Kismet
UPH Guru
For the last six days, I've had the joy, and excitement, of having a nine month old Drathaar puppy in the house with Young Bert, the not-right dog--my nine year old German Wire-haired Pointer. Mostly, it has been a fun experience. Puppies are funny and exuberant. They have a great deal of joy of life and energy, and are constantly looking for new experiences with which to help guide them through their lives.
Young Bert has done very well in coping with the pup, even going to extent of teaching her about dominant humping...where one dog imposes "Top Dog" (literally) status over another. Citori has responded by play fighting, charging at YB, knocking into him, and provoking him as much as she can with her antics. She has also taken her attempted turns at dominance humping. The pup's owner will be very pleased to find her puppy has turned into a dominatrix. I'm thinking of making a leather coat and getting a crop for the pup, just to complete the ensemble.
Except for the first evening, YB, Citori and I have gone out hunting daily--sometimes twice a day. Pheasant, duck, rabbit, and squirrel seasons are open around here and the puppy, having well learned some obedience commands from her owner, now needs to teach herself about hunting. Most of the skill set of a bird dog is self-taught, instincts being triggered by smells and circumstances. The selective breeding over the decades has done very well to provide the abilities. Giving the dog more chances as a youngster really means giving it the chance to develop a better sense of what hunting is all about. The greater the number of experiences, the better the chances are of having an excellent hunting dog for its entire life.
We've had all good days, and one excellent one, where Citori followed the right bird (the one I shot at) and retrieved it to me with style and grace. She was wonderful, and seeing the sleek, growing pup, all developing muscle and bone, with a gait that looks like a trotting horse as she covers the ground, is a truly beautiful sight. YB and I look like battered evidence of lives mis-spent in comparison.
The weather has been cold, blustery, and over-cast, but given that I'll only have her 10 days, I don't want to miss the chances we'll have to seek and perhaps, find, more pheasants. Two days ago, we went over to some neighbors' properties to reinforce the training program. Citori still thinks of these as play runs, with the occasional intensely interesting pheasant scent, and that WONDERFUL retrieve, where she got to chase, catch (well, sort of) and for some odd-reason, bring back a pheasant to me. (She did reconsider once I had the bird and wanted it back, but, let's let that pass.) Each occasion she has stayed with YB and me. YB knows we are out there to hunt and he loves every minute of it. He starts bouncing when he sees me pick up a shotgun and put it the case. Citori finds that enthusiasm contagious. (In truth, Citori finds ALL enthusiasm contagious.) She starts to bounce, as well. So weather bedamned, out we go, finding or not finding to our respective hearts' content.
YB thinks water is just...well, water. Citori thinks it is weird land. So while YB will walk in, jump in, splosh across, Citori doesn't quite believe the crik is trustworthy, but will go in and across with, if not reluctance, serious misgivings. It may not help that it is cold, and she hasn't fully developed her second coat and may feel the cold more intensely. She's fine with it, but not enthusiastic. We hunt along the crik every day, since I know that with the soybeans harvested, it is the best cover for feeding birds, and is dense enough to make them feel secure. The first day, we didn't find any game at all, but had a good time. Citori stayed with YB and me, mostly. She wandered over in pursuit of various smells, trailing or investigating them to see if they were going to turn out to be fun. YB hunted the cover, going back over areas where birds must have been, then moving on to other areas from which we harvested pheasants in the past.
The second day, we covered new ground for Citori, and it was a wonderful outing. No game shot, but a pheasant flushed some distance away and the perfume it left was tremendously interesting to the pup. YB watched the bird fly away, listened for the shot, then went back to hunting. We covered a lot of ground, but no joy. YB pushes his way through the high grasses, while Citori looks like Snoopie of Charlie Brown fame, having an attack of "weed claustrophobia," bouncing up on her hind legs to get her bearings. It's kind of funny to see the brush move, then suddenly, this dark brown head pop up, ears flying up, as she looks and locates me and alters direction.
It was closing in on dusk, so with the time left, I took the dogs over to yet another new hunting area, again along the crik...just further down the road from my place. There are junk trees and bramble there along the bank on both sides, and while the soybeans have been taken in on this...let's say three acre plot...the corn on the other side of the crik is still up, drying. The road forms the right perimeter of the property, the trees, crik and bushes the left.
