Kismet
UPH Guru
Good day. Good morning, anyway.
Three birds up, but only one came down. Two points for Young Bert, the not-right dog: one with head up, getting air scent from a pheasant in a pile of brush, over-grown with grasses (I missed); THEN...........
wouldn't leave the pile, which was right along the crik. I figured he had still locked on to the scent of the sitting bird I'd missed...then...a point...a GREAT point...while standing in the crik!!! He wouldn't move.
I walked the top of the brush pile and damned near broke my leg. No bird up, still wouldn't move...just standing on point in the crik. I kept walking on the brush pile, then around it, jumping up and down....Finally, a rooster went up from where no rooster should have been....and down. GREAT point. Just effing great. STANDING IN THE CRIK !!! watta dog!!!
Later, a search and run and search and run on a second bird....and finally the damned bird went up. I shot (20 ga. single, open cyl) and nothing.
Then...back up the drive to the house, YB got interested in the brush pile between the road and the house, and damned if a young bunny didn't bolt up the drive to the shed. Tagged him and then directed YB to got get him and finish him off.
A good morning.
Sometimes I remember why I don't beat that dog more often.
Did I tell him he was good?
Well, yes.
But, frankly, I think he is indifferent to my praise or condemnation. For five years, he has been like a little kid let loose in ToysR Us.
Every day is a joy, every outing a chance to pursue mystical creatures, every intersection with the crik a demand that he walk in the mud and swim in the water and search for the diamond-studded muskrat that he KNOWS is there.
I have to examine him closely during most hunts, because he does not acknowledge damage to his body during an outing. He's split his chest open twice on ?something...barbed wire? Old farm equipment?. Three inches long, one inch deep.
He is currently in the end stage of healing from what was almost a disembowelment--with the flaps of skin hanging down on his belly--again, probably from barbed wire.
Thankfully, dogs are not subject to tetanus.
I sometimes think of what it must have been like to have his life-drive and be tied to a tree for two and one-half years. One of the blessings of being a dog must be the lack of reflection, or comparison, with the past.
But he was born to be out here, doing this, and maybe...with me.
Three birds up, but only one came down. Two points for Young Bert, the not-right dog: one with head up, getting air scent from a pheasant in a pile of brush, over-grown with grasses (I missed); THEN...........
wouldn't leave the pile, which was right along the crik. I figured he had still locked on to the scent of the sitting bird I'd missed...then...a point...a GREAT point...while standing in the crik!!! He wouldn't move.
I walked the top of the brush pile and damned near broke my leg. No bird up, still wouldn't move...just standing on point in the crik. I kept walking on the brush pile, then around it, jumping up and down....Finally, a rooster went up from where no rooster should have been....and down. GREAT point. Just effing great. STANDING IN THE CRIK !!! watta dog!!!
Later, a search and run and search and run on a second bird....and finally the damned bird went up. I shot (20 ga. single, open cyl) and nothing.
Then...back up the drive to the house, YB got interested in the brush pile between the road and the house, and damned if a young bunny didn't bolt up the drive to the shed. Tagged him and then directed YB to got get him and finish him off.
A good morning.
Sometimes I remember why I don't beat that dog more often.
Did I tell him he was good?
Well, yes.
But, frankly, I think he is indifferent to my praise or condemnation. For five years, he has been like a little kid let loose in ToysR Us.
Every day is a joy, every outing a chance to pursue mystical creatures, every intersection with the crik a demand that he walk in the mud and swim in the water and search for the diamond-studded muskrat that he KNOWS is there.
I have to examine him closely during most hunts, because he does not acknowledge damage to his body during an outing. He's split his chest open twice on ?something...barbed wire? Old farm equipment?. Three inches long, one inch deep.
He is currently in the end stage of healing from what was almost a disembowelment--with the flaps of skin hanging down on his belly--again, probably from barbed wire.
Thankfully, dogs are not subject to tetanus.
I sometimes think of what it must have been like to have his life-drive and be tied to a tree for two and one-half years. One of the blessings of being a dog must be the lack of reflection, or comparison, with the past.
But he was born to be out here, doing this, and maybe...with me.
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