Kismet
UPH Guru
with Mick, the new, used, dog.
Wisconsin finally had a day that approached 70 degrees! Long-time residents would not be surprised if it snowed next week, but the temps were welcome and the Sun shone beneficently on all the creatures.
One of the creatures was Mick, the new, used, dog. Mick's stature in the canine world recently went up when he was declared not only a true field bred Springer Spaniel, but perhaps one of a notable kennel and field trialer's breeding. Online declaration, but still...I think he had a few heady moments until he realized it would not change his day-to-day existence, nor improve my attitude and service to him.
We've been working on the command for him to stop in his tracks and await for permission to continue on, even if he is in full gallop. The idea being to stop the flushing dog (that's Mick) from racing ahead and flushing the birds far out of shotgun range. The theory is the dog waits, the hunter catches up, the dog is released from the command, the bird gets flushed, and the skilled marksman drops the bird from the sky, looking all handsome and stuff.
I do a lot of "kitchen training" on most commands. Sitting on the floor and tossing toys, or pheasant or pigeon wings, commanding "hup!" (don't ask me, that's the command they use), stopping the dog firmly but gently, making it wait, then releasing it to fetch. This progresses to playing in the house with fetch toys, his collar, the occasional sock, and almost any other thing I can arbitrarily decide he should fetch. From time to time, I'll toss my jacket on his head, let him shake and wiggle to get out from under it, and then have him fetch it to me. He thinks I'm clumsy, but it is craftiness on my part, I tell you.
I still have serious doubts that a verbal command is going to stop a bird dog in full pursuit of a pheasant, but then I've been conditioned by YB (GWP) for the last nine years. Apparently there are people who can train dogs to do things like this.
Upon occasion over the last three months, I take Mick and a single shot 20 ga. shotgun up to the top of the hill, where my neighbor has some (more) sheds, one of which was a horse barn in a previous incarnation and is now used for calves, before they graduate to heifers. (Farmers, like Eskimos, have many names for the things with which they occupy themselves on a daily basis.)
In the calf shed, nine or ten pigeons hang out. It is open at both ends, and has one side of open windows, and a steel roof. Our little session involves me loading the shotgun, bringing Mick to heel, picking up a rock, throwing it onto the steel roof to startle the pigeons, then shooting at one of them as they fly out. Mick is then expected to watch the birds, and go retrieve the fallen pigeon.
Small problem: the damned pigeons don't take the same path out, have learned to swoop down and out, putting themselves among the safety of the cows, and also to fly remarkably fast. I miss far more than I hit. We've gotten four, maybe. At times, I'll stand inside another shed with Mick at heel, waiting for the stupid pigeons to come back to the shed. The stupid pigeons only come back to swoop at an altitude of approximately one mile. We are not amused.
But, hell, it is a short walk up the hill, Mick hears the shotgun, sometimes gets to fetch a bird which professionals use to train their dogs, and I get to notice that single shot shotguns are really only good for one shot at a time. We all learn.
So, on Mother's day, Mick took a long walk along the crik and annoyed some ducks, splashing and swimming enthusiastically in the crik which had first intimidated him on his arrival to my house some time ago,
Later in the day, on a whim, I grabbed a shotgun and took him off the yard leash up the hill to be mildly annoyed by the pigeons. We marched into our appointed positions, I sought and found suitable rocks to pitch up on the (rock-laden) roof, Mick came to heel (pretty much), and I put one of the shells I'd grabbed into the little H&R.
The rock went up and hit the roof. The pigeons swooped out the end of the shed I was watching. One peeled off to the left, the rest zoomed out and down the hill to the right. I swung and shot at the left bird. It artfully canted and powered out of sight down the hill towards my house. I reloaded the shotgun, poised for the delayed release of the sleepy pigeon in the shed.
There was no sleepy pigeon in the shed.
So, Mick and I stood there for approximately 10 minutes as the specks of pigeons viewed us from high in the sky. I know pigeons are dumb. Pigeons know they are not THAT dumb. Finally, I released Mick from "heel," and told him we were going home. Back down the hill we went.
I stopped to check on the various stages of repair on the motorcycles, scooter, and lawn-mower, the majority of which were taking their Spring Break. (That's "break" as in "broken." ) I battened down the hatches, looked again for the fuel leak on the scooter. and slid the door closed.
Mick had been ranging around and had come back, sort of in my peripheral vision. I made sure the door was shut, picked up the shotgun, and headed down to the house.
Stopped.
About three feet from Mick was the pigeon I'd shot. Apparently what I viewed as wheeling out of range was actually being hit and falling down into the hillside pasture. Mick had followed command and hung with me as I came down the hill, puttered around the sheds and machines, and he had caught scent and gone out and retrieved the pigeon.
damn.
This is not much in the way of the world. It is of little significance to all other humans, very probably to every other creature on earth, with the possible exception of the pigeon. But in my small world, it was a step of some importance to the development of a hunting sense and partnership between Mick, the new, used, dog and an achey, cranky human who adopted the wrong breed of dog from a rescue group who brought the dog up from another state, and with remarkable coincidence made a match.
Baby steps. But a really neat one.
