Birds and Dogs: Natural Born Bird Dog

There are two kinds of hunting: ordinary hunting, and ruffed grouse hunting.

- Aldo Leopold, Sand County Almanac

I was staring out the window at the deep sloppy snow that had caused a temporary, and perhaps permanent, suspension of the December bird season when the telephone rang. It was a new friend, an eclectic amalgamation of ex-Marine and opera buff who had a Harley-Davidson parked in his garage and wore Italian suits to work. We had been talking during a break in a business meeting when he noticed my briar-scratched hands and under his close questioning, I disclosed my grouse hunting addiction. He mentioned that he used to hunt quite a bit, owned a bird gun and boots, and would like to take it up again. I told him I hunted every possible weekend and would call him when I needed company.

A few weekends later, we loaded Jake, my three-year-old setter, and drove north a few hours for a one-day hunt. We hunted for six hours, flew twenty birds, and had twelve productive points. We even killed some grouse. The sun shone all day. Only a few leaves remained on the trees, flashing sunlight and phosphorescence as they flickered in the light wind. No one had stepped in water over the boot tops. In short, it had been a perfect day.

During the drive home, with a mellow, warm weariness that comes with really good hunting on a beautiful day with reasonable dog work, we discussed buying a bird dog. I gave the Daane short course on bird dog acquisition. First, buy a setter of some description. Sure, I am "kennel blind," but it's my short course. Second, look at the parents and, if possible, hunt with the parents. Third, avoid backyard breeding unless the backyard breeder has successfully raised at least two litters of puppies. Next, research the available bloodlines and buy from the bloodline with the characteristics that best suit your hunting style. Some dogs point with more style than others. Some dogs have a strong retrieving instinct, while others could care less. While there are nonconformists within each bloodline, your best chance of meeting your needs is buying a dog with the genetic disposition to do so. If you are buying from a professional breeder, get references, preferably from owners of previous breeding of the same sire and dam. And finally, within reason, spend as much money as is necessary to get the dog that you have decided you want. The bargain dog costs just as much to train and feed and house as a more expensive dog and with luck, you will spend at least ten hunting seasons together.

My new friend was soon calling with news. After a brief exchange of pleasantries, he mentioned he had bought a puppy. An eight-week-old German shorthair, no less! He went on to describe the details of the purchase. This is what I recall. It seems he was watching a public television outdoor show and had seen a German shorthair hunting pheasants on a preserve. It looked like a nice dog and the hunter shot a lot of pheasants. When the credits and ads ran at the conclusion of the show, he learned that a guy with shorthair puppies was going to be at a gun and knife swap meet and flea market the very next Sunday and would be selling the pups for a modest sum. Having located a potential puppy, he now had to broach the subject of dog ownership with his spouse.

I have since met his wife. She is a sweet, even-tempered and generous woman and would never deny her husband anything he truly wanted. However, the sportsman in my friend will not abide a direct request or simple dinner table discussion on the pros and cons of dog ownership. Instead, the purchase of the puppy, now known as "Al," had been accomplished by guile and subterfuge. Tommy, his fourteen-year-old son, was brought in as a co-conspirator and an elaborate scheme was hatched. The plan involved the suggestion of an after church brunch in a nearby town. The route to the restaurant would take them right past the gun and knife show/flea market and a casual suggestion would be made that it might be fun to stop for ten or fifteen minutes and look around. Once inside, they would locate the puppies. Tommy would select one, cuddle it for awhile in front of both parents, and then beg shamelessly to take it home. My friend, the stern father, would say no. According to the plan, his wife would then take Tommy's side and argue for the puppy, at which point my friend would reluctantly capitulate. His wife would be so pleased with herself, she would not question why her husband was in possession of large denomination bills in the precise amount necessary to buy the dog.

