BritChaser
Well-known member
When I was mourning the loss of my wonderful Brittany, cousin Robert said in his direct, matter-of-fact way, “Mark, get another dog.” This proved to be excellent advice, although at the time the wail in my head, “My dog! My dog!” was loud and unrelenting as I recalled the happy times Sport and I had in the field hunting and at home together. Thinking about life without Sport made me feel miserable.
This was in the middle of summer. When I returned to my empty house after visiting Robert, I decided to look for a pup. I had written off the upcoming season. A new pup would be too young to hunt. I typed “Brittany” into the search engine on the computer screen and shot it into cyberspace. Several breeders’ sites came up with the usual information about blood lines, accomplishments, breeding schedules, and litters. Pups and started dogs. Prices. In a dull mood, I clicked from site to site feeling no excitement or interest. Then a quite different site popped up on the screen. It was a Brittany rescue organization’s site. Then I found another such site.
I spent several hours over the next several days scrolling through the dozens of photos of beautiful and some not so beautiful dogs posted on the rescue sites by their foster masters, people who open their homes and their wallets to provide temporary care pending adoption. Each scroll through the available dogs was an emotional one. In most photos, the dogs looked directly into the camera with warmth and alertness in their eyes, conveying the connection Brittanies feel with us, the Flawed Species. Most were older, some in their last days, one missing a leg, another an eye, an incontinent one. I began to realize that for the dogs in old age, their foster homes were likely their last.
I made up my mind to adopt a dog from one of the rescue organizations if I could find one that might hunt, but I wondered if some dogs were abandoned or surrendered because they had not met their masters’ hunting expectations. My search started slowly. A six month old male in Michigan, by far the youngest dog I saw up for adoption, was quickly taken after dozens of inquiries. A middle-aged male in Texas caught my eye because he seemed to be sitting at attention while looking directly at the camera with so much hope and promise to Be a Good Dog in his eyes. But no one ever responded to my inquiries about him. Finally I found a dog that seemed to have some promise and I headed to Kentucky to take a look. Once in the field, however, I could see that the nice dog had probably been injured because it couldn’t run, just managing an awkward canter that was probably somewhat painful. But the fine lady who was providing the dog a temporary home put me in touch with the rescue organization’s regional coordinator who told me of two young males newly available for adoption in Ohio, both of whom were being fostered by Brittany field trialists. My spirits improved at this news.
That next evening Kentucky was behind me and the foster master of the first Ohio dog and I headed out to a bird ranch outside Dayton to see what the new dog would do in the field. Unfortunately, the new dog had no hunt in him. The two big pens full of pheasants and the quail in my hand were of no interest. He simply sat down in the field. Very puzzling and no way to understand it because, like most dogs in the rescue system, little was known about him. Frustrated, I still had one more Ohio dog to look at before I would have to go back to the rescue web sites or go back to Kansas alone, a thought that made me feel blue again.
The next day I made the scenic journey up through the beautiful farm country of western Ohio to the most northwestern of Ohio’s counties. The level fields were full of tall corn and soy beans, very green and still growing. At about two in the afternoon I pulled into the driveway of the country home where the second Ohio dog was being sheltered. The foster master met me outside and invited me into the house where I met his wife, mother, and Gus, the Brittany. Gus came right over to me, jumped up, and gave me a big welcome. He was the lankiest Brittany I had ever seen, built like a setter or a pointer with a deep chest and a small waist, orange markings the color of a red setter, and long, nicely feathered legs. I liked him right away. But would he hunt?
The foster master said that all he had been told about Gus was that as a pup he was given to a couple who lived in an apartment, but they had to give him up. He estimated his age at maybe nine months which made him a November pup. That was it. In the few days since Gus’s arrival, he had not had a chance to get him out in the field and had no idea what his hunting potential might be.
