Kismet
UPH Guru
Took about a week to start recovery from the death of Young Bert, the not-right dog. The day after I put him down, the DNR friend came over to pick up a (second) shotgun I'd gotten for her and her husband. She brought Citori, a Drathaar 2.5 year old, bitch, whose early hunting work I had a hand in. Outstanding dog. I wasn't up for company, or even movement, but this person is family, and Young Bert was the motivation for her seeking out and buying Citori. (Her life hasn't been the same since. 
) Gave her the gun, asked if she had a pheasant stamp, and out we went, Mick, the rescue springer, and I and she and Citori.
Probably a good thing. I was numbed and inert and had no desire to do anything. Movement was a healthy thing.
We walked the fields below. Few pheasant around this year, but the dogs frolicked, Mick swam in the crik, and at the turn-around point in the walk, we came upon about five hens. Citori pointed, Mick busted them, and off in the distance we saw the one rooster who didn't cackle as he flushed. No joy, but movement.
She and Citori left to go about the business that brought them down this way. I went back to brooding.
But the next day, and the next, and the next, I took Mick out, for this time is all the time there is. He needs to teach himself about hunting. I can give opportunities to be out, and work (endlessly) on getting him to "fetch," but the hunting education takes place in the dog's head. I'm positive he had never been hunted before and chasing sparrows doesn't count as "birdy."
I needed to continue learning as well. A flushing dog is so different than the Wirehaired Pointers I've had. I've been spoiled with dogs that searched, found, and HELD birds until I came up to them. I need to continue to keep Mick's ranging nearby, and to keep my eyes on him and reinforce staying near me, and watching for the behavior change from "hunting" to "hot trail bouncing."
I also had so many misgivings about what to do should we come upon a rooster pheasant. If I hit it and it ran and Mick wouldn't retrieve, there was no way I might have caught up with it. If it fell in stuff I could not see through, I would hate the waste and needless killing. Even though I had worked Mick every day he'd been with me on fetching everything from pheasant wings to hats, to jackets to toys to....you name it...INSIDE the house, outside he just run over the pigeons I'd shot, and guard them.
I would take the birds and put them in his mouth, then start walking away, commanding "fetch" each time, but it was a reluctant dog that followed behind me. The times I'd throw the dead birds and tell him to get them were frustrating and unrewarding. Rarely would he eventually bring the bird to me without me putting it in his mouth. Very discouraging. I'd rescued the only non-retrieving spaniel in North America.
A week and a day after I had YB put down, I took Mick out to the local state park hunting area. He had the electronic collar on, and the little cow bell that rang so often for me when Young Bert wore it. I rarely need the training collar, but the bell is especially important to find Mick in the high grass.
For some weeks prior to the opening of deer season, DNR puts pen-raised birds out. They only have the budget to do it once a week, and vary the days so that some so-called "sportsmen" don't follow them out and kill the birds as they are released. I had been out once before with Mick, and one last time YB and I had slowly walked the property...corn, alfalfa, and soybean fields that are leased out and harvested prior to hunting season. Mick had popped a pheasant, I dropped it and he had gone over to it, and stayed there next to it. Bert and I had not moved anything.
Mick and I worked the fringes of the property, near the woods that ring the property, trying to find some birds that had flown into the woods and hung out there, escaping casual hunters, raptors, fox, coyote...all the predators that like the colored chickens that freshly-released pheasants are. He got interested in some scent paths every now and then, and would pick up his pace, reverse direction and check the path, then move back in the initial direction, but we found no birds. But he was hunting...he was not just bouncing around on a happy walk; some how I had triggered that atavistic urge to find game birds over the last fourteen months. A good thing.
We moved very far back into the property, and occasionally I would bring him into the wooded areas, letting him smell and become aware of the hunt environment which someday might bring birds to the table.
I heard a motor up on the high ground, but paid it no mind. The lessee had equipment still up there and often would come in to take it back to his base. Mick and I walked all the way to the end of the hunting ground along the edges of the grounds. We made the turn that would allow me and my old legs to walk the farm path back to the car. The sloping ground back there is brush and wild grass covered, with crop land where the ground flattens out a bit.
Mick got interested in a track. Then he got VERY interested. Then he was bouncing on his hind legs as he leapt forward. I scurried over, and damned if a rooster didn't flush up, indignant as hell, and take off in the direction of the woods. I had brought a new (for me) 20 gauge single shot, modified choke NEF, and lined up the bird as he departed. I dropped him and he fell hard, with Mick...well, somewhere out there. I wasn't paying attention to the dog after the pheasant flushed. I tried to fix the location where the bird fell with landmarks in hopes of being able to find it in the high grasses. I waited. I waited some more. Then, I took a reluctant step in the direction of the bird's path.
I stopped, hearing the cowbell on Mick's neck. Hoping against hope, I kept my patience and my mouth shut. He'd either do it, or he'd come to me and help me find the rooster.
Then I saw the high grass move, and out came Mick, the new, used, dog. He was happily carrying a rooster pheasant in his mouth, head high in spite of the weight in his mouth. He trotted up to me, bell jangling, and put it down about two feet away. I hadn't commanded "fetch," "go get it," or even "please gawd."
I did praise him extravagantly. And then, I did kind of look up, and maybe I said out loud, "Thank you, Bert. I needed this."
and maybe I got a little teary, but probably not, cuz I'm tough.
