Kismet
UPH Guru
View attachment 7473
For most of the year, I've been having bouts of melancholy when thinking about Mick, my 13 year-old field Springer. He's slowed down, has 8 or 9 lipomas, or fatty tumors, and life is wearing upon both of us. I got him as a rescue from American Brittany Rescue, whose Illinois branch took in the ESS from a pound downstate. He hadn't hunted before I got him and never had dew claws removed nor tail docked; but he took to it with eventual enthusiasm and quite some skill.
Wisconsin has an early duck season for a week and Mick and I have gone out twice. The first trip we found the steep banks of the crik were heavily over-grown and the crops were still drying. Two batches of birds came up far ahead of us, either from the noise we made or some glimpse they'd caught of us. No joy, but Mick held up well, and still had some bounce in his step as we walked up the drive to the house.
Today, we made a second trip before the forecast heavy rains, long absent in the last month. We walked around and angled to the favored spot of some woodies most years. Mick slowed and moved closer to heel as we approached the water.
Birds flushed, almost straight up, launching from the water. I took the right bird with the right side improved cylinder barrel, with number 6 steel 2 3/4 shot and swiveled to the disappearing birds, pulling the single trigger for the left side modified choke barrel, with a 3 inch number 4 steel shell. I didn't see the first bird, but watched the second spiral down.
Mick took off and the rest was sound effects, because I couldn't see through the underbrush. Splash, splosh, splatter, silence...the the noise of an old hunting spaniel clambering up a steep bank...and then I saw the grand old dog trotting down between rows of soybeans with a drake woodie in his mouth. I'd bet my grin could have split my face, I was so happy for him---and for me. Mick had started one more season!
He took a second to drop the bird near me, shook the water off and turned around and went back into the crik, crossed over, and started climbing the (even steeper) opposite bank side. He hunted dead bird for a minute or so and then lifted up his head with another woodie drake. I'd hit the first bird, but hadn't watched it fall as I tracked the rest of the fliers.
If we never get a chance to hunt together again, he gave me some great memories and vivid images to recall.
I had had no idea how lucky I got 7 years ago. I'm not sure I've deserved the dogs I've had.
Thanks Mick.
For most of the year, I've been having bouts of melancholy when thinking about Mick, my 13 year-old field Springer. He's slowed down, has 8 or 9 lipomas, or fatty tumors, and life is wearing upon both of us. I got him as a rescue from American Brittany Rescue, whose Illinois branch took in the ESS from a pound downstate. He hadn't hunted before I got him and never had dew claws removed nor tail docked; but he took to it with eventual enthusiasm and quite some skill.
Wisconsin has an early duck season for a week and Mick and I have gone out twice. The first trip we found the steep banks of the crik were heavily over-grown and the crops were still drying. Two batches of birds came up far ahead of us, either from the noise we made or some glimpse they'd caught of us. No joy, but Mick held up well, and still had some bounce in his step as we walked up the drive to the house.
Today, we made a second trip before the forecast heavy rains, long absent in the last month. We walked around and angled to the favored spot of some woodies most years. Mick slowed and moved closer to heel as we approached the water.
Birds flushed, almost straight up, launching from the water. I took the right bird with the right side improved cylinder barrel, with number 6 steel 2 3/4 shot and swiveled to the disappearing birds, pulling the single trigger for the left side modified choke barrel, with a 3 inch number 4 steel shell. I didn't see the first bird, but watched the second spiral down.
Mick took off and the rest was sound effects, because I couldn't see through the underbrush. Splash, splosh, splatter, silence...the the noise of an old hunting spaniel clambering up a steep bank...and then I saw the grand old dog trotting down between rows of soybeans with a drake woodie in his mouth. I'd bet my grin could have split my face, I was so happy for him---and for me. Mick had started one more season!
He took a second to drop the bird near me, shook the water off and turned around and went back into the crik, crossed over, and started climbing the (even steeper) opposite bank side. He hunted dead bird for a minute or so and then lifted up his head with another woodie drake. I'd hit the first bird, but hadn't watched it fall as I tracked the rest of the fliers.
If we never get a chance to hunt together again, he gave me some great memories and vivid images to recall.
I had had no idea how lucky I got 7 years ago. I'm not sure I've deserved the dogs I've had.
Thanks Mick.
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