The air was cool and refreshing, the yard shaded, tiny splashes of sun here and there, lawn wet with gray, misty dew. High white clouds appeared motionless in the pale blue sky, almost hiding a higher half-moon smiling down from the heavens like a ghost peering around a doorjamb. The previous day had surpassed 90 and the new one, Fourth of July, flags and parties everywhere, promised much of the same; a tolerable high-pressure heat, not oppressive, sort of what I remember on the mean streets of Denver, East Colfax Avenue, July-August 1975, then an impulsive kid with more spunk than wisdom.

Anyway, on that weekend morning, before 7, I had already closed the windows and shut the doors to trap in the cool night air and prepare the house for the impending heat. That done, I walked to the backyard, brookside kennel for Lily and Buddy, always eager for their morning romp, the earlier the better. Complicating matters from my perspective on this day were two turkey broods I’d been dealing with for a couple of weeks in a lush, fragrant, knee-high red clover field where I run the dogs. It’s a given that those turkeys will be there early along the edge of a young, tilled, squash and melon field just before the road makes a sharp right and drops down into what I call Sunken Meadow. I have been careful to keep the dogs away from the two hens and 12 poults for fear that the little ones were vulnerable. Experience told me they could fly well enough to escape, but why test it? I’d rather avoid problems that a frisky pair of Springers can deliver.

It was about this time last year at the same site that I had seen a similar brood flush into the tree line overlooking the Green River. They just sat there, all nine of them, a hen and eight little ones, tantalizing Ringo, my old headstrong bird dog. He barked his fool head off, leaping up the trunk of a massive black cherry tree like a coon hound, only springier and more athletic. Funny thing: now Ringy and that cherry tree are both gone: the dog passing just before Christmas; the tree, felled during that microburst, macroburst or whatever it was that devastated my neighborhood a month or so back, now reduced to a pile of cordwood.

With the dogs boxed on my pickup, I turned onto the farm road leading to my destination and I was somewhat surprised that old Ev Hatch wasn’t out early picking away at his staked tomatoes before the heat struck. Must be he decided to take the holiday off, God bless him, still plenty spry at 79. The man deserves a break. Those plants of his are growing tall and strong these days, seem to be adding three inches daily in the summer swelter. Some of the adjacent hayfields have been scalped, equipment parked along the road, but the clover is impressive — tall, dense and, at that time of day, summer-morning saturated.

As I reached the top of a soft dusty rise on the rutty road, hay rake to my right, I scanned the melon-field edge for sign of turkeys. Sure enough, two motionless brown heads and gray-brown necks poking above the clover. The two hens. No doubt the little ones were nearby, just couldn’t see them until even with the tilled field, where they were foraging like furry little footballs through the soft dirt; scratching for worms or grubs or insects, maybe grasshoppers, which they seem to have a special fondness for. I never slowed down as I passed — the hens erect and motionless — just poked along before taking that sharp right-hand corner leading to an open gate to Sunken Meadow, presumably out of harm’s way.

At the base of the gentle slope I spun my rig around, pointed it outward and parked. The low, placid Green River was producing a soft, soothing rattle, percussion for the sweet birdsong emanating from a tangled, rosebush-bordered wetland. God, that meadow is beautiful. Never gets old or boring. Always something new to spark your curiosity, be it a flower or tree, a critter or the fresh scent of something dead and ripe.

I exited the truck and dropped the tailgate, Buddy whining anxiously, nudging the porta-kennel’s metal-grate door with his nose, scratching at it with his left-front paw. He was intense, wanted out badly. I pulled the pin and he flew to the ground like a missile, sprinting south and reaching the back of the field in world-record time. Lily remained calm, standing patiently, watching the incredible Buddy show from inside her elevated perch. When I released her, she calmly hopped down and sauntered 100 feet west to the gnarly rosebush hedgerow. When I switched my attention to Buddy, I saw him quartering the field back toward me, racing, bounding gracefully through high cover, nose high, front legs curled under him to clear the tall grass and wildflowers. He was searching for rabbits or whatever else was filling his moist nostrils under ideal scenting conditions before the sun rose and baked the field dry.

When I returned my attention to Lily, she was out of sight and I gave her a friendly holler. When she didn’t appear, I called a little louder. Still no response. Then, suddenly I heard some sharp “putts” and saw the two mature hen turkeys flying at me, clearing the tree line along the meadow’s elevated western lip. Yep, Lily had found those turkeys, at least 150 yards and up a level from where we were parked. The first hen to clear the tree line separating the two fields landed high in a tall, ancient, hickory tree within 50 yards of me in the middle of the meadow. I have always called hickories like it smooth-bark as opposed to shagbarks. Different cordwood dealers over the years have also referred to the wood as smooth-bark hickory, but that’s the vernacular, not the official name. Curious, I later snipped a stem of seven leaves and Googled it to make a proper identification; most likely bitternut hickory (also called pignut or swamp hickory). The tree I’m referring to is one of only two out in the middle of the field. Can’t say what the other is (something strange), but the bitternut hickory has many offspring, mature and immature, along the perimeter. The one out in the open appears to be the granddaddy of them all. Some others along the edge are large; not as large.

