Kismet
UPH Guru
(from journal entries)
I don' wanna talk 'bout it.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Out at dawn. Sub freezing weather. Gusty winds. Cold. Twenty gauge AYA sxs.
sigh.
Went to the bog land.
YB thought it was a wonderful idea.
Started to see glimpses of sun for the first time in a few days.
Trudged. Trudged some more. Muck, mire, bouncy dog; more muck, mire, bouncy dog.
In some semi-solid ground, junk "weed trees" grow densely. YB and I were walking past it when his head turned to the left at a 90 degree angle and he stopped moving...stopped breathing...stopped everydamnedthing. SOLID point. (If you've never watched a bird dog lock up, your life has an empty spot. Not just pictures, but the real thing, watching the transition from pure energy to pure focus is astounding.)
I edged around in front of him so I was ahead of his point and just outside the weed trees. I couldn't move in because of the trees.
I encouragedd YB to go in. He was deaf. He was a statue. (Did I mention not breathing?) I got a little louder in my encouragement. Nothing. I could have tipped him over and he would not have moved.
I edged closer, trying to gauge the space available so I could swing the shotgun. Closer, stamping and snapping twigs to make noise. Nothing.
Then, a burst of flapping, and a movement (low) through the tree-things. No cackle (which is the usual response of a rooster flushing.) I watched closely, and YES, it was a rooster!
It was a rooster that didn't believe in getting high enough in the air to have a clean shot. It went straight away, flying like a grouse through the trees. I didn't shoot.
YB took off like a bat out of hell after the bird, splashing muck water and crashing through weeds and fallen branches, disappearing from sight. Beyond the trees is an open grassy field, the bird and YB disappeared in that direction.
I heard yelping, like YB had been distracted by a cat or raccoon or something furred. Then nothing. I waited, hell, it was a classic point...as beautiful as I could want, and I was out "hunting," not necessarily "shooting."
I found semi-solid ground and waited. In a few minutes I heard the collar bells of that idiot dog coming back my way. I got up and trudged towards the more solid ground near the stream that meanders through the bog.
Sat down and waited. Smiling at the point, the nearly bright sun, and the shelter from the wind...a nice morning.
Then....
Young Bert, the not-right dog, trotted up to me and delivered a rooster pheasant to my hand.
and...
Another time:
YB and I went out in the cruel wind today, with temps in the mid-20s and wind pretty steady from the south-west. I'm being as scrupulous as I can be about letting him hunt with me without doing further damage to his rear left leg, while still enjoying, and savoring, his hunting enthusiasm and skill.
Two days ago, I had taken Mick out to Yellowstone state park on the bar-O grounds. We hunted for two hours, finding nothing but a gut pile. But Mick was hunting, not just roaming, so I figure each outing is a lesson for him. I've always believed that good hunting dogs teach themselves, while the humans just work on basic commands and restrictions. It would have been nice to have him find a bird to work, however, no joy.
But YB is the hunter in the house, and not letting him go with me seems like infidelity. He lives for it, and his joy is contagious. I restrict him to the occasional hunt around the property with me.
We went below the house, working the brush edging the fields and the lowland. My theory was that any birds that were around would be trying to get out of the wind. I may have been influenced by my own preference to be out of the wind.
With the swirling winds, fresh snow, and iced, but not frozen, puddles, it was not the stuff of a sportsman's video. Bert enthusiastically worked the high grass, stalky dead weeds, and rocky rises and trees. He swung back behind me as we entered the lower land, dense with muck puddles, wetland ground, and occasional solid bits of ground.
He got interested and I approached him. He worked a path about 15-25 feet long, going back and forth, then essaying out into denser weeds, then back. I walked in the high growth, trying to see where his interest lay and still keep my eyes open for a bird flushing further away from us. A pheasant either had recently been there, or was still around, walking through passages, trying to avoid contact.
Bert and I struggled back and forth in what seemed to be a pheasant corridor, and eventually moved on towards the lee of the rocky bluff. He was intense, and locked up in that astonishing stillness of total concentration. I edged in, he moved, but stopped. I took one more step into the brush. He canted his head slightly to the right. I still saw nothing, but obviously the walking pheasant was moving out and up towards the verge of brush to junk trees, growing in the shelter of the bluff.
Bert was vibrating with stillness...an odd, but accurate, description of his intensity on point. I moved in two quick steps, and up went the young rooster...launching up to a break in the trees and to the high ground. Had I been looking forward, I would not have gotten the shotgun up in time. As it was, I caught the bird just as it was silhouetted against the sky and dropped it.
Bert charged up the hill...really no other way to describe his enthusiasm to get that bird now!
He brought it back to me, dropped it and then and mouthed it, and kept on intruding as I field dressed it and gave him his due share--heart and liver of pheasant.
It was cold and darkening. We'd gotten more than I expected, and the walk home was easier than the trip out. Of course, YB hunted our way back.
A good day.
and then...it had to happen...
On another day, November of 2010...
Young Bert, the not-right dog, was put down today after suffering seizures. We'd just come back from a dawn walk along the crik, looking for wood ducks. He'd waded in and immediately started searching for a muskrat he was SURE was there. He tried to chase a barn cat he saw, but I called him off. When we got to the house, he collapsed and began what was to be a series of seizures. Vet had to be called.
He was eleven and one half years old.
