Toad
Active member
Seize the day, gentlemen. I am probably twice as guilty as the next guy of putting something off until tomorrow, next week, next month, or even next season… But sometimes tomorrow is too late.
Saturday night as we were getting the girls ready for bed, we let the dogs in and noticed that the ol’ man, Rusty, seemed to be in a bit of distress and kept vomiting up foam. His sides were slightly ballooned up and he wouldn’t lie down. When he didn’t quickly improve, he and I climbed in the truck and headed to the K-State emergency vet. After about an hour and an abdominal scan they determined that his stomach had twisted or flipped and surgery was the only way to save him. The vet explained the procedure and the recovery process and said we needed to act fast…
But it was with a heavy heart and a shaky voice that I decided not to put the old guy through it. His health and overall condition had been declining this past year especially, and even a perfect recovery from the surgery wouldn’t bring back the Rusty I remembered. The tumors have been growing and the writing has been on the wall for some time… “I think it’s just, ‘his time,’” I said. He was euthanized shortly after Midnight. I was too choked up to speak, but I held his head and stroked his ears as he peacefully slipped away.
I buried him at the farm Sunday morning in the middle of a heavily traveled deer trail under a walnut tree full of squirrels. The spot gets morning sun and afternoon shade. Looking down through the trees, you can see the Kansas River. I think he would have been happy to lie down and rest there when he was alive, so it seemed like a fitting place to bury him. I laid him in the hole with the t-shirt I had been wearing and covered him with a thin blanket, stroked his ears a final time and told him how good of a dog he was and that I loved him. I sobbed like a baby for most of the half hour drive home and again now as I wrote that last part.
Anyway, my point to all of you guys is that you never know how many more days you have left with an old dog and I feel especially guilty that I didn’t get the old guy out dove hunting this season. I probably saw at least three dozen between home and the farm on my way to bury him, and it made me feel terrible. He loved to go hunting so much and it pains me that we weren’t able to share a last hunt together, one that sticks fresh in my memory anyway… But we did have 10 years of wonderful memories together, and at the risk of making a long post even longer, I would like to share a few happy/funny stories.
His nickname for most of his life was “Poncho”. As a pup, when he drank water, it flattened down the fuzz on his upper lip and made it look like he had a big, black Mexican cowboy moustache. We nicknamed him Poncho, and it stuck. I always greeted him with and ear scratch and, “Hi, Ponch.”
He refused to ride in a dog box. When he was younger I put him in a dog box a few times thinking he would get used to it, but he never did. He would bark and howl constantly until I let him out. I finally gave up and let him ride everywhere in the cab, which was a bit inconvenient for my passengers from time to time. But I always told them, “he’s the one who does all the work so he’s riding up here with me… You can ride in the bed if he’s bothering you.”
The first time we ever went duck hunting together I dropped two mallard drakes in some brush on the bank. As he was attempting to retrieve one of the ducks, the other one burst out of the brush and started waddling away. Rusty was having none of that, so with the first duck still in his mouth, he laid down on top of the duck that was trying to make a getaway. He was unsuccessful after numerous attempts to get both ducks into his mouth at the same time, so he just laid there, pinning down the second duck with his front feet until I came to him and picked up the first bird.
He literally PRANCED on every gamebird retrieve he ever made and sometimes when retrieving dummies as well. He held his head up with his prize as high as he possibly could, and high-stepped all the way in. When hunting with multiple people, he would sometimes adjust his return route to me so as to pass by in front of the other hunters and let them admire him. Proudest retriever I have ever seen…
When the action got slow while duck or dove hunting, he would start retrieving empty shotgun shells. He would spit them over the front edge of the blind at me and insist that I throw them into the water for him to fetch. If I decided to store the empty hull in my bucket instead, he would find another one, spit it at me, and then whine until I threw it. He loved retrieving so much that we never littered a single duck or dove spot. This trait was particularly hilarious when I didn’t shoot well. My friends thought the dog was trash talking me when I missed a dove and my dog picked up my empty hull and spit it at me. But he didn’t ever mean it as an insult, because he was always a gentleman with a kind heart.
He hardly ever retrieved a goose in his life. He decided as a pup that Canada geese smelled bad and he wanted nothing to do with them. Even in his prime he usually would run or swim out to a goose, and stare at it until I got there. Our worst “fight” was over him repeatedly swimming out to a goose, sniffing it and then swimming back without it. No amount of encouraging, swearing, and even a swift swat on the rump, would get him to open his mouth for that bird. I ended up having to snag it with a fishing rod… He also always hated diver ducks, and would often spit them out at the edge of the pond. He only ever liked retrieving puddle ducks like mallards and gadwall. He was always proud to deliver the puddle ducks politely to hand, but felt that the geese and diver ducks were beneath him.