Being a field trialist, Gus’s foster master raised chukar partridges and had a permit to band and shoot them year round. As he caught three, Gus ran around the pen showing great interest in the fluttering birds. We headed to a nearby farm to put Gus in the field, presumably for his first such experience. When the first chukar was pulled from the bag, Gus stood on his hind legs for a better look and a sniff. “Well, let’s see what he does. You ready?” I was and off the bird went. I dropped it and Gus was off like a shot, found the bird, picked it up, and ran back to us, dropping the bird on the run so that it literally rolled up to our feet. “I’ll take him!” I nearly shouted, and we both laughed, delighted by what Gus had just done. “Well, let’s make sure that wasn’t a fluke,” and the next bird was launched. Same result. The last bird was dizzied and planted in the grass as I walked Gus down wind. About 50 yards out we turned Gus around and started walking up wind. Gus went out ahead, got on the scent, flushed the running bird, and retrieved it to hand. Happiness had reentered my life.
After Gus’s performance, the foster master did not hesitate to price Gus, a paperless orphan, at the going rate for a pedigree pup, and I happily paid it because I knew exactly what I was getting – a true natural hunter, healthy, vaccinated, and neutered, who could be fielded when the season started in two months. I was thrilled.
As I pulled out of the driveway and turned on to the country road to start our long journey to Kansas, Gus sat in his crate facing the back, looking out the rear window. He seemed to be watching his temporary home fade away into the distance. He sat that way, looking back, for quite awhile. I silently promised to never let him down and to stick with him no matter what.
Was Gus’s performance in the Ohio field a fluke? Not at all. Finding birds and retrieving them were natural to him so I figured the only things he needed to pick up were hand signals, whoa, and range. We worked on signals and range using a check lead every weekend and whoa on most of our daily leash walks before the season began. He learned quickly and retained everything, a typical Brittany. In the middle of his first season he was responsible for a double on pheasants. As we approached a plum thicket on the edge of a milo field, pheasants flushed from the thicket in all directions. My first shot made a leg drop but the bird disappeared over the edge of the draw still flying strongly to who knew where. The second bird folded and dropped in the draw. I located it and as I bent to pick it up I looked around and was puzzled that I could not see Gus. When I straightened up and was working the bird into my bag, Gus came trotting around the bend in the draw with the first bird in his mouth. At that moment I realized how lucky I was to have him. He was everything one could hope for in a bird dog.
Today Gus and I are getting ready for our third season together. His thorough coverage, stylish points, ordered flushes, responses to hand signals, brush busting, retrieves to hand, and companionship have made me a happy hunter and a more fortunate member of the Flawed Species. Right now he is asleep on the bed, it is late, and so I say goodbye to join Gus, the orphan dog, for some peaceful sleep and dreams of flushing birds in beautiful fields.
This was in the middle of summer. When I returned to my empty house after visiting Robert, I decided to look for a pup. I had written off the upcoming season. A new pup would be too young to hunt. I typed “Brittany” into the search engine on the computer screen and shot it into cyberspace. Several breeders’ sites came up with the usual information about blood lines, accomplishments, breeding schedules, and litters. Pups and started dogs. Prices. In a dull mood, I clicked from site to site feeling no excitement or interest. Then a quite different site popped up on the screen. It was a Brittany rescue organization’s site. Then I found another such site.
I spent several hours over the next several days scrolling through the dozens of photos of beautiful and some not so beautiful dogs posted on the rescue sites by their foster masters, people who open their homes and their wallets to provide temporary care pending adoption. Each scroll through the available dogs was an emotional one. In most photos, the dogs looked directly into the camera with warmth and alertness in their eyes, conveying the connection Brittanies feel with us, the Flawed Species. Most were older, some in their last days, one missing a leg, another an eye, an incontinent one. I began to realize that for the dogs in old age, their foster homes were likely their last.
I made up my mind to adopt a dog from one of the rescue organizations if I could find one that might hunt, but I wondered if some dogs were abandoned or surrendered because they had not met their masters’ hunting expectations. My search started slowly. A six month old male in Michigan, by far the youngest dog I saw up for adoption, was quickly taken after dozens of inquiries. A middle-aged male in Texas caught my eye because he seemed to be sitting at attention while looking directly at the camera with so much hope and promise to Be a Good Dog in his eyes. But no one ever responded to my inquiries about him. Finally I found a dog that seemed to have some promise and I headed to Kentucky to take a look. Once in the field, however, I could see that the nice dog had probably been injured because it couldn’t run, just managing an awkward canter that was probably somewhat painful. But the fine lady who was providing the dog a temporary home put me in touch with the rescue organization’s regional coordinator who told me of two young males newly available for adoption in Ohio, both of whom were being fostered by Brittany field trialists. My spirits improved at this news.
