Birds and Dogs: Too's Tale

For me, the life and death of a dog is a calendar of time passing.

- Guy de la Valdene, For a Handful of Feathers (1995)

Sometimes it takes too long to make a bird dog. Ham's Blackjack Too was like that.

He was Ham Schirmer's pick-of-the-litter, which I inherited as an extravagant reward for my very modest role in Ham's acquisition of the sire. He was a beautifully marked tri-colored setter with a symmetrical face and a black spot at the base of his tail, just like the one worn by Blackjack I, who had died at age thirteen, a couple of months before Too was whelped. Jack was Too's granduncle, if there is such a thing, and the family resemblance was what named him.

Too came home to live with Nighttrain, then nine and still at the top of his game. Train had become an alpha dog as a puppy when he moved in with Jack, who was older and bigger, and Too proved to be no challenge; he was in a word, cowed. He reacted in various ways, all bad.

He decided to see the world on his own terms, which meant multiple urban lost dog excursions. He and Train had pitched battles for the affections of Ralphie, a female who precociously came in heat about five months of age. Several repairs and alterations to the house and grounds (and to the dogs' cojones) resulted.

He developed an insatiable appetite for deer-chasing, another trait which could well have killed him. He would disappear for hours and show up when I was going about the forlorn business of leaving notes on cabin doors. Once, driving between cabins, I found him in the rear view mirror trying to atone by catching up with my truck.

But the worst deer dust-up happened one November 15, the firearms deer opener. Too was by then about two years old and in the charge of a trainer who lost him to a deer-chase and a gauntlet of gunfire, all of which culminated when Too and his six-point quarry squared off face-to-face. The buck actually tossed Too over its back, fortunately without wounding the dog. According to the trainer, the only witness to these events, Too showed the buck a bit more respect after being briefly airborne, but he did not break off the attack. The fight ended when the trainer killed the deer.

Too's unfortunate deer addiction ended, finally, as the result of electroshock therapy. I set him up. My friend, George, feeds deer at Devil's Elbow on the Mainstream, and when several of his regulars were having dinner, we let Too out of the other side of the house. I waited in ambush. Too approached the deer at roughly the speed of sound and I hit the full voltage button. Too did a 180 and sought refuge in the truck. When the experiment was repeated twenty-four hours later, Too pretended the critters were not there and no deer voltage was necessary, then or since.

There was also the time we went to Iowa for a three-day pheasant hunt. The first day was OK but, apparently realizing we had only two days remaining, Too (and Harley also) decided to see the entire state before we left. The electric collar malfunctioned at the worst possible time and, weary of watching white blurs disappear over the horizon, I abbreviated the journey and plodded back to Michigan and the proverbial drawing board.

During most of the first three years or so which I have just highlighted (or lowlighted), Too's performance on birds was, to put it charitably, spotty. Oh, he'd find them, but often so far away that the birds would fly before I found Too, or on the other hand, he would hold them until he judged I was close enough and then he would bust them, often out of range (or even view). His early-on pointing style was mostly the low-pump-handle-tail look which you never see in Gun Dog.

The trainer said "get rid of him," and I almost did. But the Woman I Live With said no! We'd had some good days afield with Too and he'd mellowed out some at home as Train aged; so with Too becoming more tolerable we persisted.

And then one of life's bittersweet things happened; as Train declined and became unable to hunt (or even to bully Too convincingly), Too gained confidence, poise, and, amazingly, style. He began to point proudly and staunchly, his range improved, he backed, he became tractable. He had always been handsome and when he and Harley (who has been a high-style dog from puppyhood) went on point together it was pure calendar art.

Too is now six. The last two bird seasons, after Train died, were his best. Both he and Harley are thoroughly civilized, both at home and afield. They hunt well together and are, if anything, too affectionate and gregarious at home.

So it is time to shatter the serenity! Next time Harley's in heat, we will breed her, keep a pup and pandemonium will return.

RWOL

[Top] [Home]