When he got excited he had a signature move we called the “red tornado”. Basically, he would spin in place like a bucking bull only sped up to a blur. As soon as he saw the hunting gear come out, he would run to the basement door and start spinning. Then when I opened the door, he would run down the stairs and start spinning at the bottom until I got there. Then he would start the tornado again at the door to the garage, and then in the garage, and then in front of the door to the truck. I’m guessing that every walk, retrieving session, or hunting trip started with about 40-50 spins in his prime. As an old man, he would still give me at least 10 spins, and whine because he was still excited but too arthritic to spin. It’s hard to describe the speed of his spins back in his prime, but he was pretty much a total blur. It was like looking at the wheels of a car driving down the road…
One of my less-bright ideas was to hit golf balls for him to retrieve. I trained him the command, “get back”, which meant to back up and lie down flat. Then I would check-swing my pitching wedge and he would run like the devil to go get the ball. Unfortunately, I underestimated his intensity for playing this game and we had to stop playing after he knocked out a tooth chasing down a ball. It was still bouncing when he caught up to it, and it must have caught him just right. We quit playing that game immediately, and I apologized to my wife for ruining his perfect smile. He sure loved it while it lasted though…
Last one-- I always filled up a baby pool or small stock tank whenever I threw retrieves for him. He would run like a bat outta hell on his retrieves and usually overdo it due to his exuberance and intensity. So I would keep a small stock tank filled up for him to cool off. After 10 or 12 retrieves, he would start making pit stops at the stock tank on his way back. He would climb into the tank and submerge himself until only his eyes and mouth were out of the water, like a crocodile. He would let out this long, pronounced groan, like "RRRUHHHHHHHH". As if to say, "Oh yeah, that's the stuff!" Then he would lay in there for several minutes until he was sufficiently cooled off and relaxed, while the dummy floated around in there. The only way to get him out sooner was to go pick up the floating dummy. Then he would clamber out of the tank and be good as new and ready to go again. Once he got in the tank the first time, the session was pretty much over. About every second or third retrieve after that required another pit stop so he was effectively worthless after the first time he jumped in. Still, it was pretty funny to see and I never had to give him a bath as long as I had a dummy and a stock tank...
I could go on and tell a zillion stories about him, and over time I probably will tell nearly all of them. The best ones I’ll probably tell many times… But that’s enough for today. I was tearing up there for a bit, but it was nice to write about some of the happy and funny memories. I guess if I was being totally honest about ol’ Rus, I would have to say that he was only ever marginal as a hunting dog, but he was the best friend and family member I could have ever had. Stroking those soft ears while he rested his head on my knee helped me through some stressful times. My family and I will sure miss him, and so will the other friends and hunters who came to know and love him.
Rest in Peace, Rusty Poncho.
Thank you UPH, for allowing me to use your forum to grieve the loss of my dear friend.
Saturday night as we were getting the girls ready for bed, we let the dogs in and noticed that the ol’ man, Rusty, seemed to be in a bit of distress and kept vomiting up foam. His sides were slightly ballooned up and he wouldn’t lie down. When he didn’t quickly improve, he and I climbed in the truck and headed to the K-State emergency vet. After about an hour and an abdominal scan they determined that his stomach had twisted or flipped and surgery was the only way to save him. The vet explained the procedure and the recovery process and said we needed to act fast…
But it was with a heavy heart and a shaky voice that I decided not to put the old guy through it. His health and overall condition had been declining this past year especially, and even a perfect recovery from the surgery wouldn’t bring back the Rusty I remembered. The tumors have been growing and the writing has been on the wall for some time… “I think it’s just, ‘his time,’” I said. He was euthanized shortly after Midnight. I was too choked up to speak, but I held his head and stroked his ears as he peacefully slipped away.
I buried him at the farm Sunday morning in the middle of a heavily traveled deer trail under a walnut tree full of squirrels. The spot gets morning sun and afternoon shade. Looking down through the trees, you can see the Kansas River. I think he would have been happy to lie down and rest there when he was alive, so it seemed like a fitting place to bury him. I laid him in the hole with the t-shirt I had been wearing and covered him with a thin blanket, stroked his ears a final time and told him how good of a dog he was and that I loved him. I sobbed like a baby for most of the half hour drive home and again now as I wrote that last part.
Anyway, my point to all of you guys is that you never know how many more days you have left with an old dog and I feel especially guilty that I didn’t get the old guy out dove hunting this season. I probably saw at least three dozen between home and the farm on my way to bury him, and it made me feel terrible. He loved to go hunting so much and it pains me that we weren’t able to share a last hunt together, one that sticks fresh in my memory anyway… But we did have 10 years of wonderful memories together, and at the risk of making a long post even longer, I would like to share a few happy/funny stories.
His nickname for most of his life was “Poncho”. As a pup, when he drank water, it flattened down the fuzz on his upper lip and made it look like he had a big, black Mexican cowboy moustache. We nicknamed him Poncho, and it stuck. I always greeted him with and ear scratch and, “Hi, Ponch.”
He refused to ride in a dog box. When he was younger I put him in a dog box a few times thinking he would get used to it, but he never did. He would bark and howl constantly until I let him out. I finally gave up and let him ride everywhere in the cab, which was a bit inconvenient for my passengers from time to time. But I always told them, “he’s the one who does all the work so he’s riding up here with me… You can ride in the bed if he’s bothering you.”
