Not just for the birds

Tag: brittany spaniel

  • The Source

    The Source

    There’s a gorgeous but reviled magpie out the window scarfing up birdseed. A Eurasian dove just landed 5 yards away. Peat and Angus are snoozing after today’s opener, dreaming of getting skunked because their idiotic “master” took them to a parched desert landscape to look, duh, in vain, for the first chukar of the season. Crucified arrowleaf balsamroot made me wish I’d installed earplugs before heading out. It doesn’t matter. Robins, blackbirds, more doves, some house finches, a Say’s Phoebe. Leslie has the tummy flu, my Camelback bladder leaked all over the back of the rig, I threw a tantrum, spoiling the excitement and the anticipation. Everything’s relative. Maybe not as bad as a few years ago when we thought we’d “show ’em” by camping in the boat and getting a jump on everyone, only to discover they drop the reservoir level at night, causing us to unload the whole vessel at 3 a.m. so we could get it back on water (this after relocating to a spot that wasn’t occupied by a sow black bear and her two cubs); we woke to the realization I’d forgotten to pack the stove so we could make coffee. Cold water coffee doesn’t begin to approach the “cowboy” style. We love sleeping with our dogs. I wouldn’t have it any other way. It takes a toll on them and us, but it’s worth it, I think.

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    It started out nice
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    The source taking a break
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    Dry as a bone

    Peat met his dad the other day. Angus met his birth facilitators. We’d finally found time to visit Gabe and Katie Mouritsen of Sunburst Brittanys with our two dogs they produced.

    It’s weird to think about the process. You can’t conceive of it in human terms without thinking of kidnapping, or the slave trade, or child trafficking, or maybe prostitution. Thank goodness we’re talking about dogs, though, and the process of purchasing a dog from a breeder is older than dirt so I’d guess it’s not something those involved question much. It works. It’s worked for us rather well. Some things might be better left unthunk.

    Despite the process and its required interactions with Sunburst in obtaining our two treasures, we’d never taken the time to get to know Gabe and Katie. We swung by their new setup in New Plymouth, and they introduced us to their stock. Peat’s mom (Candy) passed in January, but his father, Sioux, was there, and so were lots of new Brittanys they’ve acquired from several places around the country. Despite working full-time, Gabe and Katie have built their program into an impressive operation with new options on pairs coming down the pike. We’re in for another some time but that brings up a painful thought of life without Angus. After all, all this is because of him. He’s the source. He’s why I’m here, we’re here. What can you do with that?

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    Peat meet your pops
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    Next generation
  • Anticipation

    Anticipation

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    We anticipate a lot things.

    The big yellow school bus recently started up its route again driving back and forth on our gravel road twice a day, spewing a cloud of dust behind it. We knew that would happen, just as we knew Bob would be returning to the classroom to teach literature and poetry to rural Idaho High School kids. Days around here are noticeably getting shorter, the air is getting cooler at night, and chukar season starts in a few short days. September 15th to be exact. I always think I’ll have plenty of time to get my body ready, the dogs ready, and to practice shooting, but before you know it it’s time. This approaching season will be my 12th year of chukar hunting. The first ten of those I wasn’t actually carrying a shotgun but instead following Bob and the dogs up and down the mountains and rock outcroppings with my camera in hand, documenting chukar hunting.

    My anticipation for the upcoming season always brings excitement and a tangle of emotions. Thinking about being in the thick of things again to witness first hand and intimately the magic of the dogs working up and down the terrain instinctively and methodically and in perfect harmony thrills me. With that it brings the hope that I’ll anticipate the moment right before the birds bust after a long steady point and be ready for it. I also look forward to the elation often followed by sorrow when my dogs carry in their soft mouths a downed chukar or Hungarian partridge directly to my hand. I have deep respect for these birds that live in these brutally dry western desert environments, and I don’t think of killing one as revenge for the hard work and determination it took me to put myself into the position to possess one. Often, I have to remind myself that these non-native game birds were originally introduced for the sole purpose of being hunted. It doesn’t always convince me to feel better about killing one, but I owe it to the dogs every once in a while to allow them the pleasure and reward of retrieving a bird they worked so hard to find for me. I want to think they understand the praise that soon follows.

