Birds and Dogs: Talking to Dogs

Anybody who has ever attempted to train a dog has likely reached the point of wistfully wondering what it would be like to actually converse with the critter. In American!

This thought occurred recently while I was plucking a December grouse that my youngest setter had fanged where it fell. "Hard-mouthed" is the euphemism. It's not that her birds are inedible; it's just that they would look so much nicer on the serving platter if she hadn't felt obligated to be sure they were dead.

I always hope that either I or her male brace-mate reach the downed birds first; he doesn't retrieve well either but he will carry a cripple around for a long time without killing it or breaking its skin. Carrying it to me is another matter, but we are working on it.

Oh, to be able to simply say, "pick it up gently and bring it to me," and be understood!

Two-way communication would be even better; "How do you expect me to find a bird if you insist that I hunt dead where it fell though I know it hit the ground running?" Or, "Snow screws up my nose some so I have to be more cautious and I can't point the birds as tightly."

But enough of anthropomorphic maundering; we can talk to dogs but it is best done in monosyllables. And dogs do communicate with us in a variety of vocal and other ways, mostly pretty effective. Who could fail to understand the body language which attends loading the gear, especially a gun case, into the truck? I get almost the same response from simply putting on a blaze orange shirt, which makes me think dogs are not color blind like deer are supposed to be. Maybe orange just smells different. Who knows?

My old superstar, Jack, even as a puppy, used to stand by the truck barking impatiently while the hunters put on vests, loaded guns, etc.; he wouldn't start without us but he was clearly anxious to start. Jack's mother, Sam, if she hadn't seen the result of a shot, would expectantly await my explanation, either "dead bird" or "missed him, Sam." The latter always provoked a derisive snort before she went on about our business. Jack once pointed a woodcock that apparently wandered in front of him while he was squatting to relieve himself; his posture remained unchanged but not the expression on his face.

Around the house, bird dogs can be equally expressive. Harley always sits in the same place on the basement stairs when I'm headed there because she knows I will sit next to her for a short squeeze and when I stand, she tugs a "don't go" on my sleeve. Two has learned that it is not necessary to slink from the room when I yell at some televised misadventure of the Wolverine basketball team; instead he rests his head on my knee looking soulfully for a way to exorcise the demons that seem to have invaded the boss.

Afield, the ultimate form of communication for hunting dogs is, of course, the thing they do when they approach or find the quarry. Beagles, otherwise enigmatic (at least in my limited experience), give tongue. Springers, Labs, and other flushing breeds get "birdy." So do the pointing breeds, the epitome of birdyness being, of course, the point itself. They could scarcely be more effective communicators if they had microphones. Most TV anchors should be so good!

However, there is the occasional false point. What's going on there? Did a grouse sneak away? If so, why can't we pursue successfully more often? Jack and Train had a system for circling running birds, but I've not seen that talent in my current generation of setters (which, of course, does not have as many birds to learn with). Wouldn't it be great to be able to ask what happened when a staunch point proved empty?

"Well, if you weren't so slow afoot, you would have found me over here before the bird left; I've been standing here waiting for ten minutes!"

"Wait a minute, Fido, if you'd tighten up your range to something on this side of the horizon, I wouldn't have to be a track star to be on time!"

"Oh, right. If I pottered around in front of you, we'd never find anything but song birds."

I dunno, maybe it wouldn't be so great after all.

Not that we have a choice, but best we leave well enough alone. Why exchange a unique and wonderful kind of language for the explicit kind that likely as not would be a lot less satisfying?

Upon reflection, it is precisely because we cannot speak the same language fluently that it is so gratifying when we and our dogs do succeed in communicating with each other. If that communication were too easy, it wouldn't be half as much fun.

As it is, we talk, they wag, we communicate! What could be better?

RWOL

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