The first time we ever went duck hunting together I dropped two mallard drakes in some brush on the bank. As he was attempting to retrieve one of the ducks, the other one burst out of the brush and started waddling away. Rusty was having none of that, so with the first duck still in his mouth, he laid down on top of the duck that was trying to make a getaway. He was unsuccessful after numerous attempts to get both ducks into his mouth at the same time, so he just laid there, pinning down the second duck with his front feet until I came to him and picked up the first bird.
He literally PRANCED on every gamebird retrieve he ever made and sometimes when retrieving dummies as well. He held his head up with his prize as high as he possibly could, and high-stepped all the way in. When hunting with multiple people, he would sometimes adjust his return route to me so as to pass by in front of the other hunters and let them admire him. Proudest retriever I have ever seen…
When the action got slow while duck or dove hunting, he would start retrieving empty shotgun shells. He would spit them over the front edge of the blind at me and insist that I throw them into the water for him to fetch. If I decided to store the empty hull in my bucket instead, he would find another one, spit it at me, and then whine until I threw it. He loved retrieving so much that we never littered a single duck or dove spot. This trait was particularly hilarious when I didn’t shoot well. My friends thought the dog was trash talking me when I missed a dove and my dog picked up my empty hull and spit it at me. But he didn’t ever mean it as an insult, because he was always a gentleman with a kind heart.
He hardly ever retrieved a goose in his life. He decided as a pup that Canada geese smelled bad and he wanted nothing to do with them. Even in his prime he usually would run or swim out to a goose, and stare at it until I got there. Our worst “fight” was over him repeatedly swimming out to a goose, sniffing it and then swimming back without it. No amount of encouraging, swearing, and even a swift swat on the rump, would get him to open his mouth for that bird. I ended up having to snag it with a fishing rod… He also always hated diver ducks, and would often spit them out at the edge of the pond. He only ever liked retrieving puddle ducks like mallards and gadwall. He was always proud to deliver the puddle ducks politely to hand, but felt that the geese and diver ducks were beneath him.
When he got excited he had a signature move we called the “red tornado”. Basically, he would spin in place like a bucking bull only sped up to a blur. As soon as he saw the hunting gear come out, he would run to the basement door and start spinning. Then when I opened the door, he would run down the stairs and start spinning at the bottom until I got there. Then he would start the tornado again at the door to the garage, and then in the garage, and then in front of the door to the truck. I’m guessing that every walk, retrieving session, or hunting trip started with about 40-50 spins in his prime. As an old man, he would still give me at least 10 spins, and whine because he was still excited but too arthritic to spin. It’s hard to describe the speed of his spins back in his prime, but he was pretty much a total blur. It was like looking at the wheels of a car driving down the road…
One of my less-bright ideas was to hit golf balls for him to retrieve. I trained him the command, “get back”, which meant to back up and lie down flat. Then I would check-swing my pitching wedge and he would run like the devil to go get the ball. Unfortunately, I underestimated his intensity for playing this game and we had to stop playing after he knocked out a tooth chasing down a ball. It was still bouncing when he caught up to it, and it must have caught him just right. We quit playing that game immediately, and I apologized to my wife for ruining his perfect smile. He sure loved it while it lasted though…
Last one-- I always filled up a baby pool or small stock tank whenever I threw retrieves for him. He would run like a bat outta hell on his retrieves and usually overdo it due to his exuberance and intensity. So I would keep a small stock tank filled up for him to cool off. After 10 or 12 retrieves, he would start making pit stops at the stock tank on his way back. He would climb into the tank and submerge himself until only his eyes and mouth were out of the water, like a crocodile. He would let out this long, pronounced groan, like "RRRUHHHHHHHH". As if to say, "Oh yeah, that's the stuff!" Then he would lay in there for several minutes until he was sufficiently cooled off and relaxed, while the dummy floated around in there. The only way to get him out sooner was to go pick up the floating dummy. Then he would clamber out of the tank and be good as new and ready to go again. Once he got in the tank the first time, the session was pretty much over. About every second or third retrieve after that required another pit stop so he was effectively worthless after the first time he jumped in. Still, it was pretty funny to see and I never had to give him a bath as long as I had a dummy and a stock tank...
I could go on and tell a zillion stories about him, and over time I probably will tell nearly all of them. The best ones I’ll probably tell many times… But that’s enough for today. I was tearing up there for a bit, but it was nice to write about some of the happy and funny memories. I guess if I was being totally honest about ol’ Rus, I would have to say that he was only ever marginal as a hunting dog, but he was the best friend and family member I could have ever had. Stroking those soft ears while he rested his head on my knee helped me through some stressful times. My family and I will sure miss him, and so will the other friends and hunters who came to know and love him.
Rest in Peace, Rusty Poncho.
Thank you UPH, for allowing me to use your forum to grieve the loss of my dear friend.
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