Saying Goodby Is So Hard

This is an excerpt of an announcement I posted on the UJ forum:

There's an azalea bush near the edge of the yard.

When she was an outside dog, roaming the yard, and either myself or my girlfriend came out the front door, Maggie would run straight to that azalea bush, and check to make sure no birds were infesting it. Only after scaring away any would-be interloping tweety-birds, would she make her security lap around the house.

Even these past two weeks, as a near-invalid, her demeanor soared every time I took her outside. First the bush, then the lap...eagerly, excitedly, and full of life, seemingly forgetting how badly she was hurting.

But not so much on Christmas Day, and not at all yesterday.

Several of you reminded me to spend as much time enjoying each other's company as we could, and that we did. But she didn't wag her nub yesterday, not even once that I saw. And that's when I knew she'd stopped enjoying.

And this morning, I dug a hole next to that azalea bush, and I laid the best friend a feller could ever hope for, in the ground next to that bush. And I laid her blaze-orange upland vest on the dirt under her, and some spent shotgun shells nearby, and a toy that once looked like a moose, and a pair of Freckles' socks that hadn't been chewed on yet, and an orange QU hat that meant "we're going hunting" whenever she saw me pick it up (and which never failed to elicit much nub-wagging and prancing around...even though she know her dippy-ass owner had no clue where the birds were).

[...]

I so very much wish you all could have met her. She may not have made me a better person, but she certainly made me seem more tolerable.

Happy hunting, Magpie.

Rest In Peace, dear girl.

Health Check

For those checking in on Maggles, she's still hangin' in there.  Thanks for the continued prayers, plus the mojo from our friends at the Upland Journal.

Merry Christmas, y'all.

Stuart Schmidt's Milo Field...

...Bad Influences, and No Roosters

On one of the trips Maggie and I made to Kansas from North Carolina we were unable to coordinate schedules with others and made the long adventure just by our lonesomes.  It's great to have traveling companions, sometimes, and it's equally great to sometimes not.  We had learned early on that any attempts to hunt 5+ hunters behind one or two dogs was an exercise in futility.  The birds go where they want to go, as I outlined in the previous post, usually running.  The dog follows an instinctual pattern of covering ground until she gets the scent of pheasant in her nose, and then focuses in on that.  And since she doesn't waste time telling you that she's shifting from instinctual quartering mode into following particular scent-cone mode or into trying to corner running/stopping/running birds mode, the behavior is hard enough for one person to follow and adapt to, but impossible (not to mention maddening) for any kind of group.  And so even when part of a larger group, I'd always insist Maggie and I split off with only one or two other hunters, if they wished.  Of course, this method flew very much in the face of tradition with those Army Hunters, and led to some sore feelings.

This particualr trip, though, it was mostly just Mags and I plus the occasional, local friend.  Old Mr. Forsberg had told me the night before that, given the snowy weather, he recommended giving special attention to any milo fields, and a local photographer named Alan, whom I'd hunted with many times before, had also called Stuart Schmidt and set up precisely that plan in his fields.  Stuart's only proviso was that we not shoot at the 12-point buck he planned on harvesting.

When Alan and I arrived at Schmidt's there was another truckload of two guys (with four young dogs) pulled into the "parking" area across from his house.  If memory serves correctly, they were also from the Old North State--although we did not know each other.  They too, it turns out had gotten permission from Stuart to hunt that day.  No matter at all to us, we said, and you can bring your pups along...but we plan to follow Maggie, regardless of where the other pups venture off toward.

"Naw, we wouldn't want our dogs to be a bad influence on your dog," they replied.  Which was much less likely than her being a good influence on them, but I didn't press the point.

I told them that we'd like to work the long milo field, and that if they wished, why not take the long, parallel CRP, which would help slow the wild-ranging of those pups.  Everyone agreed to the genius of that scheme and we set off accordingly.

Now, to look at rows of milo, you'd never guess that such big-ass rooster pheasants could hide behind and amongst those relatively sparse and smallish plants, but they do.  They hide well, and they run from hidey place to hidey place without making noticeable commotion, not unlike much thicker cover such as CRP grasses.

Our field was roughly 75 yards wide (too wide to work in a single pass) and a 1/4 mile long.  Alan and I followed Maggie down mostly one side of it; I was trying to "lean" her attention away from the cacophony in the neighboring field, fairly successfully, I might add.  And I hoped to, for the most part, cover the width of the field in two passes.

