Remembering Ruff

We buried Ruff along with the wings from his last grouse and woodcock near where Glade rests in mid-November of 1995. We had to use our 4x4 to get to this special place in the midst of a snow storm. If a bird dog and bird hunter had druthers and the last flush is only a memory, any time after October would be acceptable. I was thankful to be able to share that last season with him.

Ruff was never able to handle grouse like Glade did. Few dogs could. With grouse numbers down, he never got the necessary experience to become a superior grouse dog. However, Ruff was a very fine woodcock dog and most importantly, he was my dog.

Ruff entered our lives in mid-June of 1983. The training that summer was great fun for family and dog, and we found it easy to get him pointing.

I was fortunate to bring down the first grouse he pointed in late September. I couldn't know that his first woodcock point would be repeated 547 times. I also didn't know that he would develop the delightful habit of circling his birds.

With depressed bird populations, his circling extended the aura of a point. I regret never recording him on video circling a grouse or woodcock, and once mentioned to Partner how special it would be to have a video of both Glade and Ruff working birds. Partner paused for a moment and then replied, "It would make us cry."

The sequence of events associated with the hundreds of times he circled birds is forever etched in my mind. Here is how I remember it. He would first be casting off to one side. As I approached, he would keep circling after a wary glance in my direction. At times he stopped at the three or nine o'clock position and point. This was never good enough for him. He then continued circling--often for as many as twenty-five times--and when he finally locked up he would always be directly across from me giving me the best approach for a shot.

A late afternoon in early October of 1986 stands out in my mind. My log book tells me that two days of stiff south winds and low pressure preceded that unforgettable hunt. My hopes ran high for some migrating woodcock to be stacked up, waiting for a clear night and a favorable tailwind. The hunch was right; we moved forty-three woodcock in a little over two hours.

It was one of the few times I attempted to kill a limit of woodcock. When you hunt by yourself, it is rare to even have five consecutive, unobstructed opportunities for shots. After going three for three, I decided to try five for five. Number four came according to plan. When Ruff pointed what I hoped would be number five, I felt like a basketball player on the free throw line--down two points and facing a one and one with no time left on the clock.

There is an indescribable certainty a player feels when the ball leaves his hand on a shot that is going down. I had that feeling as I swung on the woodcock. My ounce of 8's only severed a balsam as the woodcock continued his journey south.

Ruff circled four times on number five. With my heart racing, I went in for the shot. It turned out to be difficult and I wasn't certain it was successful. Ruff brought the bird to my hand.

After we rested and admired the arrangement of the subdued browns and grays of the adult male bird, I found that Ruff did not want to leave that covert. It took me a while to convince him it was time to go, and I had to lead him away from it on his leash in the dark.

Dogs seem to have a special sense of urgency to get the most out of life; I think it is only one of many things they can teach us.

I have written before in The Riverwatch about Ruff, about when he was lost and when he almost died when injured by a sharp stick in the woods. A friend once remarked how much Ruff went through in his life, knowing that we hunted from seventy to ninety hours for his first twelve seasons and even managed to get in fifty-seven his last season. He certainly lived his life "on the edge" and I know he enjoyed it that way.

At home, Ruff slept on his own dog bed in the living room in front of the wood stove. He would often fall asleep in the early evening and be oblivious to us going to bed. During the night I would hear his labored breathing as he left the comfort and warmth of his bed to plod into our bedroom to sleep on his blanket beside me, next to a cold outside wall. Now that's devotion.

Ruff never had a bird shot over him that he didn't point until what I feared would be his last season. I shot several for him the last fall that flushed wild. He enjoyed finding downed birds. That last season it hurt to see him fall in his haste to get to a bird. He also had to be helped over obstacles many times. It's been over a year and I still haven't recovered from having to put him down. I don't expect I ever will.

George Bird Evans now capitalizes Time in his writings. As Time marches on in its relentless fashion we need to savor each fleeting, precious second--just as Ruff did. Treasure your Time on the stream and the Time you have with your bird dog. It is never enough. RWOL

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