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...