The pass out, and away from the road from where we'd entered, produced no roosters, but several points on hens (which you know are off-limits per the law), and thus zero shots, but we occasionally noticed the keystone cops episode in the field next door: two guys changing direction behind four pups every tens seconds or so, also with no points, no shots, and no birds.

Our neighbor-hunters made the turn in "their" field back toward the road sooner than we did.  And, by the time we'd gotten to about 100 yards of the road ourselves, they had loaded back into their truck, even though there were other nearby fields (including a very eligible WIHA--walk in hunting area, an excellent KS open-fields program) worth consideration.

Then, as we were within about 30 yards from the road end of the field, those other guys pulled down the dirt/gravel road from Stuart's and slowed as they were passing.  Alan and I both waved to them, and some assessments were shared over the medium distance regarding the bird production: Alan told them about the hens we'd rousted, and they said they'd gotten no points from their pups, but lots of birdiness.  And just then...

Maggie locked up on point.  Hard, unmistakeable, unequivocal bird-point about 5 yards in front and slightly right of me, with Alan slightly ahead and to my left.  I'd made the mental choice to allow Alan the first shot, and when the rooster flushed, I just loudly confirmed its shootability: "rooster!"  Alan fired three times from his pump-action Ithaca (which was his manner, regardless of whether he hit a bird on his first shot or not) and downed the bird about 35 yards to our right.  As Maggie took off to fetch the rooster, I heard the driver of the truck commend Alan on the shot and say that he figured that to be the only rooster in the neighborhood.

Then, just after she began her retrieve on the dead pheasant, Maggie, without dropping it, locked on point again.  I'd come along quickly behind her, and was only about 10 yards from the second rooster when that one flushed.  Easy shot from the lower barrel of my Fausti O/U.  Maggie dropped the first bird to fetch the second one, leaving the first one for me to worry about.  And then...

We were started back toward Alan and the others.  I had gotten the two birds situated in the game pockets of my upland vest, broken my shotgun to eject the spent shell, picked it up, and just finished reloading when Maggie pointed again.  The third pheasant flushed ten yards in front of me, between myself and Alan, then banked hard left--the only direction I would have a good shot, and a good shot it was.  Score one for Alan, two for me, and three for Maggie, in the span of less than 3 minutes.

The best part of it was the look on the face of the guy in the truck.  I'll bet he wasn't so quick to give up on the next field.

On second thought, strike that.  The best thing was walking behind my dog, seeing her work her magic, and having a friend and some strangers witness her greatness firsthand, once again.

When We Met

It was November of 2001, and my first trip to Kansas.  The entire group included 10-12 of us from North Carolina and another 4-6 from Texas, Ohio, and elsewhere.  I'd been invited to ride (and stay) in the uncle's motorhome, which accommodates up to six average-sized people, if by "average" you mean Herve Villechaize.

For the ten-day trip, there were six of us in that RV, and two of those were teenage boys, but the four adults (myself included) were framed more like your average college linebacker.  Compounding the discomfort (for everyone) was the fact that I'd just quit smoking in hopes of being able to qualify for joining the Army's Combat Engineers.  The time was less than two months removed from 9/11, and at 38, I was hoping for a special age exemption to get me in that fight.  In spite of letters to my Congressman, and his letters to the Army and Navy (SeaBees), that exemption never materialized.  But that is another story.

This was my first pheasant hunting trip, and there are also other stories from that pilgrimage (like the Walmart shotgun shells parable), but this one's about my introduction to Miss Maggie.

Like I said, this was my first pheasant trip, but I recall the actual pheasant numbers were awful according to my fellow hunters.  We were doing what I've since termed "Army hunting", where a string of 6-8 guys stand "blocking" on one edge of a big Kansas CRP field, and another 6-8 guys march in staccato, weaving fashion across the field from the opposite end, scaring up the birds.  We flushed perhaps two dozen pheasants, mostly hens, during our week of hunting, which seemed like plenty to me, and we got on at least one covey of quail.  Most other seasons, you'd expect maybe two dozen birds per day, but I was happy for the new experience.

In the "Army hunting" mode, if you're one of the marchers zig-zagging and stopping and starting and zig-zagging some more, and if a rooster is in your CRP field and not running (which they prefer to do when threatened), then you're hoping that rooster sits still for a while and then flushes.  Fact is, though, most roosters run and run and then flush as far away from harm as they 've considered necessary, which usually means at least a 30-40 yard shot on a moving target that zigs and zags much more ably than the best army-hunting marchers ever could.  If you're one of those others, the blockers, and a just released skyfull of wildly thrown lead didn't knock that same rooster down, and he's headed toward you, you're presented with one of the toughest of shots: a zig-zagging target headed at, or nearly at, you.  Everyone in your line waits (appropriately, for safety reasons) until the bird passes overhead or through the line, and then everyone shoots and misses.