It's not a long walk, but often productive. I once scared the bejaysus out of a buck who was laying there, thinking of a doe harem. Again, in fairness, he also startled the bejaysus out of me when he sprang up and bounded away. On an earlier walk, three hen pheasants popped up, so I knew some birds would keep cover there. The spot where they flushed was about mid-way through the path we'd take.
Citori was in and out of the bushes, YB entered at spots where he wouldn't get too scratched up, checked them out, then came back and moved forward on the field side of the cover. Citori ranged out in the harvested soybean field, and circled on back toward us. We were coming up to the site of the previous flush, when Citori locked up! She was perfect. She was beautiful. She was...well...funny, because her abrupt halt had caused her left ear to flop up on the top of her head. But she was locked into a solid point, with no edging, no tremors of pre-pounce, no question at all that there were pheasant RIGHT THERE.
YB came out of the brush and moved ahead of me and the wind shifted. With an equal complete secession of movement, he went into a low, crouched point, with his head angled towards the same spot Citori was fixated on. He wasn't "backing," but had picked up strong bird scent from the same spot, as the wind had moved it to him. The two locked tight, each completely isolated in the obsessive, compulsive, total concentration of a perfect bird dog demonstrating what all those years of selective breeding had aimed for. WHAT AN IMAGE.
Of course, I didn't have a camera, and it was over-cast, and...well, nevermind.
I DID have a shotgun. I edged in. Stopped. Waited. Moved a little closer to the brush. Stopped. Moved in...flapflapflapflapflap...and one, then twothree pheasants flushed up from the pile. Gun up, tracking.... HENS....
I must use the same voice intonation with the "hens" yell that I do when I yell "No." The dogs bolted forward, watched, then returned...oddly...to me.
I went down to one knee, then two...and as the dogs came near, I rubbed and praised, and patted, and repeated over and over and over....what great hunters they were and what wonderful dogs they were and how proud Jill was going to be of Citori and what great work they did.
Frankly, I think they got bored in short order.
They went back to hunting the brush piles...then on down the cover to the end of the property. We reversed course, because I did not want them walking along the road, and with what appeared to be equal enthusiasm, hunted their ways back to the car.
That was two days ago.
I had no idea of what the next hunt would bring.
(These stories are journal entries.)
Young Bert has done very well in coping with the pup, even going to extent of teaching her about dominant humping...where one dog imposes "Top Dog" (literally) status over another. Citori has responded by play fighting, charging at YB, knocking into him, and provoking him as much as she can with her antics. She has also taken her attempted turns at dominance humping. The pup's owner will be very pleased to find her puppy has turned into a dominatrix. I'm thinking of making a leather coat and getting a crop for the pup, just to complete the ensemble.
Except for the first evening, YB, Citori and I have gone out hunting daily--sometimes twice a day. Pheasant, duck, rabbit, and squirrel seasons are open around here and the puppy, having well learned some obedience commands from her owner, now needs to teach herself about hunting. Most of the skill set of a bird dog is self-taught, instincts being triggered by smells and circumstances. The selective breeding over the decades has done very well to provide the abilities. Giving the dog more chances as a youngster really means giving it the chance to develop a better sense of what hunting is all about. The greater the number of experiences, the better the chances are of having an excellent hunting dog for its entire life.
We've had all good days, and one excellent one, where Citori followed the right bird (the one I shot at) and retrieved it to me with style and grace. She was wonderful, and seeing the sleek, growing pup, all developing muscle and bone, with a gait that looks like a trotting horse as she covers the ground, is a truly beautiful sight. YB and I look like battered evidence of lives mis-spent in comparison.
The weather has been cold, blustery, and over-cast, but given that I'll only have her 10 days, I don't want to miss the chances we'll have to seek and perhaps, find, more pheasants. Two days ago, we went over to some neighbors' properties to reinforce the training program. Citori still thinks of these as play runs, with the occasional intensely interesting pheasant scent, and that WONDERFUL retrieve, where she got to chase, catch (well, sort of) and for some odd-reason, bring back a pheasant to me. (She did reconsider once I had the bird and wanted it back, but, let's let that pass.) Each occasion she has stayed with YB and me. YB knows we are out there to hunt and he loves every minute of it. He starts bouncing when he sees me pick up a shotgun and put it the case. Citori finds that enthusiasm contagious. (In truth, Citori finds ALL enthusiasm contagious.) She starts to bounce, as well. So weather bedamned, out we go, finding or not finding to our respective hearts' content.
