Birds and Dogs: Puppies

Editor's Introduction: In celebration of our upland birds - ruffed grouse and woodcock - and the dogs that accompany the boys and girls of autumn who pursue these birds afield in Au Sable country, we take our annual diversion to give our readers some stories about the other passion that grips those lucky souls who live in this country and bewitches those who visit for renewal and recreation. This year we have only two essays, by father and son: Talking to Dogs by Dick Daane and Puppies (below) by Mark Daane. We hope you enjoy them.

It was a bitter, cold, February Sunday with uncharacteristically dry snow drifting and blowing sideways off the tops of miniature cornices lining the highway and blocking my rear walk. With the wind chill, it was twenty below ice fishing and thirty below skiing.

It was a day I had saved for some sort of expedition with my children. I settled on a two-and-a-half hour drive into the teeth of the storm to "look at" puppies. Only Jackie was gullible enough to go.

The blizzard and nearly impassable roads lengthened the drive by over an hour. Almost without warning, and not soon enough, we were there, seated on the floor of a heated barn surrounded by puppies that were ready to take home.

Miraculously, we escaped with just one, again braved the blizzard, and returned home with a solid white dog with a mottled pink and black nose. ("Don't worry - he'll fleck out and his nose will fill in," said the breeder.)

He was very shortly known as "Jake."

I explained to my understanding spouse that the timing was perfect. We could complete housebreaking Jake at Cavanaugh Lake. By the time we were ready to move into our new house, with new carpeting, Jake would be a civil, kind, obedient, and housebroken pup.

Over the next several months, we painstakingly housebroke Jake. At six months, he was a social, pure white dog with a pink and black mottled nose. ("Don't worry - he'll fleck out and his nose will fill in," said the lying breeder.)

We then moved - and moved, and moved, and moved. At approximately 2 a.m., with boxes labeled "miscellaneous" strewn hither and yon, I figured it was time to introduce Jake to the house.

He shit on the floor.

Oh well, simple puppy mistake.

At 2:30 a.m., I figured it was time to reintroduce Jake to the new house and this time, watch him carefully.

He escaped.

When I located him in the darkened basement, mere seconds later, I could see his white form hovering ghost-like in a squatting position over the freshly carpeted floor and squirting something roughly the consistency of a root beer malt into the fine weave of the Berber carpet.

Maybe next month I will reintroduce him to the house.

Maybe not!

My experience with Jake, coupled with the frightening realization that on our forthcoming hunting outing there will be not one, but seven dogs that can loosely be classified as puppies, gave me cause to reflect.

Wouldn't it have been just as easy to have them spring from the womb, coming when called, knowing the "whoa" command, heeling when asked, and having a healthy respect for new carpeting, shoes, women's undergarments, tiny stuffed animals, and, in my case, a four-year-old's first Barbie doll?

Wouldn't it have been simple to program in a limited vocabulary which, when coupled with the impeccable manners with which they were previously endowed, would not be employed to talk back, but instead would be used to further the handler's enjoyment of the sport, to develop teamwork, to explain the vagaries of scent, and to perhaps share the knowledge that the grouseless patch you just hunted for the third time this season has not actually harbored a bird since sometime in the late 70s.

Thinking about it further, however, I realized that there are rational reasons for puppies:

1. Puppies are good for creative cussing. It is not advisable, and usually not even desirable, to let loose with a string of expletives directed at your spouse. Similar behavior directed toward your children would no doubt lead to years of expensive therapy in their early teens. Swearing at the top of your lungs and foaming at the mouth at an errant golf ball, broken appliances, or a home improvement project gone awry is only initially satisfying. However, carting the *@#!!* to the door by the scruff of the neck, after he had just peed on the floor for the fifteenth time, can be a great stress reliever. And unlike the golf ball or the toaster, the little *@#!!* seems truly sorry that he did whatever he did - at least until he does it again.

2. Puppies are humbling. For those of us who are practically, if not clinically, manic-depressive, there are times when we could use a little humbling, something to bring the elevated ego associated with the manic phase down to earth. It is difficult to take yourself seriously when an animal that you have carefully trained to respond to one simple command, hour after hour, day after day, runs out a hundred yards, looks you in the eye when you confidently say "come," and takes off at top speed toward Toledo.

3. Puppies think you're great. Even those who are not manic-depressive get a little down from time to time. Sometimes things just don't turn out the way we would hope. You have good days, and you have bad days. No matter what you've done, won, lost, forgot, forgiven, said, or not said - or who you've insulted, offended, alienated, supported, or subverted - when you come home, your puppy's ears will be cocked expectantly and the tail wagging at an increasingly furious pace as you approach. Should you deign to scratch him behind the ears, he will become a wiggly, squirmy, licky ball of glee. You then can't help but think to yourself: "Hey, maybe I am alright."

4. Puppies give you hope for the future. Puppies grow fast. When you watch one grow from a hand-sized, helpless, nearly blind little bundle of fur, paws, and ears into a gangly adolescent on point for the very first time, all sorts of emotions come to the fore.

As your puppy slams into a high-style point, relocates, and then stiffens into calendar art, it is easy to mentally substitute a cornered grouse for the grasshopper that is the object of his intensity.

It is possible when watching your puppy run, with feet barely touching the ground, to conjure up years and years of phosphorescent autumns, swift brown birds, and fast friends.

You hope for a good dog, but with a puppy, it is easy to fantasize greatness!

When we arrive at camp this year, there will be several grizzled old veterans (not you, George - I am talking about dogs) who evoke hundreds of fine memories of seasons past. Counterbalanced against this bittersweet glory of the past will be the puppies and the future they represent.

Isn't life grand?

Mark puts out an annual letter to his friends in anticipation of an annual bird hunt called the Fornabai. This is taken from Fornabai 1992. The George in the last paragraph is a member of our board, a retired judge, and a grizzled guide at Rusty's. By some standards, but not mine, he may be old. - Editor. RWOL

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