A WIMPY TALE
It is a normal hot, humid day in Tennessee in August of 1986. We are sitting in an extensive back yard surrounded by eight, six week old English Setter pups. This is not a breeder, but a hunter, procreating his next bird dog, and hoping to sell the remainder of the litter. We have inspected the dam, a normal sized, good looking specimen, and the sire, a tall, muscular, regal looking dog.
The pups are occupied in normal puppy pursuits; staggering about here and there, exploring, romping, inspecting. After a while, activity slowed until all the pups were sprawled about napping ? except for one. He was the biggest of the litter, and his enthusiasm was unabated by heat or exhaustion. While his litter mates snoozed he continued to roam, attacking leaves and twigs, and any litter mate in his erratic path to be so unfortunate. If this had been a wolf pack, his mother would have snuffed him out as an incorrigible maverick.
I knew better, but I could not help myself. Everything I knew or read about picking out a pup went out the window, including ?just grab one and hope?. When I finally picked him up, he heaved and hurled himself mightily in protest and to escape my grasp. When we got home, he took a few steps and collapsed on the carpet like a felled ox, his energy level finally deserting him.
I kept him in the house for several weeks, until he was deemed capable of surviving in the dog lot with the older setter, who wooled him unmercifully, a treatment that did not escape his memory, and for which the older dog was to pay a price in future years. We registered him as ?Wimpy's Backup?, predicated on the older dog's propensity to acquire some ailment or other just before or during hunting season.
The first hunting season for the 6-month old was not entirely promising. After several trips in the field, he staunchly pointed his first bird - a single, which two of us disastrously missed, and a feat he did not repeat for some time - the pertinent word being ?staunchly?. He seemed to be slow in grasping the fact that when he found birds nothing extraordinary was going to happen, except a whir of wings, unless a shooter was present.
On one occasion that first year on an off-season run, the older dog accosted a ground hog, about ? grown and was barking wildly, attracting our hero, Wimpy. When the ground hog would turn to escape, the older dog would rush in from behind, grab it by the tail and drag it back. Such fun was not to be denied Wimpy. In his ?bull-in-the-china-shop? mentality, he rushed in head to head with the ground hog, which promptly clamped down on the side of his cheek. After emitting screams of outrage and shaking the ground hog loose, he moved off about 20 feet and sat down. We, of course, thought the whole episode hilarious, and tried to coax a repeat performance. Wimpy would have none of it. He would not look at, or even acknowledging the existence of the ground hog. He never forgot, however, and in the years to come, no ground hog ever crossed his path and died of old age.
Over the years, Wimpy seemed to have a knack for creating situations. For instance, a group of visitors were standing in the front yard saying their good byes. (After visiting for hours, it takes women another hour to say good bye.) Wimpy was nosing around in a ditch in front of the house. Suddenly he charged
2
out of the ditch, his rear end tucked as far under him as his spine would allow, straight for the crowd, a
black cloud of very angry yellow jackets hot on his tail. The crowd scattered as though someone had yelled ?incoming!?. I don't recall anyone getting stung, but the ?goodbye? time was shortened to seconds.
Wimpy grew to about 70 pounds, and it was all sinew and muscle. He feared nothing on two or four legs. He had a mind of his own, and cared little about the thoughts or wishes of anyone, including mine. To bend him to your will, sweet talk and oratorical praise were a waste of good oxygen. Neither a keen switching or a mild belting impressed him. I am somewhat reluctant to confess, but for something that it was imperative for him to respond to, or for his safety, it was necessary to virtually brutalize him. And even then, he did not consider the cost too high, if the opportunity at hand seemed worth it.
One time he charged off after a deer while we were hunting, with me screaming at the top of my lungs. The deer topped over the hill some 200 yards away. Wimpy stopped at the top, looked down in the direction the deer had taken, looked back at me, still screaming my head off, and continued after the deer. After about 20 minutes, he came running happily back and plopped down in front of me as if to say, ?OK, bub. Let's get it over with?. Another time, a covey flushed wild in front of him, and he chased them clear into the next county, with me yelling at every step. The story ends the same. In both cases, and others over time, he knew damn well what the reward would be, and he didn't care.
Wimpy was a natural retriever, the only truly natural retriever I've ever owned in a bird dog. On several occasions he brought back birds we didn't even know we had hit. Once, during a summer run, he disappeared in the woods and came back to me with a quail in his mouth. As most of the feathers were gone from it's back, it was obviously an escaped pen-raised bird. Another time, on a very cold day while hunting, I was walking through a patch of woods between fields, and Wimpy came up behind me and walked along in the ?heel? position. After several attempts to coax him on ahead, I looked back at him and he had a squirrel in his mouth, dead as the proverbial door knob and stiff as a board. He gave it to me and proceeded on his way.
