took off. Mertie lunged forward, turned and bounded off the opposite direction.

"That's it. Can't take no more..."

The rest of the story starts with my giving her to a Wounded Vet, Alan, a guide at a small private  shooting preserve.  I told Alan upfront of how frustrated, disappointed and that I doubted she would work out but..."If ya want her she’s yours, good luck."

About a year later I ran into the preserve owner. “Hey Chuck, good to see ya. Alan asked me to say thanks and to let you know how well that Mertie dog is doin.’ She’s our best dog by far, hard to believe same dog.”

Stunned beyond speechless... He went on to explain how at first Mertie seemed clueless and then one day she just turned on...

“Tell Alan, I couldn’t be happier and if you guys don’t  mind I’d like to see her in action sometime.”

But then I just never got around to it.

Then a year or so later Alan stopped by, said “Thought I'd let you see Mertie in action, see if you want her back.”

“Yes, would like to see her but no, she’s your dog, glad she worked out.”

“Well, before you decide, let’s let her strut her stuff a bit. I got to tell ya somethin’ might change your mind.”

To make a long story short seems a grouse guide/grouse trial competitor who uses the preserve to train-up pups and get his string in shape wants to trade Alan two finished dogs for Mertie.

My reply, “She’s your dog...”

Time passes and I again run into the preserve owner...”Hey Chuck, did ya hear? Ol’ Mertie just won herself a Grouse Championship.”

“No shit.”

Stay tuned for the rest of Elhew Maggie Magoo's story...

Who knows which of my many rough-shooting dogs
pointed this one but sure wasn't Mertie...

With Ginny, 16, and son, Patch, 15  the hope was for one the other dogs to step up. But while Mags had done really well pointing and not crowding pen-raised birds she had yet to prove herself on wild grouse and woodcock.

From what I saw in the preseason as long as I ran Rosy, who somehow couldn’t quite shake the idea of being boss dog, alone she would "find" plenty. But, for reasons I never did figure out, sometimes she would point staunchly then circle the bird and, of course, with our grouse as skittish and educated as any grouse anywhere this faux pas almost never worked—usually the bird flushed with her first misstep and that was that. The good news she only did this every now and then and hardly ever twice in a single outing. Who knows?

While I could live with her busting a few birds two record breaking porcupine encounters that fall really put our relationship on thin ice. Both occurred on weekends and both required expensive vet visits. Both times she required sedation to pull literally hundreds of quill from her face, inside mouth and just about every other part of her body. We stopped counting at 500 the first time and we all agreed the second was even worse.

Gale never did bond with Rosy, I think mostly because she whipped up on her buddy, Patch. But when, next spring she got blindsided and ended up with a broken leg...Well, soon as we got home from hospital I called the previous owner and said, “Come get your dog, she’s too much for me.” 

As I mentioned in a previous installment, Mertie was the easiest ever to yard train. Start to finish I doubt the whole process took 6-weeks. Pretty damn good for a dog been penned up and pretty much ignored for the first 3 years of her life.  Also she never chased a single deer, ran a nice ground pattern and from the get-go seemed to get that “Here” meant get your butt here pronto. Apparently so happy for the attention almost anything I said brought her running, but...

Though she was easy to live with, got along with well with the other dogs (Rosy excepted), was  smart, athletic and obedient, possessed stamina to hunt all day, everyday, and as I mentioned last time was about as well-bred as they come—her littermates were tearing up various trials all over but...

Yes, by now I’m sure you readers get than with my dogs there always seems to be a BUT...Admittedly most, if not all, are at least in part the fault of your intrepid reporter but in Mertie’s case I plead not guilty. For you see when it came to birds, wild birds, planted birds, released birds, you name it, Mertie was CLUE...LESS.

Graduated from yard training, when dog training season opened August 15th I began running her in the grouse woods every chance. Not once did she so much as act birdy, not once did she so much as stop to flush. Even birds nearly stepped, flushed right in her face failed to get her attention—she just kept goin’ on as if nothing out the ordinary had just happened.

By this time in my career, for better or worse,  thought I'd seen it all. But, trust me, this unexpected turn of events really tossed me for a loop. Beyond baffled, I ran it by every bird dog man I knew and found not one had ever experienced such odd  behavior.

The stock answer, “Who knows, maybe doin’ all that solitary in a rabbit hutch killed off the genes...Good luck and let me know how turns out.”

Stay tuned the rest of Mertie’s story is one for the ages...

Rosie had a bunch of flaws but bird work was not one of them.

Comes now two more to the fold—first Rosie, a skinny, little  4 or 5 (or 6 or 7? Nobody seems to know...) year old setter who’s doubtless been around the block a few more times than one might expect for  her age, whatever it may be? And, a few days later, Mertie, a 3-year old well-bred (a littermate has just won a Japanese national championship) Elhew pointer.  Having spent all 3-years living in a neighbor’s empty rabbit hutch except for the many times she’s escaped and come visiting my dogs—Ginny, Patch and Maggie Magoo.