    We know our two Brittanys aren’t perfect text book bird dogs and we also aren’t the best trainers. They’ve adapted to our style of hunting and we rely on their pure natural instinct, prey drive, and good breeding to guide them and pray for the cohesion of dog work and gun handling to happen at just the right time. It’s a beautiful thing to see elegant and well-seasoned Angus being backed by young and quick-footed Peat.

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    Tangible gift

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    Perfect harmony

    I’m probably an anomaly in the world of chukar hunting: female for starters, and I’m 55 years old and I didn’t handle a firearm for the first time until last year. I have no doubt this tough and mean country with its steep talus slopes will remind me again that I’m another year older. I’m prepared to have to dig deep and push my body to some uncomfortable extremes. I’m up for the challenge. I love the challenge and I’m not afraid to go out alone by myself again which I did a few times last season.

    The past couple of years, besides thinking about my age creeping up, I’ve dreaded that quite possibly it might be 11-year-old Angus’s last season, not because he can’t physically do it; we know he can. This past couple of weeks while out grouse hunting he’s been covering more ground and ranging farther than Peat, but he’s slowly going deaf and his eyes are starting to look cloudy gray. I worry that one of these days we might lose him on the mountain. The GPS tracker collar that I was dead set against purchasing and using in the first place because I dislike fussing with too many things has now become a reassurance to find a confused and wandering lost dog.

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    The old warrior, Angus

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    Heading up to the clouds

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    Downhill traverse

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    Mouth to hand

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    Rushing to the point

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    Fruits of labor

    Lastly, anticipation for the upcoming season also becomes a moment of reflection from past seasons. It’s those great memories that make us hungry for more. The culture of chukar hunting for us is about the beauty of the unhindered landscapes, the hard ascents up into the clouds, the smells of damp sage, the cold harsh mountain winds that remind us we’re alive, the sound of a covey busting, and for that intimate connection and trust we have with our dogs.

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    Sunny south facing slope reflection

     

     

     

     

     

     

  • Angusing

    Angusing

    Angus

    What is it about our dogs? Or maybe I should speak for myself, and – since he can’t type – Angus. I’m just in a tribute mood, perhaps because we’re in the “holidays,” and I’m feeling grateful for lots of things.

    Angus is at the top of my list. My new job keeps me away from him during the week so I don’t get to spend the same amount of time with him that I used to. He’s 5-1/2 years old, so between halfway and a third of the way through his too-short life, with any luck. Leslie (also at the top of my list) and I don’t have kids, so Angus bears the brunt of our parental feeling. He is spoiled, for sure. But he’s darned well appreciated, too.

    I try not to regret that I didn’t hunt with him until he was three. It’s hard not to because my connection, I should say our connection, has intensified a lot in our three seasons together in the field. Being away from him during the week and only able to hunt weekends, too, has honed my appreciation of him.

    Reading a fellow bird hunter’s blog yesterday also has something to do with this. In a post titled “I Slipped His Collar,” Randy described putting his “go-to” dog down in simple, heartfelt but unsentimental words. From his post it was clear he’d been through this many times. I’ve done it once and dread the next time. And I don’t want it to get easier, and suspect it won’t.

    Glenna and Angus have increased my predisposition toward morbid thoughts, but I came to dogs late in life and am regularly felled by the ineffable and ephemeral connection I feel with them (the dogs, not the thoughts). As I write this, I’m home for the weekend and Angus is bored and playing with his toys. Serial goofiness: rubber ball, shrieking monkey (three of them, in various states of dismemberment), Nylabone, then his chin rests on my knee. He wants to get out, and so do I. It’s these rarer moments of down time together that allow me this reflection and time to wonder if he’s reflecting on anything or just thinking of his next half-cup of kibble, or of nothing at all. Maybe he feels something like comfort having me nearby for a change. I hope so. I know I’m comforted by his presence, even while dreading the end of that.

    We both need to get out and look for some birds.