One day on a summer run, he began chasing a calf of about 400 pounds, which headed directly toward the barb-wire laced gate leading out of the field. I stood in front of the gate waving my arms and yelling in attempt to head off a catastrophe. The calf ran straight through the closed gate, and nearly ran over me, with Wimpy close on his heels. I'm not certain I would not have shot him, had I had a gun at that instant.
I worked at home during that time, and brought the dogs into my office in the air conditioned house in the heat of the day. One day, my wife was on the telephone in the living room and Wimpy went to the door, wanting out. My wife, occupied on the telephone, fussed at him and sent him away. Twice more he went to the door, and was rebuffed. A short time later, she turned around, and there was Wimpy, his leg hiked over her brand new coffee table, bathing it liberally.
Every other dog, present and past, when taken to the vets, broke out in the trembling hives. Wimpy, on the other hand, went in as though he owned the place. His reaction to the humiliation of having his temperature taken, I leave to your imagination.
In 1991, we took him on his first ? and as things turned out, his only ? trip to South Dakota pheasant hunting. In his normal screw-up way, the day before we were to leave, he sliced a pad on his front paw while digging in the yard. Not enough for stitches, but painful. We had to wrap it every day that we hunted him. In every previous instance quail hunting, when a bird went down, he bounded joyfully after it, and brought it back with obvious pride. The first pheasant that I downed, and the first he had
ever seen, he bounded after it and disappeared in the high grass. When I got to him, he was laying
down with the bird between his paws, nuzzling it. It was as if he was saying ?By gawd, this one is mine?. To tell the truth, I was a little apprehensive about reaching down and taking it away from him, but it worked out OK.
The next year, 1992, as we were beginning to think about another fall trip to South Dakota, blood appeared in his urine. Several trips to the vet's, several diagnosis and medications produced no results. It was finally decided that they were going to have to open him up to find the problem. He had advanced cancer in his kidneys, and it had spread to his bladder and urinary tract ? inoperable! The vet said he could last only a very short time. Rather than having him suffer through excruciating pain that was inevitable, I asked the vet to put him to sleep before the anesthesia wore off. It was not an easy thing to do.
I became very attached to Wimpy ? I doubt a shrink could ever explain just why. Only in his last year or so did he begin to show any signs of affection or loyalty. He could, at times, make you so mad that you wanted to kill him.. Even after 18 years and several other dogs, I miss him, and resent his having been taken away from me in the prime of his life. Six years was not enough.
*****************************************************
Written years ago, when the pain of his loss was still fresh. I still mourn his loss, or maybe it is MY loss.
It is a normal hot, humid day in Tennessee in August of 1986. We are sitting in an extensive back yard surrounded by eight, six week old English Setter pups. This is not a breeder, but a hunter, procreating his next bird dog, and hoping to sell the remainder of the litter. We have inspected the dam, a normal sized, good looking specimen, and the sire, a tall, muscular, regal looking dog.
The pups are occupied in normal puppy pursuits; staggering about here and there, exploring, romping, inspecting. After a while, activity slowed until all the pups were sprawled about napping ? except for one. He was the biggest of the litter, and his enthusiasm was unabated by heat or exhaustion. While his litter mates snoozed he continued to roam, attacking leaves and twigs, and any litter mate in his erratic path to be so unfortunate. If this had been a wolf pack, his mother would have snuffed him out as an incorrigible maverick.
I knew better, but I could not help myself. Everything I knew or read about picking out a pup went out the window, including ?just grab one and hope?. When I finally picked him up, he heaved and hurled himself mightily in protest and to escape my grasp. When we got home, he took a few steps and collapsed on the carpet like a felled ox, his energy level finally deserting him.
I kept him in the house for several weeks, until he was deemed capable of surviving in the dog lot with the older setter, who wooled him unmercifully, a treatment that did not escape his memory, and for which the older dog was to pay a price in future years. We registered him as ?Wimpy's Backup?, predicated on the older dog's propensity to acquire some ailment or other just before or during hunting season.
The first hunting season for the 6-month old was not entirely promising. After several trips in the field, he staunchly pointed his first bird - a single, which two of us disastrously missed, and a feat he did not repeat for some time - the pertinent word being ?staunchly?. He seemed to be slow in grasping the fact that when he found birds nothing extraordinary was going to happen, except a whir of wings, unless a shooter was present.
On one occasion that first year on an off-season run, the older dog accosted a ground hog, about ? grown and was barking wildly, attracting our hero, Wimpy. When the ground hog would turn to escape, the older dog would rush in from behind, grab it by the tail and drag it back. Such fun was not to be denied Wimpy. In his ?bull-in-the-china-shop? mentality, he rushed in head to head with the ground hog, which promptly clamped down on the side of his cheek. After emitting screams of outrage and shaking the ground hog loose, he moved off about 20 feet and sat down. We, of course, thought the whole episode hilarious, and tried to coax a repeat performance. Wimpy would have none of it. He would not look at, or even acknowledging the existence of the ground hog. He never forgot, however, and in the years to come, no ground hog ever crossed his path and died of old age.