(kind of copyrighted by me)
Wisconsin finally had a day that approached 70 degrees! Long-time residents would not be surprised if it snowed next week, but the temps were welcome and the Sun shone beneficently on all the creatures.
One of the creatures was Mick, the new, used, dog. Mick's stature in the canine world recently went up when he was declared not only a true field bred Springer Spaniel, but perhaps one of a notable kennel and field trialer's breeding. Online declaration, but still...I think he had a few heady moments until he realized it would not change his day-to-day existence, nor improve my attitude and service to him.
We've been working on the command for him to stop in his tracks and await for permission to continue on, even if he is in full gallop. The idea being to stop the flushing dog (that's Mick) from racing ahead and flushing the birds far out of shotgun range. The theory is the dog waits, the hunter catches up, the dog is released from the command, the bird gets flushed, and the skilled marksman drops the bird from the sky, looking all handsome and stuff.
I do a lot of "kitchen training" on most commands. Sitting on the floor and tossing toys, or pheasant or pigeon wings, commanding "hup!" (don't ask me, that's the command they use), stopping the dog firmly but gently, making it wait, then releasing it to fetch. This progresses to playing in the house with fetch toys, his collar, the occasional sock, and almost any other thing I can arbitrarily decide he should fetch. From time to time, I'll toss my jacket on his head, let him shake and wiggle to get out from under it, and then have him fetch it to me. He thinks I'm clumsy, but it is craftiness on my part, I tell you.
I still have serious doubts that a verbal command is going to stop a bird dog in full pursuit of a pheasant, but then I've been conditioned by YB (GWP) for the last nine years. Apparently there are people who can train dogs to do things like this.
Upon occasion over the last three months, I take Mick and a single shot 20 ga. shotgun up to the top of the hill, where my neighbor has some (more) sheds, one of which was a horse barn in a previous incarnation and is now used for calves, before they graduate to heifers. (Farmers, like Eskimos, have many names for the things with which they occupy themselves on a daily basis.)
In the calf shed, nine or ten pigeons hang out. It is open at both ends, and has one side of open windows, and a steel roof. Our little session involves me loading the shotgun, bringing Mick to heel, picking up a rock, throwing it onto the steel roof to startle the pigeons, then shooting at one of them as they fly out. Mick is then expected to watch the birds, and go retrieve the fallen pigeon.
Small problem: the damned pigeons don't take the same path out, have learned to swoop down and out, putting themselves among the safety of the cows, and also to fly remarkably fast. I miss far more than I hit. We've gotten four, maybe. At times, I'll stand inside another shed with Mick at heel, waiting for the stupid pigeons to come back to the shed. The stupid pigeons only come back to swoop at an altitude of approximately one mile. We are not amused.
But, hell, it is a short walk up the hill, Mick hears the shotgun, sometimes gets to fetch a bird which professionals use to train their dogs, and I get to notice that single shot shotguns are really only good for one shot at a time. We all learn.
So, on Mother's day, Mick took a long walk along the crik and annoyed some ducks, splashing and swimming enthusiastically in the crik which had first intimidated him on his arrival to my house some time ago,
Later in the day, on a whim, I grabbed a shotgun and took him off the yard leash up the hill to be mildly annoyed by the pigeons. We marched into our appointed positions, I sought and found suitable rocks to pitch up on the (rock-laden) roof, Mick came to heel (pretty much), and I put one of the shells I'd grabbed into the little H&R.
The rock went up and hit the roof. The pigeons swooped out the end of the shed I was watching. One peeled off to the left, the rest zoomed out and down the hill to the right. I swung and shot at the left bird. It artfully canted and powered out of sight down the hill towards my house. I reloaded the shotgun, poised for the delayed release of the sleepy pigeon in the shed.
There was no sleepy pigeon in the shed.
So, Mick and I stood there for approximately 10 minutes as the specks of pigeons viewed us from high in the sky. I know pigeons are dumb. Pigeons know they are not THAT dumb. Finally, I released Mick from "heel," and told him we were going home. Back down the hill we went.
I stopped to check on the various stages of repair on the motorcycles, scooter, and lawn-mower, the majority of which were taking their Spring Break. (That's "break" as in "broken." ) I battened down the hatches, looked again for the fuel leak on the scooter. and slid the door closed.
Mick had been ranging around and had come back, sort of in my peripheral vision. I made sure the door was shut, picked up the shotgun, and headed down to the house.
Stopped.
About three feet from Mick was the pigeon I'd shot. Apparently what I viewed as wheeling out of range was actually being hit and falling down into the hillside pasture. Mick had followed command and hung with me as I came down the hill, puttered around the sheds and machines, and he had caught scent and gone out and retrieved the pigeon.
damn.
This is not much in the way of the world. It is of little significance to all other humans, very probably to every other creature on earth, with the possible exception of the pigeon. But in my small world, it was a step of some importance to the development of a hunting sense and partnership between Mick, the new, used, dog and an achey, cranky human who adopted the wrong breed of dog from a rescue group who brought the dog up from another state, and with remarkable coincidence made a match.
Baby steps. But a really neat one.
(kind of copyrighted by me)
