|
|
This is the beginning of the first story. Please
forgive the text formatting which is different in html. THAT DOG WILL NEVER HUNT “Just about the worst thing you can do,” Jim said emphatically, adjusting his lanky frame in the booth. “She’ll be nothing but a house pet.” He nibbled at re-heated bacon that came with his breakfast special. Carl nodded, mouth a serious line, waved his fork as if set to spear something flying past. “Women don’t understand when they bring a huntin’ dog into the house it ruins ‘em. Like whackin’ the nuts off a fightin’ cock. Takes the hump right out of ‘em.” He adjusted his slouch to lean over his plate with the fork aimed between my eyes. “Sorry to have to say it, but that dog will never hunt. She’ll never hold a bird.” I raised my coffee cup, mostly to avoid Carl’s stern continence, and wondered if either of these guys had the first-hand knowledge to make such an assumption. Of course, knowing the dog, they might well be right. Certainly I was not an expert. Although I had hunted behind a couple of accomplished bird dogs I’d never trained one and had stopped hunting years before. Then on my birthday my thoughtful wife had surprised me with a six-week-old female Irish setter that had become an older puppy and it was decided – not by me – that the dog should be given an opportunity to perform the job programmed into her genes. It was true that Samantha’s father was a field trials champion, but none of his poise had yet appeared in her. It was then my wife explained she’d gotten a special price on the pup and launched into one of those protracted explanations wives can so convincingly explore that swim exclusively within distaff logic, leaving the husband to frown at a dust bunny in the corner and nod dumbly. “Setters, you know, as a rule they’re incorrigible anyway,” Jim said. “Specially the Irish. You got to accept that going in. Professional breeder told me. They’ve got these itty bitty pea brains and you got to limit their choices.” He made a small circle with his thumb and index finger. “The brain area just ain’t there. You gotta guide these dogs in respect to what to do next. Where to sleep, when to eat, where to crap. What to hunt and what critters to ignore. Otherwise, see, you’ve just got a idiot dog runnin’ around.” “Sammy sleeps at the foot of our bed,” I said, offering Carlotta a weak smile as she hurried past, a small call for help. She cast me a glance, but her mood had not been good since her fiancé’ had been busted while cultivating medicinal pot on public land. Carlotta had mentioned he had a bird dog he hunted with and I may have been able to interrupt Jim and Carl to ask her if he would give me some pointers, a lateral cast to distract the censures. I did not mention to Carl how my highly bred bird dog would ease the covers off an inch at a time during the night and roll up in them in the mode of a caterpillar reconstructing its cocoon. In the wee hours I’d wake up shivering and yank the covers back, causing Sammy to do a flip and a half and crash to the floor. The whole subject seemed to be depressing Jim. “That time about a month ago,” a nasal sigh. “Your dog got scared of something and you had to drag her out from under your pickup.” He slowly shook his head while steering his spoon around the lip of his coffee cup. “I just hope you’ve got a leash on ‘er the first time a gun goes off. Hold on tight or she’ll be in the next county before the echo dies out.” “I already bought a hunting license . . ” Carl reached over and gave my arm a reassuring pat. “Don’t worry now, you just come on along with me and Corky. He’s as good a little birder as there is in this valley. Season opens a week from tomorrow and I’ve got access to two posted fields next to orchards.” That evening after the meal, when the kids were out coaxing the last light from Indian summer, I told my wife what the guys had said regarding Samantha’s future as a bird dog. “Oh yeah?” she responded, instantly combat ready. “Well those two couldn’t bag a bird at the market. And Doris told me Carl’s fantasy about Corky being a hotshot pointer. The only thing that mutt’s ever pointed is his food dish.” “She doesn’t seem too focused . . .” “What do you mean?” my wife demanded. “Sammy hunts the yard and back field like there’s no tomorrow. Just yesterday she flushed a hen out of the sage on the hill. Give her a chance. Take her out after work. Work with her. You used to be a man of the country.” Asleep in her personal living room chair, Samantha, upon hearing her name, awoke and began unwinding long legs. As usual it was a maneuver that progressed to confused entanglement with chair arms, panic, finally falling off the chair and rolling across the rug. At eleven months she had a baseball nose, solid paws at the end of long, sinewy legs and a beautiful, rust-red coat with flowing leg feathers. Running with the kids or riding in the boat her lips and ears flapped like rags in the wind and she gazed ahead as if seeing all the way to the future, which may have been the only thing she couldn’t see well enough to fear. Her latest vice was rolling in horse dung, which three baths a day couldn’t dissuade her from repeating. But Sammy was my wife’s baby so she would be given every opportunity to make fools of us both. A low howl came from the kitchen. We looked where Samantha sat staring at the refrigerator. She pointed her maroon muzzle at the ceiling and uttered another mournfully melodious howl that vibrated cobwebs in the attic. “Precious wants her ice cream,” my wife said sweetly. On Tuesday I raced home after work. There was enough light left to make the fifteen minute drive to a field I thought might hold pheasants. When we arrived, Sammy nearly knocked me over leaping out of the truck with her usual enthusiasm. But then she stopped and looked back, as if sensing this wasn’t just another walk. I pointed at a patch of weeds. “Find the birdie,” I said, and a glimmer of understanding flickered in her yellow-brown eyes. She snuffled off, nose vacuuming the ground. It was about then I realized I’d pretty much exhausted my bird dog training expertise. “The dumb leading the mad,” I muttered and followed the dog into a patch of dry grass and wild wheat. A few minutes later Sammy pointed. Well not exactly a point, more a splayed-leg stare that indicated a general direction. Containing my excitement and whispering encouragement, I moved up through clover and scrub brush. Sammy didn’t move as I crept past her, atavistic blood-thirst coursing my veins. A movement to my left and a terrified mouse darted into its hole. OK, it was a beginning. “A mouse and a hen pheasant,” my wife mused when we got home, Sammy sitting proudly between us on her skinny butt. “Not bad for a first try. She patted the boney ridge on top of the dog’s narrow head. “And then she ranged a bit far?” “About a quarter mile.” My wife cocked an eyebrow, a warning sign. “But she came back with feathers in her mouth. She brought those feathers right to you.” “Yes she did. It was too dark to tell if they were wild or domestic.” My wife shot me a stern look. “Of course they were wild. Sammy doesn’t care anything about domestic.” Right then I knew I’d better get home early for the next few nights to continue the training sessions. Student and trainer both needed it. On opening day of bird season I declined all offers and went out alone, just Sammy and me. Let’s just say our few training sessions had left me with a few doubts and it seemed prudent to begin our real hunting experience without an audience. Noble linage notwithstanding, this was a dog that adored children but had nipped a couple out of apparent confusion, panicked in the presence of strangers, chewed the left shoe of every pair I owned, continued past swats with a newspaper to gleefully treeing the neighbors’ pathetic old cat and was addicted to horse dung. Yet that quiet, bright morning it seemed to be a different dog that entered a field of corn stubble and began working back and forth as if she had some idea what she was doing. Maybe the shotgun cradled over my arm had stirred some cellular response. Every ten seconds or so Sammy would check my position, then continue her back and forth pattern, big nose moving like a hovercraft over the ridges of stubble, intruding into little thickets of slash, moving on. She even forgot to pee. We moved across the field without incident, although there were dark hollows under the slash and broken ears picked clean that indicated birds had been here. Near the far edge of the field Sammy suddenly contorted and froze. You couldn’t call it a point in the classic sense, more a head-over-the-shoulder-eyes-rolled-back-legs-crossed position that perhaps no dog had ever before attempted. It took a minute to determine where she was indicating I should proceed. There wasn’t much cover here at the end of the corn, sparse stubble with some knots of broken stalks, barely high enough for a pheasant to hunker down in. I carefully moved past the frozen dog, points of the eastern sun kaleidoscoping her bulging eyes. A hen pheasant exploded out of the slash, then another, seemingly from ground too bare. The bright colored rooster got up last in a fury of beating wings and angry cackling. I leveled on him in a quartering-away shot, squeezed the trigger . . . missed. Sammy was running – not in fear this time but to retrieve the downed bird, which flew strongly over a fence row and disappeared into the next field. My dog watched this, the bird’s wings propelling it like a rocket, wings then locking as he glided out of sight. She stopped and looked back at me with an expression I’d see quite often over the next few years; I wouldn’t call it disgust exactly. continued . . .
The Dynamic Duo of Hidden Cove Road You could say it was mainly Mom’s and my little brother’s fault we ended up with Poncho. They went to look at pups one day and came back with two brothers, Kooky and Poncho, which even as pups looked and acted nothing alike. The mother was Pomeranian and French Spaniel, whatever that is, and they thought the father might be border collie and something else, although nobody could be sure. It may have been this ambivalence regarding roots that gave Poncho his personality, which was very different from his woosie brother’s. Poncho was not beautiful. Nor was he a great hunter in the classic sense, or any good sense really. He lacked discretion and discipline in the structured pursuit of game, although he did guard the chicken house and during his last two years he guarded Dudley. Poncho stalked and chased everything madly, especially UPS trucks, which is why he had only one eye. The good eye, the bluish one opposite the scarred, whitish, marbled thing, tried to compensate for the loss by bulging to hideous proportions at anything that got his attention. He also smelled like an open sewer, a peculiar trait impervious to serious bathing, disinfecting, herbal shampoos and ion treatments. Dad thought the stench could be the result of mange, which was perennial on Poncho’s squat, elongated, pig-like body. Yet lady dogs, those in romantic moods, coming into their time of excitement, found Poncho irresistible. And Poncho knew this as surely as a diviner knows where to bore a well. His swinish nostrils would flare, testing the air, and off he’d go in search of another victim that couldn’t help succumbing to his charms. It was my theory Poncho brought out the covert, destructive side of those girl dog’s inner confusion. Dad called Poncho’s allure one of the mysteries of nature and tried to contain him. Stoutly fenced in, Poncho dug his way out. Locked in the garage, Poncho chewed through the solid fir door. Of course Mom wouldn’t allow him to be corralled in the house, and I thanked her for that. Some of our neighbors became distant, even unfriendly. Even those of us family members that agreed in principal to what the growing mob thought should be done with Poncho were sometimes shunned in public. There were a lot of ugly, smelly pups around. One Sunday morning I was coming into the living room from the kitchen when a loud pounding on the front door startled Dad as he was reading the paper. He put the open paper down and, eyes darty, arms curved tensely away from his body, slowly rose from the couch. We looked at each other questioningly, but we already had our suspicions. I followed him to the front door. He turned to me. “Better stand back, Fay,” he said. When Dad opened the door Carl Swanson, a neighbor from up the road, rushed in, causing us both to jump back. “Arthur, the creature came back! I’m sure he actually accomplished the travesty this time. You promised!” “Now, now,” Dad said in his patient voice. “I’m sure it isn’t all –“ “The fiend came right through the fence! Chewed and clawed his way in like some cave animal! Good God, Arthur, he mounted her right there in the front yard, drove her poor little nose into the grass . . . Susan’s mother visiting from Minneapolis.” Carl slumped against the wall. “Well, Carl, they are dogs you know. They have their special times when –“ “Dog?” Carl straightened, eyes wild. “No, no, my Cleo is a dog. That creature of yours is something else. Do you realize what this means? Can you imagine the pups? The smell?” Dad cleared his throat. “Perhaps, Carl, you would like to come into the living room and have some coffee. Or nice homemade wine?” This seemed like deja vu to me, just more pain I guess for Dad, who had built the Swanson’s house. They didn’t know when they bought it there would be a Poncho in their future. But hey, he kept the coons out of their flower beds. He murdered a opossum and left it on their doorstep – or someone else’s – every week that he wasn’t busy being romantically involved. You can’t expect one weird little dog to be like everything. And regarding his hunting expertise, some of the neighbors appreciated the thinning of destructive animals and made him special treats. Poncho visited them on specific days each week. In fact, his hunting range had become so large that he was sometimes out overnight. There were actually people that put burlap and old blankets they were going to throw out anyway out on the porch for him to sleep on. No one, of course, liked him enough to allow him inside their house. Our neighbors are clean, decent people. The glitch was, Poncho was my little brother Marvel’s dog, so Dad couldn’t just end the problem with his shotgun, although he threatened to often enough. But about the time it couldn’t get any worse, it did. And it all happened in such an innocent, heroic way nobody could have suspected how it would work out. You could say it started when Dad finally decided to chain Poncho. “Stake him out,” was how he put it. “And may the coyotes take him out of our misery.” Since we lived on an island in Puget Sound I was pretty sure we didn’t have any coyotes, but Dad said he’d seen one near the bridge. I suggested it may have come across as a displaced resident of the wild animal farm near Sequim, but Dad remained convinced we had a gang of coyotes and they, along with the raccoons, were after his chickens. But what happened was that Marvel (his given name Marvin), a boy who found true happiness wallowing in the excremental mosaic of the animal kingdom, was on the beach near our house one morning and saved a duckling from being the certain breakfast of a black Lab who lived nearby. The Lab was determined to make a meal of the duck, but Marvel was even more determined it wouldn’t, and the struggle came down to Marvel holding a piece of raised driftwood and standing his ground between duck and dog. Marvel brought the duckling home and for three weeks it slept in the folds of an old shirt right next to Poncho’s bed at the foot of Marvel’s bed. Yes, Poncho had been allowed in at my brother’s insistence, because the duck liked him. Of course no one wanted to venture into the wasteland of his room anyway, so it wasn’t like we had to give up any territory. Poncho and the duck formed a bond. In hindsight, you could say we should have seen an ominous pattern forming, but it was just a duck after all. It wasn’t even one of the colorful wild ducks we had a multitude of, but a basic white, uninspiring, domestic duck somebody had dumped on the beach. Marvel named it Dudley. For a couple of weeks it swam in Poncho’s water dish, until the dog led Dudley down to the small stream and pond in back of the house. Poncho would stand in the shallow pond and the duck would swim back and forth between his legs and splash water at the dog’s face. Dog and duck began going on walks together in the woods. They took sun naps together on the front porch, Dudley’s long neck draped over Poncho’s fetid one. They ate side by side. When Poncho barked, Dudley quaked and flapped his wings. The duck seemed to be acquiring canine traits, and growing large very quickly. “I do not see any good coming of this,” Dad warned. “The dog is warping the duck into his own image. It could be one of the mysteries of nature. We should consider eating the duck soon. Before it gets any bigger and stranger.” My brother’s stricken look stopped Dad for the time being. Poncho started Dudley off on squirrels. Poncho would chase a squirrel with Dudley flapping and squawking along in his wake until the rodent was treed. Dudley would then fly, wings beating madly and with great effort, being already an obese white duck, up to the level of the squirrel in the tree and sort of zero in on the terrified animal, causing it to leap into another tree or into space - and often right down into Poncho’s waiting jaws. As if this disgusting behavior weren’t enough, the duck took a dislike to me and would attack my bare legs whenever I wore shorts, even if I was with a date, its beak like snapping pliers. I told Marvel if Dad couldn’t do the deed I’d snap its skinny neck like a pretzel and take it back to the Lab that lived a few doors down. But Marvel went screaming to Dad who caved like I knew he would. The two creatures expanded their efforts to include raccoons, opossums and even ringneck pheasants, of which the island had quite a few, and for all their cunning these savvy, coveted birds were cajoled somehow by the duck’s abrasive calling to come within range of Poncho’s eager jaws. Dad suspected Poncho had introduced the duck to pheasant flesh; this Marvel refused to accept and I did not even wish to contemplate. Mother sided with Dad. They insisted something would have to be done. But quick as you can say Dad got out his shotgun, Poncho and Dudley changed tactics. They no longer stalked wild game. Poncho introduced the duck to spinning tires.
 |
|
|