Over the years, Wimpy seemed to have a knack for creating situations. For instance, a group of visitors were standing in the front yard saying their good byes. (After visiting for hours, it takes women another hour to say good bye.) Wimpy was nosing around in a ditch in front of the house. Suddenly he charged
2
out of the ditch, his rear end tucked as far under him as his spine would allow, straight for the crowd, a
black cloud of very angry yellow jackets hot on his tail. The crowd scattered as though someone had yelled ?incoming!?. I don't recall anyone getting stung, but the ?goodbye? time was shortened to seconds.
Wimpy grew to about 70 pounds, and it was all sinew and muscle. He feared nothing on two or four legs. He had a mind of his own, and cared little about the thoughts or wishes of anyone, including mine. To bend him to your will, sweet talk and oratorical praise were a waste of good oxygen. Neither a keen switching or a mild belting impressed him. I am somewhat reluctant to confess, but for something that it was imperative for him to respond to, or for his safety, it was necessary to virtually brutalize him. And even then, he did not consider the cost too high, if the opportunity at hand seemed worth it.
One time he charged off after a deer while we were hunting, with me screaming at the top of my lungs. The deer topped over the hill some 200 yards away. Wimpy stopped at the top, looked down in the direction the deer had taken, looked back at me, still screaming my head off, and continued after the deer. After about 20 minutes, he came running happily back and plopped down in front of me as if to say, ?OK, bub. Let's get it over with?. Another time, a covey flushed wild in front of him, and he chased them clear into the next county, with me yelling at every step. The story ends the same. In both cases, and others over time, he knew damn well what the reward would be, and he didn't care.
Wimpy was a natural retriever, the only truly natural retriever I've ever owned in a bird dog. On several occasions he brought back birds we didn't even know we had hit. Once, during a summer run, he disappeared in the woods and came back to me with a quail in his mouth. As most of the feathers were gone from it's back, it was obviously an escaped pen-raised bird. Another time, on a very cold day while hunting, I was walking through a patch of woods between fields, and Wimpy came up behind me and walked along in the ?heel? position. After several attempts to coax him on ahead, I looked back at him and he had a squirrel in his mouth, dead as the proverbial door knob and stiff as a board. He gave it to me and proceeded on his way.
One day on a summer run, he began chasing a calf of about 400 pounds, which headed directly toward the barb-wire laced gate leading out of the field. I stood in front of the gate waving my arms and yelling in attempt to head off a catastrophe. The calf ran straight through the closed gate, and nearly ran over me, with Wimpy close on his heels. I'm not certain I would not have shot him, had I had a gun at that instant.
I worked at home during that time, and brought the dogs into my office in the air conditioned house in the heat of the day. One day, my wife was on the telephone in the living room and Wimpy went to the door, wanting out. My wife, occupied on the telephone, fussed at him and sent him away. Twice more he went to the door, and was rebuffed. A short time later, she turned around, and there was Wimpy, his leg hiked over her brand new coffee table, bathing it liberally.
Every other dog, present and past, when taken to the vets, broke out in the trembling hives. Wimpy, on the other hand, went in as though he owned the place. His reaction to the humiliation of having his temperature taken, I leave to your imagination.
In 1991, we took him on his first ? and as things turned out, his only ? trip to South Dakota pheasant hunting. In his normal screw-up way, the day before we were to leave, he sliced a pad on his front paw while digging in the yard. Not enough for stitches, but painful. We had to wrap it every day that we hunted him. In every previous instance quail hunting, when a bird went down, he bounded joyfully after it, and brought it back with obvious pride. The first pheasant that I downed, and the first he had
ever seen, he bounded after it and disappeared in the high grass. When I got to him, he was laying
down with the bird between his paws, nuzzling it. It was as if he was saying ?By gawd, this one is mine?. To tell the truth, I was a little apprehensive about reaching down and taking it away from him, but it worked out OK.
The next year, 1992, as we were beginning to think about another fall trip to South Dakota, blood appeared in his urine. Several trips to the vet's, several diagnosis and medications produced no results. It was finally decided that they were going to have to open him up to find the problem. He had advanced cancer in his kidneys, and it had spread to his bladder and urinary tract ? inoperable! The vet said he could last only a very short time. Rather than having him suffer through excruciating pain that was inevitable, I asked the vet to put him to sleep before the anesthesia wore off. It was not an easy thing to do.
I became very attached to Wimpy ? I doubt a shrink could ever explain just why. Only in his last year or so did he begin to show any signs of affection or loyalty. He could, at times, make you so mad that you wanted to kill him.. Even after 18 years and several other dogs, I miss him, and resent his having been taken away from me in the prime of his life. Six years was not enough.
*****************************************************
Written years ago, when the pain of his loss was still fresh. I still mourn his loss, or maybe it is MY loss.