YB thinks water is just...well, water. Citori thinks it is weird land. So while YB will walk in, jump in, splosh across, Citori doesn't quite believe the crik is trustworthy, but will go in and across with, if not reluctance, serious misgivings. It may not help that it is cold, and she hasn't fully developed her second coat and may feel the cold more intensely. She's fine with it, but not enthusiastic. We hunt along the crik every day, since I know that with the soybeans harvested, it is the best cover for feeding birds, and is dense enough to make them feel secure. The first day, we didn't find any game at all, but had a good time. Citori stayed with YB and me, mostly. She wandered over in pursuit of various smells, trailing or investigating them to see if they were going to turn out to be fun. YB hunted the cover, going back over areas where birds must have been, then moving on to other areas from which we harvested pheasants in the past.
The second day, we covered new ground for Citori, and it was a wonderful outing. No game shot, but a pheasant flushed some distance away and the perfume it left was tremendously interesting to the pup. YB watched the bird fly away, listened for the shot, then went back to hunting. We covered a lot of ground, but no joy. YB pushes his way through the high grasses, while Citori looks like Snoopie of Charlie Brown fame, having an attack of "weed claustrophobia," bouncing up on her hind legs to get her bearings. It's kind of funny to see the brush move, then suddenly, this dark brown head pop up, ears flying up, as she looks and locates me and alters direction.
It was closing in on dusk, so with the time left, I took the dogs over to yet another new hunting area, again along the crik...just further down the road from my place. There are junk trees and bramble there along the bank on both sides, and while the soybeans have been taken in on this...let's say three acre plot...the corn on the other side of the crik is still up, drying. The road forms the right perimeter of the property, the trees, crik and bushes the left.
It's not a long walk, but often productive. I once scared the bejaysus out of a buck who was laying there, thinking of a doe harem. Again, in fairness, he also startled the bejaysus out of me when he sprang up and bounded away. On an earlier walk, three hen pheasants popped up, so I knew some birds would keep cover there. The spot where they flushed was about mid-way through the path we'd take.
Citori was in and out of the bushes, YB entered at spots where he wouldn't get too scratched up, checked them out, then came back and moved forward on the field side of the cover. Citori ranged out in the harvested soybean field, and circled on back toward us. We were coming up to the site of the previous flush, when Citori locked up! She was perfect. She was beautiful. She was...well...funny, because her abrupt halt had caused her left ear to flop up on the top of her head. But she was locked into a solid point, with no edging, no tremors of pre-pounce, no question at all that there were pheasant RIGHT THERE.
YB came out of the brush and moved ahead of me and the wind shifted. With an equal complete secession of movement, he went into a low, crouched point, with his head angled towards the same spot Citori was fixated on. He wasn't "backing," but had picked up strong bird scent from the same spot, as the wind had moved it to him. The two locked tight, each completely isolated in the obsessive, compulsive, total concentration of a perfect bird dog demonstrating what all those years of selective breeding had aimed for. WHAT AN IMAGE.
Of course, I didn't have a camera, and it was over-cast, and...well, nevermind.
I DID have a shotgun. I edged in. Stopped. Waited. Moved a little closer to the brush. Stopped. Moved in...flapflapflapflapflap...and one, then twothree pheasants flushed up from the pile. Gun up, tracking.... HENS....
I must use the same voice intonation with the "hens" yell that I do when I yell "No." The dogs bolted forward, watched, then returned...oddly...to me.
I went down to one knee, then two...and as the dogs came near, I rubbed and praised, and patted, and repeated over and over and over....what great hunters they were and what wonderful dogs they were and how proud Jill was going to be of Citori and what great work they did.
Frankly, I think they got bored in short order.
They went back to hunting the brush piles...then on down the cover to the end of the property. We reversed course, because I did not want them walking along the road, and with what appeared to be equal enthusiasm, hunted their ways back to the car.
That was two days ago.
I had no idea of what the next hunt would bring.
(These stories are journal entries.)
