Rough Shooting Dogs (Part 2)

My first real bird dog, a Brittany spaniel, was the runt of a litter of field trial hopefuls. The breeder said, “She’s just too small to run with the big dogs so I can let you have her for 35 bucks.” He then sweetened the deal, “If you give me a hand feeding and cleaning kennels, I’ll get her trained up with the rest.”

 Naturally, I accepted and every chance I would put a lead on Bess and ride my bike the couple miles to Lou’s place. He had 15 kennel runs filled with trial dogs, dogs-in-training and for sale.  While Bess might have been too small to run with the big dogs, it soon became apparent she packed a ton of smarts in a small package. Right from the get-go she was always the first to grasp whatever it was Lou wanted. Such that as the yard training progressed I noticed Lou might be having second thoughts but to his credit never once wavered from our agreement.

After about a month Lou began to switch from obedience to birds, even though “quail walks” had been a part of the routine since the first day. He never did train her steady to wing and shot, “said most hunters want the dog to get on downed birds right away, ya lose less cripples.” And it took only a few sessions with planted birds until Lou started running her exclusively on released quail. Most of the time she pointed the covey staunchly and only once in awhile busted singles. I could tell by his grins how pleased which vanished quickly when every now and then she’d take one out obviously on purpose.  “Defiant little bitch ain’t ya.” Then he would get a hold of her by the ears, give her a good shaking, dress her down, make her stand, and then send her again. Sometimes it worked, sometimes not. Lou said, “Don’t ever let her get away with the bull shit but don’t lose sleep either.  She’ll eventually get tired a being scolded and come around.”

By the time dove season opened he declared, Bess, a “gawldurned bona fide bird dog, you betcha.”

Opening day, Ralph, a neighbor invited me to tag along with he and son, Dick. I don’t know how old Ralph but Dick was WWII veteran and both were something of local hunting and fishing legends. Anyway along with Ralph’s pointer, Ev and Dick’s Britt, Hazel, we waded to the tip of an island in the North Branch Susquehanna, spread out in the sweltering, bee- and mosquito-infested smartweed jungle and began blazing away.  The pressure was on as my two companions seldom missed, sending their dogs to fetch following every salvo.  

Meanwhile I blazed away yanking the trigger at least 50 times with nary a cut feather.  But  when Dick said, “You done yet?” Thanks to Bess I was able to answer, “Hell yes.”

“Does that include the even dozen birds that thievin’ pup a yours stole?”

Oh well, like Lou said, don’t lose sleep over the BS.... Right.

Anyway, Bess, soon learned the hard way stealing birds was not such a honky dory idea when next time Ev took exception and gave her a good thrashing. 

I don’t think she ever weighed over 35 pounds. And doubtless “too small to run with the big dogs,” she could really pick ‘em up and lay ‘em down and didn’t know the word quit. Besides doves we gunned wild ringecks, ruffed grouse and woodcock, once in awhile wild bobwhite quail and jump shot ducks and the occasional goose.  No super dog, still she gave me enough chances that sort of by osmosis I eventually became a passable shot. She excelled at running down cripples and, while Ev cured her of stealing, she fetched anything I shot, fur or feather, though she had to drag in geese.  

An okay grouse and woodcock dog , she excelled on wild ringnecks. During her reign of terror (mid-60s to early 70s)in our neck of woods longtails were plentiful and because Pap knew just about every farmer in the county, finding a place to hunt them was not an issue.

Early on she learned to push running roosters slowly so as not to run them up wild. When the bird stopped she would point and not move until I either flushed it or tapped her on the head. Sometimes the point/move operation went on for several hundred yards. When at last she pinned it, as often as not, it was right under her nose, offering me an easy shot. 

But wild roosters being, well wild, some were slick operators—ran off, flushed wild, no shots.  Then one day she pointed, started slinking ahead and... Suddenly took off, running full bore in a wide circle far out to the front and... Came bounding back our way and slammed a solid point. Now she had the bird pinned between us.  A setup even I couldn’t blow and the rest, as they say, is history.

While I’ve heard of other ringneck specialists pulling this off, no dog of mine ever did. Though to be fair  Bess had way more experience chasing longtails than perhaps all my other dogs combined. About the time she was winding down wild ringnecks in Pennsylvania were all but gone—development, changed farming practices and the PA Game Commission’s ill-advised effort to save ringneck hunting by planting pen-raised birds to supplement the few wild birds remained. A feel good effort served only to nail the coffin shut. Sorry but we witnessed time and again wild roosters defending breeding territories against tame birds which knew no such boundaries and fighting off the competition when they should have been courting hens... I rest my case.

To Be Continued...