That next evening Kentucky was behind me and the foster master of the first Ohio dog and I headed out to a bird ranch outside Dayton to see what the new dog would do in the field. Unfortunately, the new dog had no hunt in him. The two big pens full of pheasants and the quail in my hand were of no interest. He simply sat down in the field. Very puzzling and no way to understand it because, like most dogs in the rescue system, little was known about him. Frustrated, I still had one more Ohio dog to look at before I would have to go back to the rescue web sites or go back to Kansas alone, a thought that made me feel blue again.
The next day I made the scenic journey up through the beautiful farm country of western Ohio to the most northwestern of Ohio’s counties. The level fields were full of tall corn and soy beans, very green and still growing. At about two in the afternoon I pulled into the driveway of the country home where the second Ohio dog was being sheltered. The foster master met me outside and invited me into the house where I met his wife, mother, and Gus, the Brittany. Gus came right over to me, jumped up, and gave me a big welcome. He was the lankiest Brittany I had ever seen, built like a setter or a pointer with a deep chest and a small waist, orange markings the color of a red setter, and long, nicely feathered legs. I liked him right away. But would he hunt?
The foster master said that all he had been told about Gus was that as a pup he was given to a couple who lived in an apartment, but they had to give him up. He estimated his age at maybe nine months which made him a November pup. That was it. In the few days since Gus’s arrival, he had not had a chance to get him out in the field and had no idea what his hunting potential might be.
Being a field trialist, Gus’s foster master raised chukar partridges and had a permit to band and shoot them year round. As he caught three, Gus ran around the pen showing great interest in the fluttering birds. We headed to a nearby farm to put Gus in the field, presumably for his first such experience. When the first chukar was pulled from the bag, Gus stood on his hind legs for a better look and a sniff. “Well, let’s see what he does. You ready?” I was and off the bird went. I dropped it and Gus was off like a shot, found the bird, picked it up, and ran back to us, dropping the bird on the run so that it literally rolled up to our feet. “I’ll take him!” I nearly shouted, and we both laughed, delighted by what Gus had just done. “Well, let’s make sure that wasn’t a fluke,” and the next bird was launched. Same result. The last bird was dizzied and planted in the grass as I walked Gus down wind. About 50 yards out we turned Gus around and started walking up wind. Gus went out ahead, got on the scent, flushed the running bird, and retrieved it to hand. Happiness had reentered my life.
After Gus’s performance, the foster master did not hesitate to price Gus, a paperless orphan, at the going rate for a pedigree pup, and I happily paid it because I knew exactly what I was getting – a true natural hunter, healthy, vaccinated, and neutered, who could be fielded when the season started in two months. I was thrilled.
As I pulled out of the driveway and turned on to the country road to start our long journey to Kansas, Gus sat in his crate facing the back, looking out the rear window. He seemed to be watching his temporary home fade away into the distance. He sat that way, looking back, for quite awhile. I silently promised to never let him down and to stick with him no matter what.
Was Gus’s performance in the Ohio field a fluke? Not at all. Finding birds and retrieving them were natural to him so I figured the only things he needed to pick up were hand signals, whoa, and range. We worked on signals and range using a check lead every weekend and whoa on most of our daily leash walks before the season began. He learned quickly and retained everything, a typical Brittany. In the middle of his first season he was responsible for a double on pheasants. As we approached a plum thicket on the edge of a milo field, pheasants flushed from the thicket in all directions. My first shot made a leg drop but the bird disappeared over the edge of the draw still flying strongly to who knew where. The second bird folded and dropped in the draw. I located it and as I bent to pick it up I looked around and was puzzled that I could not see Gus. When I straightened up and was working the bird into my bag, Gus came trotting around the bend in the draw with the first bird in his mouth. At that moment I realized how lucky I was to have him. He was everything one could hope for in a bird dog.
Today Gus and I are getting ready for our third season together. His thorough coverage, stylish points, ordered flushes, responses to hand signals, brush busting, retrieves to hand, and companionship have made me a happy hunter and a more fortunate member of the Flawed Species. Right now he is asleep on the bed, it is late, and so I say goodbye to join Gus, the orphan dog, for some peaceful sleep and dreams of flushing birds in beautiful fields.
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