When they arrived at the show, there were six puppies in a cardboard box hand-lettered with the words "German shorthair puppies", lest anyone mistake them for beagles. The plan was executed perfectly. A little chocolate colored puppy had new owners. At the end of this near breathless litany, he asked, "What do you think?"

My uncharitable reply was, "I think you've made a terrible mistake."

Over the course of the next several months, I would get the occasional update on Al's progress. I encouraged yard manners early with heavy emphasis on coming when called and the whoa command, the latter being of paramount importance in my mind because I figured that were we to hunt together, he would have to use it frequently to avoid having his dog bust Jake's birds. I also encouraged consideration of a professional to help with training at some point in the future - after all, he had really only hunted over a pointing dog once and had never owned or trained one. He decided he would do it himself and I resigned myself to the loss of another promising hunting buddy. An ill-mannered or underachieving dog is as hard on group dynamics as the talkative, decidedly buxom blonde twenty-year-old date of your recently divorced former next door neighbor at a dinner party thrown to demonstrate that the friendship has a post-divorce future.

Then, in late March, I got a call. It was time to go out and "see what Al will do." Arrangements had been made with a farm lease hunt club in central Michigan and some thirty quail were being released. With Al's able assistance, we were going to go collect them all. Al was under six months old. He had been bought from a cardboard box for-crying-out-loud. I agreed and brought Jake just in case.

The day was of a type I associate with the best spring skiing or early steelhead fishing, but certainly not quail hunting. There were as yet no green buds on the trees with mid-fifties temperatures. Bright sun shown on grass, long dead, its limp, flattened appearance in stark contrast to the air, redolent with a fecund promise of spring. Red-winged blackbirds cackled as the predominant sound in a cacophony of early spring noise. The frost had come out of the ground and muddy tire tracks into the field showed that someone had been there earlier in the day. At least the birds were here.

We left Jake moaning plaintively in his cage in the back of the truck and started down the first fence row. Al, at six months, was painfully skinny, with a short bobbed tail. Being short-haired and not neutered, his bright pink-purple testicles were very much in evidence as he trotted a reasonable distance in front of us.

I was thinking how glad I was that mine didn't look like that when Al stopped. His right foot was raised. His head was down, neck outstretched. We walked in expectantly and, surprise, surprise, a single quail flushed. By design, it was young Tommy's shot and he waited and waited and finally shot. We watched as the bird flew on, apparently hurt, and I was thinking that Tommy had shot too late when the bird fell from the sky stone cold dead. I had been watching the bird and hoping that Tommy would kill it, thinking about boys, first points, first birds and puppies, when I looked back for Al. He was standing rooted in the exact place where he had been originally on point. Steady, I thought: it just can't be. His head was up with the ears cocked forward and he was looking anxiously in the direction of the cattail swamp where the bird had fallen, an improbable distance away. My friend looked confidently down at his puppy and said "fetch." Al launched himself in the direction of the bird and disappeared into the cattails. Moments later, he delivered the quail to hand. This scene repeated itself over and over. This was not a fluke! This was a really good dog.

Last fall, we hunted together on a number of occasions. Al continues to do extraordinarily well. Although I find it mildly annoying that the contrarian approach to my well-intentioned advice has once again yielded such favorable results, I have actually come to appreciate his gait and style. I even tolerate the fact that he is not white with long hair and a feathered tail. While I can't speak for the rest of the breed, there is no doubt that this dog was a fast starter and that where he was at six months of age would be enviable for a dog in its prime. Thank goodness that during the season, in addition to his near flawless bird work, he distinguished himself with a close encounter with a skunk in the first fifteen minutes of the bird season, developed a penchant for fence jumping in pursuit of canine company, and in December disappeared over the horizon on the heels of a really good whitetail buck, baying enthusiastically. Perhaps skunks and deer are why they call German shorthair pointers one of the "versatile" breeds. My friend said that he reckoned he could fix all of the above and I don't doubt for a minute he will.

Despite all odds, Al's a natural born bird dog.

RWOL

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