As Gale says, “What the hell are you thinking?” You too might wonder but the answer is simple: While I know way better when it comes to free bird dogs I just can’t bring myself to say NO!, NO!, a thousand times NO!!!

Gale, as hinted above, is totally against it from the get-go...Especially when Rosie arrives, takes one lap around the property, put’s a slight whuppin’ on poor Maggie—who turns tail and runs like hell.  Starts in on Ginny (no slouch her ownself), but on second thought, thinks the better foe might be  Patch.  Who has learned the hard way, after years of suffering  his mama’s abuse, to quickly retire to his kennel at the first hint of violence.  But for reasons way above my pay grade to even think of unraveling, this time Patch comes boiling out and the brawl is on...

Naturally, with fur and blood flying, I jump into the fray, attempt to break it up—a really bad idea.

While the two protagonists appear none the worse for wear.  A couple bare spots and little blood splatter is about it.  All these many years later I still bear several scars on my left arm. Naturally Gale, who has long since fled the battlefield, insists I head to the ER for stitches and a long overdue tetanus shot.

Rick Smith/Mertie this year's seminar demo dog.
Mertie was the easiest dog I ever yard trained.

Thanks to the Red Gods who, over the years have bailed me out of a bunch of wrecks, when Mertie arrives (more on how this came about later) there is no brawl. Ginny curls a lip, shows  her snaggly teeth, snarls a little, then drops her milk and the two sniff noses and butts and call ‘er good. Patch, raises his head, sighs, and goes back to napping. Mags and Mertie having bonded earlier, are buds and go to playing. Rosie, for maybe the first time in her life, simply ignore her and goes to flushing tweeties from the surrounding bushes.

Hooray!

Meanwhile Gale casts me a really evil look, shakes head in obvious disgust (pitty?), slams the kitchen door. Leaving my admittedly lame excuse—you know Ginny and Patch are really old and Mags is just learnin’ the ropes, need more dog power—to fall on deaf ears. And yes, I do endure the silent treatment for several days.

Oh well...

Stay tuned there is more, way more...

Gittin' 'er done, slow but sure.

The highlight (or low light depending) of  gunning all those pen-raised birds was how well Maggie adjusted to stopping at first hint of scent and not crowding—in my experience usually big trouble for dogs switching to wild birds who, for the uninitiated, don’t  do crowding well. Her performance led to my agreeing to run her in one of those “quick-draw shoot ‘em ups” so popular with many shooting preserve devotees.

With 10 birds planted and two of us armed with 10 shots each (the idea is to gun down all 10 birds with 10 shots in the least amount of time; the gold goes to the team who guns down the most with the least number of shots in the fastest time. Usually young guys who can run and keep up with flushing breeds and shoot lights out take the money.

So when Mike Moss and I with Mags at Heel  strolled to the line we didn’t expect much more than hoping Mags would do her thing and, of course, we didn’t want to miss no matter how long it took.

Well, not to brag, but we all came out firing on all cylinders, missed nary a shot and Mags nailed 10 birds real quick—No we  didn’t win but we posted the highest score of the few pointing dog teams and finished a surprising 3rd overall...Hot Damn!

By the time the next  Smith Training Seminar rolled around Mags yard training was pretty much a done deal with one glaring exception: Despite countless repetitions on the Whoa Post, on and off lead, with or without birds, she would Sit instead of “standing still, four feet planted firmly, do not move”...And no way could I stop her as my friend and long time pro-trainer, Web Parton defines WHOA! “ Whoa Broke means she’s running flat-out and STOPS like right now every single time...Like right now. “

Gale invited Rick and cousin, Ronnie, to the Club for breakfast each morning during their stay in the area. Naturally I ran Mag’s reluctance to Whoa properly by them.  Rick said, “Since we need a demo dog tomorrow anyway and sounds like she’s doing pretty good except for, bring her and we’ll  git her straightened out.”

So, as I expected she did the Heel, Here, Kennel stuff both on and off lead like a pro and she didn’t disappoint when Ronnie asked me to demo Whoa, first on the post and then on lead...no surprise she sat every time. And as usual no amount of coaxing (cursing) on my part changed things even a little bit. The crowd laughed, the Smiths chuckled and Rick said, “As ya’ll can see, Chuck’s a pretty good dog trainer ‘cept he needs Duct Tape.” I of course turned beet red, cussed the stubborn bitch some more, handed the lead over and slunk to the rear.

Rick took the lead, continued giving his spiel, every now and then stopping Mags—no command given.

After about 10 minutes of this he turned and walked her several hundred yards up into the field, “Whoaed” her, dropped the lead and walked down to finish.  Fifteen minutes or so later the little bitch had not moved so much as an eyebrow.  Rick walked up, tapped her to release and as she rambled down hill toward me he “Whoaed” her again and, you guessed it, she put on the brakes. 

Whoa Broke? You betcha.

And that, as they say, ends yet another chapter in this spell-binding drama.

Stay tuned, there is more, much more...