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.

Sad news from Noho, where Dave Warren is closing the doors to Dave’s
Pioneer Sporting Center on the south side of Damon Road.

Tell me, is there a less likely location for a successful gun and tackle
shop than Northampton, the politically correct capital of our Happy
Valley? No sir. But that’s not what killed Pioneer. It was the economy,
stupid; you know, the one the Fed says has recovered.

Well, Warren couldn’t disagree more.

“My fly-tying and archery business is what always kept me going,” Warren
said, “but they just died in this economy. First, a slow spring and summer, now this. I should be selling a lot of archery stuff now, but nothing’s moving. What can you do? I’m closing Saturday, going hunting and then I’ll figure out what’s next.”

Bargain hunters should check out the inventory for the closeout sale through Saturday (Oct. 11, 2009) afternoon.

Asked if Wal-Mart had a hand in his demise, Warren chuckled and confidently said, “No, Wal-Mart never hurt me. They sell junk.”

What a hoot? Have you ever in your life heard Wal-Mart associated with junk? Oh my. All I can say is: Thank you, Dave. You made my day.

As for the folks aware of my negative predisposition toward a Wal-Mart in
Greenfield, I didn’t say it, Dave Warren did. And there’ll be many in Greenfield who’ll love hearing it; and, of course, many who’ll scream bloody murder, want my scalp, friends among them. They may even start hurling the hated “Normanite” tag my way (to me supreme praise), that and NIMBY, another compliment in my book. Heaven forbid I’d ever be associated with the Penrick gang. No sir. Not me. My roots go far too deep for that shallow lot.

But, let us not digress; back to the sport-shop closing in Noho, sad indeed. I have stopped there to chew the fat for many years dating back to before my Recorder days. It all started t’other side the road as Pioneer Sporting Center, owned by Bill Krinsky, now long gone to Texas, where, if he’s still in the business, it’s likely booming. But he can have Texas. I wouldn’t go there for fortune or frolic, too conservative for my liking. Hell, you’re liable to be put to sleep there for delinquent parking tickets, if of the wrong hue or accent. So, yeah, I guess a man of my proud heritage may have a chance of escaping that
dreadful fate — maybe being the key word. But that could change fast once they understood I’m one of those who think our demise began with the Sixties assassinations, glorious days in that Loon Star State.

Anyway, Krinsky sold Pioneer to Hadley taxidermist Bill Van, who stayed
at the original site on the north side of Damon Road until he and partner Warren moved across the road to a smaller space. Ultimately, Van went back to taxidermy, Warren bought him out and will soon head for the Hamptons in the western Hampshire hills.

Not a bad place to “retire.” Not bad a’tall.

I found retiring, longtime state Bear Project Leader Jim Cardoza at his desk Tuesday (Oct. 6, 2009), just after noon, at Westborough’s MassWildlife Field Headquarters, where he’s kept his office during my entire Recorder tenure; more than 30 years, almost unimaginable to me, the South Deerfield bad boy who told many a teacher and coach to, quite frankly, take a hike to Satan’s kingdom. You know the way those things usually turn out. Yeah, of course, I was the one who needed walking shoes. And walk I did, defiant smile gleaming, euphoric to be rid of a dreadful place with little to offer except aggravation. I guess it always came down to respect with me. If I had none, I showed less; not the way to go for any kiddies out there allowed to read this.

So here I sit, penning a column for a little newspaper, laying out pages, writing heads and cuts, toiling to make ends meet on a meager, ink-stained salary. But this isn’t about me, it’s about Jim Cardoza, with whom I have nurtured a professional relationship, one I value because of his knowledge and rare accessibility, not to mention the fact that he’s been steward for two of the most successful wildlife-restoration projects ever seen this side of the great Mississippi.

I phoned Cardoza to get the final numbers for the September 8-26 bear season, 17 days that threatened to break a record, which, he didn’t know off the top of his head. But never fear, it seems that the former dunce filling this space found the needed handwritten records in his  slightly disorganized (yeah, right!) files; right there in the first drawer I opened, fifth or sixth sheet of paper examined. So, for the record, we did not set a record this year, but were close. When all the cards are counted, either 137 or 138 bears will have been killed. Cardoza was out of town on Wednesday and had one report sort of hanging, thus the incomplete figure. But at this point, does one freakin’ bear really matter in the big picture? I don’t think so.

Yeah, I know, I could have been a good little scribe and waited for the snaily press release to arrive. But what I have is, as the saying goes, close enough for government work, which it is, thus good enough for me. The all-time September record, reached in the consecutive seasons of 2003 and 2004, is 142.
But, enough about bears. Back to Cardoza, whose star-studded 40-year career will come to an end Friday (Oct. 9, 2009), when he’ll ride off into the sunset knowing his was a job well done. How else to describe the bespectacled, professorial wildlife biologist who oversaw the restoration of bears and turkeys, both of which today present thriving statewide populations that are sure to expand.

When I spoke to Cardoza, I articulated my appreciation for his cooperative demeanor whenever I had called, even in these tough times of having to first go through the screen set up by the state Executive Office of Energy and Environmental Affairs. I’m not going to wait for the press release to throw out some sappy quote saluting the man. No, I’m just going to say that during my long tenure here, Jim Cardoza was always there for me, even returned calls — a rare courtesy — and always had his facts straight before calling. A perfectionist, there is no mystery why his programs succeeded beyond expectations. He willed them to where they are today. To use a few old clichés, he left no stone unturned, dotted his i’s and crossed his t’s, was a stickler for detail.

I have dealt with many of his colleagues over the years, going way back to Jim McDonough, Dick Cronin and Bill Pollack, later Wayne MacCallum, Steve Williams, John McDonald and Bill Davis, he the absolute best PR man ever before taking his current job as Central Wildlife District manager. All of the aforementioned were good men and humble servants, but no man helped me more, or more often, than Jim Cardoza. Not even close.

Sure, Jim had his critics, many of them the same people who view me as traitorous for criticizing their sacred NRA. But I always defended Cardoza as smart, accessible, accountable and professional to a fault. How can anyone criticize that?

The last time I saw Cardoza in person was on the Whately/South Deerfield line, at that big gas station/Dunkin’ Donuts/Subway monstrosity that used to be Spuds ’n Buds. I was pumping gas, heard a familiar voice to my right, looked over and saw Cardoza among a crowd gathered near a fleet of state vehicles. MacCallum was also there.

They both gave a warm smile and friendly greeting when I approached. They were participating in a field trip to a nearby bears’ den with a retinue of state legislators. Cardoza and MacCallum both made me feel welcome, like they were genuinely pleased to see me, no passionless handshake and cold “howdyado” typical of politicians.

Anyway, that’s all I’ve got. Jim Cardoza will be missed. Whoever steps into his shoes has a tough row to hoe, as weedy and rocky as it gets. Jim Cardoza had the Midas touch for wildlife restoration. Till my final day, if I remain here where my roots lie, I will think of him whenever I pass a flock of turkeys or slow down to let a bear and her cubs cross the road.

Jim Cardoza brought them back, made an impact of historical proportions.