But, let us not digress … back to the turkeys. The second, trailing hen cleared the field hickory and touched down 80 yards behind it in a tall riverside maple. The poults, all 12 of them emitting soft alarm putts, flew into the first tree line their mothers had cleared, the one separating the upper and lower levels, and perched high within 100 feet of each other, observing the scene from safety. I gave Lily a call with the curled stag-horn whistle on my lanyard and, sure enough, she was soon sprinting enthusiastically down the road into Sunken Meadow, covered in mud, 14 turkeys observing from their lofty perches.

I can’t say for certain whether Lily had seen or smelled those turkeys when we drove through, or if she had been chasing something else, maybe a rabbit or squirrel, got to the crest of the hill overlooking Sunken Meadow and caught wind of the birds from there. My guess is the latter, because I think if she had known the flock was in the upper field, she would have sprinted directly to it when released from her crate. Who knows or cares? The event had made for another interesting Sunken-Meadow field trip. It’s one of many reasons I go there daily; that and the tranquility, the symphony of soft flowing water and birdsong. This time I learned about smooth-bark hickories; now even know them by name, will probably absorb more about them in coming weeks.

It makes me wonder what my next Sunken-Meadow lesson will be. Never know. Maybe I’ll focus on that other tree, the weird one  I’ve passed many times without giving it a second look. Not a tree I’m familiar with … yet.

The hayfield was high, the stream low for mid-May as I descended the compacted farm road to a sunken meadow I visit daily with dogs Lily and Buddy, along a placid stretch of the Green River, still, knee-deep flat-water pooling above a sharp S-turn.

I was two-thirds of the way down a short decline to the Christmas-tree field when I heard a duck and spotted a mallard drake flying low along the water. It touched down 100 yards downstream, tantalizing Lily as she stood motionless along the bank, watching. Then the duck again flew when it caught me breaking into the clearing. The irritated green-head elevated high over the tall, streamside softwoods and circled the 10- or 12-acre plot, scolding us from above, eventually drawing Buddy’s attention along the back edge of the field. When he heard the quacking, he looked skyward, saw the duck and sprinted below it back in our direction. He gave up on the airborne duck upon reaching us and proceeded along what has become a familiar route, following a thin riverbank woods line to a small camper and circling back toward the truck along an alder wetland lip framing this quiet slice of Connecticut Valley paradise, songbirds everywhere. Along the loop, Buddy flushed red-winged blackbirds, starlings, robins, you name it, with his joyous, light ballet gait.

As we swung north down the homestretch — Buddy running big, working wide quarters, still flushing everything in his path — I noticed him stop and focus on something, nose high, ears alert. He lowered his head, moved in slowly toward the base of an infant Christmas tree and flushed a mallard hen a foot or two from his snout. Lily, 10 yards behind, noticed the flying duck and tore after it as Buddy watched briefly before sticking his nose into the spot vacated by the duck. Curious, I called him off with “leave it.” He picked up his head, caught Lily sprinting over the washed-out riverbank and promptly followed her, giving me an opportunity to investigate his find. Sure enough, a nest with five large eggs. I skirted the site as the scolding hen and drake circled above, called the dogs and went back to the truck for the return trip home.

On the walk up the road to a closed, galvanized gate, I noticed another mallard drake floating on the flat water above the S-turn. Perhaps he too had contributed to that nest. One never knows.

I guess, now, for a week or so, I’ll have to find another spot to run the dogs. Those eggs will soon become nestlings, and I wouldn’t want to disturb them at the wrong time, before they’ve found river protection. By then, the sunken meadow will be back to normal, providing a secluded natural playground where dogs can romp free and unrestrained, the way it’s meant to be, for bird and beast and man.

With Bessie and Ringo gone to doggie heaven, I was down to one English Springer Spaniel until this week, when a 10-month-old male from fancy breeding came my way through a field-trialer and wing-shooting friend. What sold me on this animal was his pedigree back to 1996 national champion Denalisunflo’s Ring, not to mention many other American and Canadian national champs. But Ring, the sire of my late dog Ringo (grandfather to Bessie), was the clincher. A Roy French champion, he had legendary stamina and spirit.

While I can’t deny this new dog arrived with retrieving “issues,” I’m sure I’ll be able to correct them with a lot of TLC and little pressure. I’ll just make it fun for him to retrieve a tennis ball or stick off the Green River shoreline, then show him the ropes in the field, let Lily be a model for displaying the joys of retrieving from thick, wet tangles. This new new pet comes with the name Buddy, which I’ll keep. I didn’t name Ringo, either. He came registered as “Sunrise Ringo,” then became Ringy, Bingy or Bingo, depending on my mood. The new guy is not registered but responds to Buddy, so why change it? Although still working on it, his name will probably be something like Old Tavern Farm’s Budding Dynamo or Hey Buddy. That works for me. Maybe I’ll even start with the kennel he came from, Poets Seat. We’ll see.

I always greet a new project with enthusiasm and confidence. I can tell already this guy will be easier than old Ringy, who could find, flush and retrieve birds with the best of them, bringing me immense joy along with some minor headaches over 13 years. This new guy looks a lot like Ringy, runs as big but, from first impressions, is more biddable, comes when called and responds well to my stag-horn whistle. I acquired both dogs at a little less than a year old from frustrated trainers, who typically seek easy students and sell the more difficult ones. Capable of being difficult myself, I have empathy for that personality type. Plus, the fact is that the spirited ones with an independent streak often turn out to be superior animals in the long run. We’ll see with Buddy.

This I can say for sure: If he’s half as good as Ringy, he’ll be great. My guess is he’ll be better.

I took my two surviving English Springers on their routine morning run Wednesday, 8:30-ish, to the usual hayfield — a mix of clover, timothy, orchard grass and rye — the shadowed eastern third still frosted brittle. I let Ringy and Lily out and sat in the cab listening to Dennis and Callahan on WEEI.

Well, I wasn’t there for more than a minute or two when I heard one of the dogs jump aggressively onto the truck’s bed. I looked back and, strangely, it was Bingy. Hmmmm? Very unlike ole Bingy to be eager to leave. So, I hopped out of the cab and the dog leaped off the tailgate and ran 35 yards toward the river bank, stopping to look back at me before rearing back a couple of times and bouncing on his front feet like a horse. I called him and he sprinted to my side, seeking affection. I pet him on the breast bone, under his jowls, and he stood motionless, enjoying the attention, before again sprinting down the path toward the steep river bank and repeating his previous horse dance.

Bemused and in a hurry, I called him back, kenneled him and whistled for Lily, she searching about through a melon patch some 100 yards south of me. She lifted her head, spotted me and sprinted across the sunny section of ankle-high hayfield before bounding onto the truck’s bed and straight into her porta-kennel. I fastened the door shut and re-entered my cab.

As I drove homeward toward a couple of hot houses, I was thinking about potential reasons for Bingy’s peculiar behavior. He was clearly asking me for something. I was not sure what. Then it came to me. I have been running them each afternoon in the adjacent sunken meadow, where they seem to enjoy hunting rabbits and whatever other critters lurk in the bordering wetland, not to mention eating green pear apples under three “wild” apple trees at the far end. With a chill in the air and wind in his sails, Old Bingy, a youthful 12, was frisky and wanted to head for that sunken play ground.

His time is near. Soon it’ll be hunting season and we’ll travel to many similar haunts, where that enthusiastic gait will sing the same joyful song it’s sung for more than a decade.

Who would have ever dreamt he’d outlive Bessie?

It should be with euphoria that I greet the dawning of a new bird-hunting season, which opened today for woodcock, Saturday for pheasant and partridge. And, yes, I am looking forward to the exercise, the dogs and wing-shot challenges. But it would have been better with Bessie — that is, Old Tavern Farm’s Brown Bess — a rambunctious, biddable, 2-year-old bitch who wanted to please and would have come into her own this season. The anticipation was intense, the potential immense, and now she is gone, victim of an insidious skin disease that led to euthanasia. A sad ordeal, heart-wrenching, she the product of my other two; the future, swept out from under me like worn soles on a black-ice spill.

What brought on this auto-immune disease called pemphigus foliaceus we will never know, but I have my suspicions. Perfectly healthy and vigorous, a bundle of energy and athleticism for her shots and exam on July 24; then, a month later, a crusty rash, unsuccessful treatment with two antibiotics, a skin biopsy, diagnosis, Oct. 2 (2009) euthanasia. It was a sad, sad song, one I lived every day for two months, helpless as I watched it progress, fearing it would spread to kennel-mates Ringo and Lily, washing my hands again and again after touching her, bathing her, administering oral medication. And when I finally took her to the vet on that final day, the saddest of Fridays, she was still wagging her tail despite significant hair loss that exposed hideous scabs and raw holes which destroyed her beauty. In two months that seemed like five, she went from a stunning animal, something worthy of the national circuit, to a crusty, bloody mess. The meds wouldn’t touch it. Life is strange.

I’m not here to point fingers or gripe about the money lost on a hopeless case. That’s behind me now. But I would like to know what happened. The disease can be caused by a reaction to foods ingested, even seemingly harmless produce like cauliflower or pepper, or by a reaction to medicine.

I’m no doctor or scientist, so I won’t go into a discussion on vaccinations and the potential for side-effects. But I have been told by folks who refuse all vaccinations except rabies, which is mandatory, that their dogs live long healthy lives without immunization against distemper and Lyme. In the future, that’s the route I’m taking. This was the second dog I’ve lost after immunization shots. I was warned on the first one, a dog battling terminal leukemia, and took a chance with little to lose. Had I been warned on this animal — perfectly healthy, vigorous, brilliant, beautiful — I would have gone without. Her affliction may have been a reaction to the shots, maybe something else. I know that. But I have my suspicions, the doctor didn’t dismiss them, and now it’s off my chest.

So it’s on to the marshes, one dog short, the future, my attempted continuation of a special pedigree now lost forever.

I’ll get over it … slowly … very slowly.

Published: Thursday, February 05, 2009

Old Ringo is curled up comfortably behind me, content but beginning to show his age, a poignant realization from a longtime companion. An English Springer Spaniel of royal pedigree, Ringy’s going on 12, still spry but descending t’other side the hill. How can I deny it?

It’s never easy to watch a valued pet’s decline. I’ve watched others grow old, know what’s coming. Can’t avoid it no matter how hard you try. As I observe him in everyday activity, I find myself wondering how it’ll all play out when the time comes. I dread all possibilities short of sprinting toward a felled pheasant and dropping dead. Cause of death: euphoric cardiac arrest. I know it’s a long shot, probably even fantasy; but if I could write the final chapter, that would be it for him or me or anyone I care about. You can’t beat expiration during an activity you love. Few are so fortunate. Too few.

Don’t get me wrong, Bingy is far from death’s door. At least that’s my assessment. He’s eating well and still running with his joyful gait. Not only that, but, he’s an absolute pest these days with Lily in dead heat. He follows my every move, beating me through the crack of any door I open to assure he isn’t left behind. Yeah, I know, his seed didn’t sprout last year, but he’s still more than willing.

Ringy’s nose is still outstanding, his eyes fine, but his ears are going fast. Of course, those who know him best realize listening was never his finest attribute. But that had nothing to do with his ears. Similar to my great-aunt Gladys, ”Antie,” I always believed Ringy heard what he chose to. But now it’s different. He can hear a loud voice at close range and responds well to his Tri-Tronics beeper, but he doesn’t appear to hear the whistle he’s known his whole life. That first became apparent two hunting seasons back when my hunting buddy observed him in the field and told me he didn’t think he heard the whistle. This year it got worse. The whistle became useless for Ringy. But again, there were times when his ears were fine that he ignored it. But this was different. Now he really couldn’t hear it. Not a problem when you have a remote-controlled beeper fastened to his collar. Maybe he hears it, maybe he feels the vibration. Does it really matter? He comes.

So, yeah, Bingy’s getting old and pale, but his will’s still strong. It’s easy to see. He’s slowed down some, even though still in top shape, right around the 42 pounds he’s carried throughout adult life. My guess is that I’ll get another decent year in the field out of him, maybe more, but you never know when an animal gets to his age. That’s why I took precautions two years ago and bred him to Lily to carry his line forward. With Lily pushing 5 and Bessie pushing 2 behind him, he won’t ever again need to pull the heaviest load. In fact, he didn’t this year, when Lily surpassed him as my top gun dog. Bessie will be as good, maybe better, as Ringy’s sun slips behind the western horizon.

But, like I said before, I’m hoping he doesn’t fade away. I don’t want to endure him breaking down and getting sick before my eyes, necessitating that dreadful trip to Doc Schmitt’s, never a pleasant chore. But when you think about it, isn’t that lethal veterinary dose administered on a cold stainless-steel table a better option than most of us ever get?

To me, yes.

If you want to find out where you stand physically, try following two enthusiastic English Springer Spaniels through dense, wet, tangled cover for the first few days of the pheasant season. It’ll put you in you place fast if you’ve made your living sitting behind a desk for any length of time. So I guess it’s a fact that crippled office rats who refuse the health club can’t hunt forever. They just think they can.

I know, I’m one of them — north of a half-century and feeling like the plump warhorse I am, fatigued, groins aching and wondering when the day will arrive when I won’t be up to the task. Something tells me that day will come, or at least I’ll have to change my style, but please allow my denial to last a little longer. I prefer it that way, regardless of the messages my body is transmitting.

Thank God I finally gave in and strapped a knee brace on my scarred, mangled left knee, the one that’s been painfully operating just fine, thank you, since May 1976, when the ACL snapped never to be repaired. Yup, that’s right, 29 years worth of loose abuse, and still plugging. I can only imagine the pain that would be emanating from that joint was I not lining it up properly with the brace to limit the bone-on-bone grinding. It’s a sound you hope you never hear, and one I’ve learned to live with for nearly three decades.

So I guess that’s the good news: the brace seems to be working fine, and the knee’s feeling better than it has during Octobers of the recent past. Now it’s my quads, groins, hamstrings and lower back that are killing me as I sit here pecking at this noisy keyboard, trying to pen a column with a tired brain.

Oh, I’ll be back out there tomorrow, sleep-deprived, pushing my body to its reduced limits. You can bet on that. You only get six weeks to hunt birds, so you can’t step into it gently. No sir, it’s full speed ahead. But I am for the first time cognizant that the day will come when even stubborn willpower will not be enough to outweigh the pains of aching wheels.

I suppose the primary problem is that Springers were created to slither through, burrow under and bound over the most unforgiving cover, which cannot be said for aging two-legged creatures, particularly ones who’ve abused their bodies on the field of play. Sure, it was great upending a second baseman with a take-out slide or lowering your shoulder to punish a tackler or drop a punishing runner, but there’s a price to pay for the nicks incurred from such violent behavior, and now it’s time for me to pay the bill. At least that’s how I look at it. No denial, no regrets. It is what it is.

Perhaps, for the first time in my life, I’ll have to give in and change my style. You know, slow it down a bit, maybe even purchase a pointer and make the transition to a gentleman hunter during my gray years. But how can I do that with a year-old Springer bitch that has seven or eight good years ahead of her? It just wouldn’t be fair, would it? And besides, it’s that steady, sometimes furious chase behind a flush-and-retrieve dynamo that pushes my buttons and calls me to the covert daily. The chase is more challenging, and so are the wing shots.

But still, I may be approaching a familiar crossroads. What I’m going through today brings me back some 30 years, to my days on the baseball diamond. I can vividly recall stopping at a local watering hole on my way home from a game back then and bumping into old high school teammates or foes in their finest teasing mode. They were slo-pitch heroes, and they’d have a half-hour head start on me sitting at the bar. The ribbing would begin soon after I walked through the door and ordered a beverage.

“Hey Bags, when you gonna give up baseball and play a man’s game,” they’d bellow. But the playful banter didn’t bother me. “It won’t be long,” I’d reply. “As soon as my legs can’t handle the big diamond.”

And, sure enough, I was a man of my word. Sporting a noticeable limp, I moved to the smaller diamond with the bigger ball at around 30 and proceeded to delay adulthood another 10 years. To be sure, it was a different game — slower, more mistakes — but there were still four bases, a mound and a bench, and the dugout camaraderie was worth every hour of commitment. Couldn’t give it up, especially when I discovered the semi-fast alternative. Fastballs, changeups, knucklers, risers — as close as you could get to the real thing.

Now, with that activity 12 years in my rearview, all that’s left for me is the exhilarating flush-and-retrieve game. The adrenaline flows as you challenge yourself to follow a better animal than you on a chase through thorn-laced cover — stumbling over hummocks, pulling your feet through snaring swamp grass, and bulling through bittersweet vines on the way to a flush. Then, when you hear the flush, you step toward the sound, locate the fleeing bird, point, swing and fire to drop it from the sky.

Maybe as my legs grow older, my eyes weaker, my back and shoulders stiffer, the success rate will diminish. Perhaps my endurance will diminish, shortening the typical hunt. But somehow I don’t believe those humbling issues could ruin a good day afield.

Sometimes a story changes abruptly and forces a ”touch-up” like this one did late Tuesday afternoon.

It was supposed to be a tale about a lean and leggy four-month-old pup’s first pheasant hunt, the trials and tribulations of a mere baby trying to learn a new game while figuring out how to maneuver through dense, thorny cover. I felt comfortable I had it pegged Sunday after composing my first draft during dead time leading up to the big Patriots game in Dallas. Then I improved it with ”finishing touches” Monday morning before my Day 2 hunt. But like I said before, stuff happens and stories change, sometimes in such a way that necessitates deadline doctoring, much to the chagrin of the scribe. But let’s just say I got through this one.

So let’s begin at midmorning Saturday, a cool opening day with a rich blue sky lit by a bright autumn sun, sparse, white billowy clouds wafting in the easterly breeze cooling my face. The 60-acre wetland with my bloodlines flowing through it displayed muted reds and blotchy yellows, dirty greens and browns typical of a pre-frost Pioneer Valley marsh.

It wasn’t going to be a strenuous hunt, just a gentle walk-through mostly for the dogs’ benefit. I always prefer to sit out the hectic opener, avoiding the maddening crowds and wild frenzy to beat the other guy to your favorite alder row, brook’s edge or small cattail depression. I’d rather wait a couple days and clean up what’s left after the opening-day craziness subsides: dogs everywhere, owners hollering, whistling, screaming at the top of their lungs; a freakin’ madhouse I’d rather skip. But there I was after the daybreak rush airing out three energetic springer spaniels at about the same time I always run them. Two of the dogs knew it was not going to be their basic daily run as soon as they saw my khaki-brown Filson bibs and vest and the hard-plastic gun case carrying the sweet 16 side-by-side whose roar they’ve grown to adore. As for the third little beast, daughter Brown Bess, it was her first hunt, hopefully, the first of many.

Bess was no stranger to thick cover, running water, vines and thorns, having previously tiptoed into all of the above during daily walks. But this was going to be different and I knew it. She’d feel the increased enthusiasm of her mates, their heightened sense of purpose, and she’d soon share their commitment to finding and flushing game birds, launching airborne off her back legs after a furious chase and close flush. But that day she was just getting her feet wet, literally and figuratively, and I was interested in observing her introduction to the activity I bred her for.

I intended to put no pressure on Little Bessie, who I expected to be diffident the first time out, hanging tight at my feet, standing up occasionally, front paws placed softly on my midsection, a bit intimidated by the consuming cover she will eventually worship. But on her first day, she’d just be a tagalong — all eyes, ears and nose, especially the latter, scent being her most dominant sense. Just going along for the joyous ride; freewheeling, no pressure, that was our mission; exercise and education.

We weren’t in the field 10 minutes before our first crisis arose. A friend was already hunting there and we bumped into him along a tree-lined ditch. He was searching with two inexperienced female springers, relatives of my animals, for a wild flush and landing he had marked. He wanted my experienced 10-year-old male Ringo’s help to see if he could put it all together.

When Ringy and Lily heard us discussing the plan, they went to my friend, whom they know, and one of his young dogs got nervous, emitting unsettling, high-pitched yelps that stopped Bess in her tracks. Sensing danger she froze, reluctant to approach the threatening sound, and remained cautious for several minutes before gingerly approaching me and mother Lily. After timidly approaching, eventually touching noses with the two strange dogs and realizing they were friendly, she dropped her guard and the youthful, carefree bounce returned to her step. … Onward ho.

It will take many days in the field for the little one to gain her full confidence, to know when to burrow and when to bound; how to quarter and how to circle and cut off a runner. Slicing through sparse ragweed cover is easy, comes naturally in fact, and so does the bounding, but that’ll arrive with confidence built over time. Early-on a young bird dog will slither through the golden rod effortlessly and get hung up in the thick tangles. Bessie was no different. I’d seen her on our daily walks trying to follow her parents into jumbled masses, poking in her head and shoulders, giving up and backing out. And a young dog will continue to negotiate the densest cover like that until they trail a game bird aggressively into it, in the process learning to tunnel through and bound over the most impenetrable stuff. That’s when they become brush-busters, which I knew was way too much to ask on Day 1. I was happy just letting her find her courage as a tagalong, like watching a toddler who’s recently learned to walk trying to run through a scalped hilltown hayfield. Such foot-free children will lose their balance and fall many times before gaining the agility and balance to stay upright through the tilted contours. The key is to keep them smiling through their mistakes; at least that’s my theory, one some will differ with but has always worked for me.

In a little over an hour that first day Little Bessie got to hear the cackles of two flushing roosters, the whistling flush of a hen, and even got to witness a retrieve, a lot for a young dog to absorb. It’ll be repeated many times by the end of the short season, when she’ll know the game much better and will probably have at least flushed birds. If I leave her parents home for one-on-one with the little lady, we may even see some flushes and retrieves, but there’s really no pressure to force the issue. It’ll all fall into place sooner rather than later. Bess was bred to hunt and her instincts will lead her gracefully and joyfully to game birds — a sight to behold minus her youthful inhibitions.

That’s where the story was supposed to end until late Tuesday afternoon, by which time I wasn’t certain how much Little Bessie had learned in three short days afield. But what unfolded in my back yard demonstrated that indeed she had been paying attention, albeit in a cavalier manner.

She had observed a lot, including retrieves, wanting a piece of the action when her parents returned, limp bird dangling out both sides of their mouths. But she hadn’t yet independently hunted for any length of time, choosing instead to stay within sight of me, often right at my feet, and that hadn’t changed by Tuesday, at least not in the punishing coverts. The same could not be said for my back yard, though, which was an entirely different story. It was there at my cook-shed feeding station, that she recited her first lessons learned.

Having filled the three dogs’ dishes to the brim with Iams after a long, hot day afield, I was on my way to the kennel when, right at its doorway, Bessie froze on full alert then burst into a sprint over a stonewall and into my neighbor’s garden like a streak. It happened so fast that I wasn’t aware of what was occurring until I heard the flapping and cackling, then to my horror saw chickens, black, white and gray, fleeing noisily in all directions, some flying, other running, making a racket like a fox was in the hen house. Little Bessie was on a mission, one I was quickly able to stop with the help of my wife and neighbors. None of the birds were hurt, not even the rooster she picked up and marched around briefly with.

Yes, Little Bessie was paying attention from afar those first three days afield, and in no time she’ll be pounding unforgiving coverts with the same determination. By then let’s hope she’s learned that barnyard chickens are off-limits.

She will. Her parents ignore them.

For pure pleasure and optimal efficiency, you can’t beat one flush-and-retrieve bird dog between two hunters combing a dense, wet, thorny covert.

When the dog’s working between the two of you and under control, a flush is usually a kill. But when the gun dog “makes game” and trails a running bird left or right of center, the hunter on whatever side the animal is trailing must follow it and stay within range of a potential flush. Such a routine typically circles you back to the spot where the chase began a couple of times, then off in a different direction before the bird flushes, often but not always near a rosebush, alder row or ditch.

If both hunters are familiar with the game, work well together, and can accurately read the dog and shoot, it’s a highly effective and thoroughly enjoyable method of wing-shooting. By aggressively protecting your half of the dog’s quarter, covering both sides of high, slim, tree rows or brooks, and constantly communicating, your chances of “getting burned” by a screened or wild flush decrease significantly. But it’s rarely a walk in the park. Following a flushing dog that’s pursuing a hot running scent through big, deep cover takes spirit and a certain level of fitness, but mostly spirit.

This whole formula changes dramatically when you throw a second dog into the mix, because it’s never easy to focus on two dogs’ simultaneously, particularly when one’s an old pro, the other a well-bred juvenile with everything going for it but experience. You have confidence in the proven dog and tend to focus more on it than the puppy, but this is a recipe for failure once the puppy learns what it’s looking for and discovers how to use the wind to its advantage.

In short, hunting over one good bird dog is a gentlemanly activity, but throw in the other dog and it can quickly become chaotic, producing wild, unexpected flushes and longer, more challenging shots. For the past five weeks, now that I’ve thrown 7-month-young Tiger Lily into the mix with 7-year-old Ringo, let’s just say I’m becoming more comfortable with the latter, chaotic scenario — one that I surely could have handled much easier before my half-century-old body started deteriorating. But that’s where the willpower comes in: If you have it, you never cease to amaze yourself; and you’d be surprised what high, tightly laced boots, briar-busting pants, a light side-by-side, and 800 milligrams of Ibuprofen can do for an old guy who loves to hunt.

It’s true that a guy could save himself some trouble by refusing to hunt over two dogs and alternating between them from covert to covert. But if you love your animals, it’s difficult to leave one home with wanting eyes and wagging tail, and it’s impossible to leave one in the Porta-Kennel at each covert, then listen to its loud, vocal objection each step of the way. If you’ve never heard it, believe me, it isn’t pleasing.

Personally, I can’t understand why anyone would load a dog that earns its keep into a crate and leave it there at a covert so you can hunt another. It just doesn’t make sense to me. That’s why I refuse to do it, no matter how difficult a hunt over two dogs can turn.

Of course, if you really want to torture yourself, experience the epitome of masochism, hunt alone with two dogs, sacrificing the ability to give your partner a heads-up when the animal you aren’t following is hot and headed in the opposite direction of the other dog. Yep, you’re on your own when hunting alone over two dogs frantically trailing a bird that’s looping and stopping and sprinting down the outside of a hedgerow to escape its pursuer. And it never fails that you’re watching one animal that’s sure the bird’s a foot in front of it and — bingo! — the other dog flushes it behind you, on the other side of tall alders. All you can do is listen to it fly away, ankle-deep in black, unforgiving swamp muck.

So, you ask, why would anyone put himself in such a vulnerable position when he could avoid it? Well, the way I look at it, you buy a dog to hunt, it gets six weeks a year to do so, and I just can’t justify leaving one behind for my own selfish reasons. I was the one who decided to own two, so the problems created should be mine, not the dogs’.

Truth be told, I wish I could find a couple more “problems” like that.

A skunky summer it has been. Skunks everywhere. Night and day. Seriously.
I’ve been living with these pesky omnivores and their piercing odor for weeks. In fact, as I sit at the keyboard, the stench wafts from my fingers and red golf shirt, both victims of an otherwise uneventful walk with the dogs Tuesday night; out by the brook, after work, midnight approaching, soggy. Skunks seem to like rainy weather for some reason, perhaps the fresh green growth it stimulates, and so do Springer Spaniels, because scent is enhanced in still, damp air and Springers are all nose. Anyway, the stink on my fingers, washed many wasted times with detergent, came from the Tri-Tronics collars my animals wear. The shirt stench came from the box-stall scent-bomb Bessie slept in. The fresh dose of skunk juice on her head and neck filled the enclosed, muggy space, permeating my cotton shirt and probably my People’s Pint cap in a saturating second. When I returned to the scene Wednesday morning, a powerful smell remained, not eye-watering, but strong. So here I sit, alone, sporting skunk scent and bothering no one. I won’t drag it to work with me. Promise.
It all happened so fast on my nightly routine; went to the kennel, let Lily and Bessie out, and Bess sprinted to the alcove between barn and woodshed, then directly under the barn and into the cavernous cellar, interesting nooks and crannies everywhere. By the time I whistled her back — phew! — another direct hit to the face, pungent film covering her
green, plastic collar … second time this summer, Lily once. Bessie knew that skunk was there, trust me. It must have been tormenting her, kenneled in the back yard. And, oh, how she sprinted to get it before returning to roll and scrape her way across the wet
lawn, trying unsuccessfully to rid her face, head and neck of the spicy scent. It’s still there, although it doesn’t seem to bother her much. As for me, well, I could do without it but can live with it as well. Country living. She’ll carry it around for days. Then
it’ll disappear until the next dustup, a near certainty given what I’ve seen so far.
The fact is that my kenneled dogs have been watching backyard skunks for weeks now. The little critters seem to love it under my barn, in it or in the woodshed. I long ago moved my cat food to keep the varmints away. Come to think of it, wasn’t I just writ
ing about this issue last year at this time, after Bessie discovered her first white-striped puty cat with that hot, smelly wallop? Yeah, it was last year at this time.
I remember it well. That was when old Robert Remillard from Northfield called at 8 a.m., maybe earlier, with personal advice about washing away the spray of what he called “wood pussy,” because skunks are so similar to and get along so well with domestic
cats. Being a lover of the vernacular tongue, I enjoyed his description, one I had never before heard and will not forget. I still tease his grandson at work from time to time, calling him “Ole Wood Pussy.” He takes it in stride, just grins and keeps walking.
But back to that brief, sleepy-eyed, morning chat with Mr. Remillard, I remember how it transported me back to the ’60s and another “rural remedy” for skunk problems, this one from an old Hawley character. I only remember him only as Peewee. He had sold
a small, brookside, hardscrabble farmhouse off the road behind Berkshire East — then Thunder Mountain — to my Uncle Ralph. We were getting ready for winter, stacking wood in the shed off the kitchen, and Peewee was helping. Maybe he even
delivered the wood. I can’t rememeber. Those ’60s were tough on the memory, if you know what I mean, and I wasn’t spared … thank heavens.
When my uncle told Peewee skunks had been raiding the trash around the house and woodshed, the old-timer smiled like he expected it. He pointed to an old ax or maul handle leaning in the corner; said that’s why he left it handy, for skunks; hedgehogs, too; both easy targets. He walked over to the worn hickory weapon and picked it up like he owned it, then demon strated his homespun technique on a hemlock chopping block. The trick was to get the skunk comfort able in your presence, feed it if you had to, preferably
sardines, which smell strong and draw it. Then, as it eats, you’d just raise the long, narrow handle slowly and, with a flick of your wrist, plunk it down with a heavy thud, like a hammer, right between the eyes; knocks it dead as a doornail, never knows what hit it and doesn’t spray, either. But you had to know what you were doing. He impressed that upon us.
I must admit I’ve never tried it myself, and doubt my uncle ever did. In fact, I sometimes wonder if old Peewee ever did it, himself, the rascal. But I suspect he did. Talk about old school, that was Peewee. I wonder how many are left? Probably none. He was a
dying breed then, a country bumpkin with cheap, practical solutions to everyday issues. And now that his type has vanished, varmints are everywhere, even places where they’ve become quite a nuisance.
As for me, well, I guess I’ll now just sit back and brace for PETA letters to flood the paper with complaints about the audacity of an outdoor writer promoting cruelty to animals in black and white. Irresponsible, they will call it; me, of all people.
But when you think of it, wasn’t it better in Peewee’s day, not that long ago?
To me, it was … in more ways than I can print.