I am a very lucky man.
I don' wanna talk 'bout it.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Out at dawn. Sub freezing weather. Gusty winds. Cold. Twenty gauge AYA sxs.
sigh.
Went to the bog land.
YB thought it was a wonderful idea.
Started to see glimpses of sun for the first time in a few days.
Trudged. Trudged some more. Muck, mire, bouncy dog; more muck, mire, bouncy dog.
In some semi-solid ground, junk "weed trees" grow densely. YB and I were walking past it when his head turned to the left at a 90 degree angle and he stopped moving...stopped breathing...stopped everydamnedthing. SOLID point. (If you've never watched a bird dog lock up, your life has an empty spot. Not just pictures, but the real thing, watching the transition from pure energy to pure focus is astounding.)
I edged around in front of him so I was ahead of his point and just outside the weed trees. I couldn't move in because of the trees.
I encouragedd YB to go in. He was deaf. He was a statue. (Did I mention not breathing?) I got a little louder in my encouragement. Nothing. I could have tipped him over and he would not have moved.
I edged closer, trying to gauge the space available so I could swing the shotgun. Closer, stamping and snapping twigs to make noise. Nothing.
Then, a burst of flapping, and a movement (low) through the tree-things. No cackle (which is the usual response of a rooster flushing.) I watched closely, and YES, it was a rooster!
It was a rooster that didn't believe in getting high enough in the air to have a clean shot. It went straight away, flying like a grouse through the trees. I didn't shoot.
YB took off like a bat out of hell after the bird, splashing muck water and crashing through weeds and fallen branches, disappearing from sight. Beyond the trees is an open grassy field, the bird and YB disappeared in that direction.
I heard yelping, like YB had been distracted by a cat or raccoon or something furred. Then nothing. I waited, hell, it was a classic point...as beautiful as I could want, and I was out "hunting," not necessarily "shooting."
I found semi-solid ground and waited. In a few minutes I heard the collar bells of that idiot dog coming back my way. I got up and trudged towards the more solid ground near the stream that meanders through the bog.
Sat down and waited. Smiling at the point, the nearly bright sun, and the shelter from the wind...a nice morning.
Then....
Young Bert, the not-right dog, trotted up to me and delivered a rooster pheasant to my hand.
and...
Another time:
YB and I went out in the cruel wind today, with temps in the mid-20s and wind pretty steady from the south-west. I'm being as scrupulous as I can be about letting him hunt with me without doing further damage to his rear left leg, while still enjoying, and savoring, his hunting enthusiasm and skill.
Two days ago, I had taken Mick out to Yellowstone state park on the bar-O grounds. We hunted for two hours, finding nothing but a gut pile. But Mick was hunting, not just roaming, so I figure each outing is a lesson for him. I've always believed that good hunting dogs teach themselves, while the humans just work on basic commands and restrictions. It would have been nice to have him find a bird to work, however, no joy.
But YB is the hunter in the house, and not letting him go with me seems like infidelity. He lives for it, and his joy is contagious. I restrict him to the occasional hunt around the property with me.
We went below the house, working the brush edging the fields and the lowland. My theory was that any birds that were around would be trying to get out of the wind. I may have been influenced by my own preference to be out of the wind.
With the swirling winds, fresh snow, and iced, but not frozen, puddles, it was not the stuff of a sportsman's video. Bert enthusiastically worked the high grass, stalky dead weeds, and rocky rises and trees. He swung back behind me as we entered the lower land, dense with muck puddles, wetland ground, and occasional solid bits of ground.
He got interested and I approached him. He worked a path about 15-25 feet long, going back and forth, then essaying out into denser weeds, then back. I walked in the high growth, trying to see where his interest lay and still keep my eyes open for a bird flushing further away from us. A pheasant either had recently been there, or was still around, walking through passages, trying to avoid contact.
Bert and I struggled back and forth in what seemed to be a pheasant corridor, and eventually moved on towards the lee of the rocky bluff. He was intense, and locked up in that astonishing stillness of total concentration. I edged in, he moved, but stopped. I took one more step into the brush. He canted his head slightly to the right. I still saw nothing, but obviously the walking pheasant was moving out and up towards the verge of brush to junk trees, growing in the shelter of the bluff.
Bert was vibrating with stillness...an odd, but accurate, description of his intensity on point. I moved in two quick steps, and up went the young rooster...launching up to a break in the trees and to the high ground. Had I been looking forward, I would not have gotten the shotgun up in time. As it was, I caught the bird just as it was silhouetted against the sky and dropped it.
Bert charged up the hill...really no other way to describe his enthusiasm to get that bird now!
He brought it back to me, dropped it and then and mouthed it, and kept on intruding as I field dressed it and gave him his due share--heart and liver of pheasant.
It was cold and darkening. We'd gotten more than I expected, and the walk home was easier than the trip out. Of course, YB hunted our way back.
A good day.
and then...it had to happen...
On another day, November of 2010...
Young Bert, the not-right dog, was put down today after suffering seizures. We'd just come back from a dawn walk along the crik, looking for wood ducks. He'd waded in and immediately started searching for a muskrat he was SURE was there. He tried to chase a barn cat he saw, but I called him off. When we got to the house, he collapsed and began what was to be a series of seizures. Vet had to be called.
He was eleven and one half years old.
I am a very lucky man.