(We got a second bird back at the end of the property, this one wing-shot, but Mick brought it back, put it down, then brought it all the way to me, the bird still very alive and angry. I thanked Young Bert, the not-right dog, once again. He HAD to have been there with me that day.)
(last YB post from the journal)
) Gave her the gun, asked if she had a pheasant stamp, and out we went, Mick, the rescue springer, and I and she and Citori. Probably a good thing. I was numbed and inert and had no desire to do anything. Movement was a healthy thing.
We walked the fields below. Few pheasant around this year, but the dogs frolicked, Mick swam in the crik, and at the turn-around point in the walk, we came upon about five hens. Citori pointed, Mick busted them, and off in the distance we saw the one rooster who didn't cackle as he flushed. No joy, but movement.
She and Citori left to go about the business that brought them down this way. I went back to brooding.
But the next day, and the next, and the next, I took Mick out, for this time is all the time there is. He needs to teach himself about hunting. I can give opportunities to be out, and work (endlessly) on getting him to "fetch," but the hunting education takes place in the dog's head. I'm positive he had never been hunted before and chasing sparrows doesn't count as "birdy."
I needed to continue learning as well. A flushing dog is so different than the Wirehaired Pointers I've had. I've been spoiled with dogs that searched, found, and HELD birds until I came up to them. I need to continue to keep Mick's ranging nearby, and to keep my eyes on him and reinforce staying near me, and watching for the behavior change from "hunting" to "hot trail bouncing."
I also had so many misgivings about what to do should we come upon a rooster pheasant. If I hit it and it ran and Mick wouldn't retrieve, there was no way I might have caught up with it. If it fell in stuff I could not see through, I would hate the waste and needless killing. Even though I had worked Mick every day he'd been with me on fetching everything from pheasant wings to hats, to jackets to toys to....you name it...INSIDE the house, outside he just run over the pigeons I'd shot, and guard them.
I would take the birds and put them in his mouth, then start walking away, commanding "fetch" each time, but it was a reluctant dog that followed behind me. The times I'd throw the dead birds and tell him to get them were frustrating and unrewarding. Rarely would he eventually bring the bird to me without me putting it in his mouth. Very discouraging. I'd rescued the only non-retrieving spaniel in North America.
A week and a day after I had YB put down, I took Mick out to the local state park hunting area. He had the electronic collar on, and the little cow bell that rang so often for me when Young Bert wore it. I rarely need the training collar, but the bell is especially important to find Mick in the high grass.
For some weeks prior to the opening of deer season, DNR puts pen-raised birds out. They only have the budget to do it once a week, and vary the days so that some so-called "sportsmen" don't follow them out and kill the birds as they are released. I had been out once before with Mick, and one last time YB and I had slowly walked the property...corn, alfalfa, and soybean fields that are leased out and harvested prior to hunting season. Mick had popped a pheasant, I dropped it and he had gone over to it, and stayed there next to it.
Bert and I had not moved anything.Mick and I worked the fringes of the property, near the woods that ring the property, trying to find some birds that had flown into the woods and hung out there, escaping casual hunters, raptors, fox, coyote...all the predators that like the colored chickens that freshly-released pheasants are. He got interested in some scent paths every now and then, and would pick up his pace, reverse direction and check the path, then move back in the initial direction, but we found no birds. But he was hunting...he was not just bouncing around on a happy walk; some how I had triggered that atavistic urge to find game birds over the last fourteen months. A good thing.
We moved very far back into the property, and occasionally I would bring him into the wooded areas, letting him smell and become aware of the hunt environment which someday might bring birds to the table.
I heard a motor up on the high ground, but paid it no mind. The lessee had equipment still up there and often would come in to take it back to his base. Mick and I walked all the way to the end of the hunting ground along the edges of the grounds. We made the turn that would allow me and my old legs to walk the farm path back to the car. The sloping ground back there is brush and wild grass covered, with crop land where the ground flattens out a bit.
Mick got interested in a track. Then he got VERY interested. Then he was bouncing on his hind legs as he leapt forward. I scurried over, and damned if a rooster didn't flush up, indignant as hell, and take off in the direction of the woods. I had brought a new (for me) 20 gauge single shot, modified choke NEF, and lined up the bird as he departed. I dropped him and he fell hard, with Mick...well, somewhere out there. I wasn't paying attention to the dog after the pheasant flushed. I tried to fix the location where the bird fell with landmarks in hopes of being able to find it in the high grasses. I waited. I waited some more. Then, I took a reluctant step in the direction of the bird's path.
I stopped, hearing the cowbell on Mick's neck. Hoping against hope, I kept my patience and my mouth shut. He'd either do it, or he'd come to me and help me find the rooster.
Then I saw the high grass move, and out came Mick, the new, used, dog. He was happily carrying a rooster pheasant in his mouth, head high in spite of the weight in his mouth. He trotted up to me, bell jangling, and put it down about two feet away. I hadn't commanded "fetch," "go get it," or even "please gawd."
I did praise him extravagantly. And then, I did kind of look up, and maybe I said out loud, "Thank you, Bert. I needed this."
and maybe I got a little teary, but probably not, cuz I'm tough.
(We got a second bird back at the end of the property, this one wing-shot, but Mick brought it back, put it down, then brought it all the way to me, the bird still very alive and angry. I thanked Young Bert, the not-right dog, once again. He HAD to have been there with me that day.)
(last YB post from the journal)
Last edited:
