Those of us who hunt and fish usually have an old timer or two in our past (father, grandfather, uncle) who taught which end of the line to tie a hook to and who and what not to shoot. I have had my share. Two walked on four legs instead of two.
Their names were Boomer and Smokey. They were male Brittanies turned out to pasture by aged owners whose infirmities would not let the latter hunt anymore.
I picked Boomer up in Texas from a fellow who kept him in a cage in the laundry room of his apartment. The only time Boomer got out of it, except during hunting seasons, was a daily tour of the back yard. He was beautifully speckled, accompanied by liver and white splotches of color. He was extremely timid.
Shortly after getting Boomer, we moved to Southern Illinois via a job transfer. By now he was family but I still had not had an opportunity to hunt him. Texas was and is a difficult place to hunt without investing in high priced hunting leases that simply were not in the monthly budget of that time.
As we settled into our new Midwestern surroundings, a neighbor across the street suggested he had a kennel mate for Boomer. That is how Smokey joined the family.
When I took the dogs to a vet for a check up shortly after acquiring Smokey, we discovered he had a serious case of heartworm.
The vet prescribed medication for both dogs to take in their food. He also advised how we should cope with Smokey’s condition. He gave a green light to hunt him but outlined what to look for if it overtaxed him.
If it ever bothered Smokey, he never showed it. In fact, they both hunted eagerly, almost tirelessly, for several more years.
Two years after first adopting Boomer, a bird season was coming that I could actually plan to hunt the dogs. Finally, opening day of quail season in Southern Illinois arrived. Having secured permission to hunt several farms, my anticipation was euphoric and the dogs sensed it.
The two became inseparable in the kennel. They did well during workouts on weekends. Each backed the other and they displayed a genuine sense of affection between them. For two old bachelors, they got along great. From their papers, they were 9 and 10 years old then, Smokey being the eldest.
I did not invite any one else along that first morning. Some of that was pure selfishness since it was the first time I was going to see them in action under a gun. However, I also wanted to avoid embarrassment in front of anyone if they did not work well.
After what actually occurred, I hope they never suspected that last thought of me.
They took off like meteors when turned out in the first field. However, by the time I made it to the middle they had circled it and waited back at the truck.
I, impatiently, whistled them back out. They, patiently, sat right where they were nosing each other with an eye on me.
Looking back, I hear one saying to the other; “We have to be patient. Sometimes these young pups are slow to catch on.”
I trudged back to the truck. They leaped up in the bed, their whole attitude saying, “Let’s go!” It began to sink in. They were telling me, “No birds in that field.”
I was learning.
It was astonishing how quickly they worked a routine out between them. Smokey ranged the farthest, up to several hundred yards out. Boomer seldom got more than 50 to 60 yards away. The exception was when one or the other got into birds. Then they raced to back the other up.
From disciplines previously taught, silent communications worked out between themselves and joy of the hunt evidenced by breeding, theirs’ was a wondrous show to behold.
I never felt the role of “master” - just another member of the crew. And often, when missing for instance, I did not do my job as well as they did theirs.
As they worked, they always kept a close eye on my position and, mostly, worked within my sight. Sometimes, such as in heavy woods, I occasionally lost one for awhile if he came down on birds there. However, either always stood frozen on point until found. Both responded intelligently to hand signals.
Eventually, we three became a well integrated team - after they made me understand what was expected of the two-legged member of the Apack.@
Boomer disappeared in a patch of timber once. Neither Smokey nor I noticed his absence for a short time. When back-tracking to locate Boomer, Smokey raced ahead and beat me to him. I discovered them locked on point. Smokey backed Boomer who stood twisted into a trembling pretzel. He was almost laying down from holding his north end bent back to his south while maintaining a steady point for so long.
Apparently, he got slightly past the bird before nailing the scent’s final location. He stood frozen in the midst of some heavy ground cover unique to the area. It grew low and dense with a tight green leafy cover – about boot-top high.
I eased past Smokey inching towards Boomer. When within mere feet of him and still no bird, I remember saying, “Boomer, are you lying to me?”
Meek timid Boomer, without moving a fraction of his body, rolled his eyes up to mine in horrified disbelief. Then, he concentrated in front of my feet. Ever so cautiously, he eased forward a step.
A quail immediately shot upwards physically striking me with a wing as it exploded past my right shoulder. I don’t remember getting a shot off. It wasn’t important. I do remember kneeling and hugging Boomer and then Smokey.
What those two “Old Timers” taught this “young pup” about dogs and birds, in that order, is recalled with fond affection. Mental videos struggle to transcend physical absences as they trail birds through the memory banks.
Its bird season again. I’m gonna miss those two guys.