This was my first exposure to pheasant hunting, and it seemed like okay sport in a way similar to if your church's men's basketball league team took on a team of 9-year-olds.  I knew there were more-better ways to go about it; my grandfather, my great-uncle Ted, and two of my other uncles had all taken me quail hunting with their dogs when I was a boy.  And by the end of the week, I was thinking out loud that I'd really like to have a good bird-dog.

About the same time, one of the friends in our hunting party, Henri from Arkansas, had been working his charm on one of the native two-legged deers.  She, Julie, had five dogs living in her apartment with her, and had another one in a borrowed kennel outside who'd been left behind by her previous suitor.  That previous boyfriend was consistent, apparently, only in that he consistently gave as little affection, devotion, and care to people as he'd given his dog.  She lamented that she just couldn't keep the outside dog, a fine bird dog, as it suffered miserably from separation anxiety and cried for attention all the time.  Story is that the guy had a habit of feeding the dog, before he abandoned it with Julie, once a week in a big washtub, and had done so ever since it was a pup.  Hearing the situation, Henri said he thought he could solve her dilemma.

When Henri came to me, he said that all he knew was that she'd said it was a purebred, pointing, bird-dog.  He didn't know whether it was an English Pointer or Irish Setter, or whatever else.  I told him, "two words: sight unseen.  If the gal has clear title, I don't care what the dog looks like."  He said that as far as he understood, ownership boiled down to possession being nine/tenths, and that if I could pass her interview process and agree to not change the dog's name, I'd be taking possession forthwith.

The interview was thence conducted at the gal's place of employ, a video store, and I managed to not screw it up.

Henri had me wait at the Forsberg's barn, where we'd encamped the RV, while he went to fetch my new dog.  While waiting, I can remember thinking that I truly wouldn't care what breed or condition the dog belonged, she'd be mine and I'd be tickled shitless no matter what.  But when they walked her through the side door, folks, and I got a look at the most regal, prettiest, nub-waggin'est German Shorthaired any half-assed bird hunter had ever even heard of, much less actually seen, I plumb fell right in love.

It's fair to say that I can look back and count on one hand the times in my life that, in the moment, I knew exactly how lucky I was to be just where I was.  This was one of those times.

There wasn't enough vacation left in our vacation to really hunt with Maggie, but we did get to walk some of the woods and brushfields there at the Forsbergs' the following morning for about an hour.  And we could tell well enough that she had plenty of natural instinct, quartering close but not too close, rooting eagerly into the brier patches, and that she had a world-class motor.

Getting her home to NC was an exercise in strained diplomacy, as uncle decided for whatever reason to not endorse the idea of me having a dog, and be pissy about it all the way home, despite my getting a travel-crate and fixing it on the hauling platform outside the RV.  He can have his pissyness, for what it's worth.  Enduring that was nothing compared to the wealth of devotion Maggie's given me these years since.  I figure he was just jealous; who wouldn't be, right?

We've returned several times to hunt in Kansas, and we've been fortunate to hunt in NC and Texas as well, and I've been known to brag on Maggie's prowess far and wide.  She's been fully retired from hunting for over a year now.  As I look back on her career with me afield, Maggie was so good at finding and cornering pheasants (her specialty), affording me shots in the 5-15 yard range, that I honestly can't recall a single time I missed.  People think I'm exaggerating when I say I would only take head-shots and never foul the breast meat.  It takes an extraordinary dog to foster claims like that.

All I've been through over the last few years, no human can hold a candle to what this sweet, sweet girl means to me.  I am living testament that there's absolutely no therapy known to mankind better than a puppy licking your face.

Worst Birthday Ever

The world's greatest bird-dog and my best friend of the last ten years hasn't been well for over a week.  Sunday night, I spend almost the entire night worrying over Maggie, and got up yesterday and hurried her to the Vet.  A blood test proved the worst possible news: severe liver failure due to old age.

The doc said that if she were a human, we'd be putting her in line for a transplant, but dogs don't get transplants.  We're hoping for the best from prayer and some medications.

Freckles and I are having a tough time keeping it together.

Stay, Maggie.  Please.

Numero Uno

Spun off from the main ST&L site, this blog hopes to be a space for all things outdoors.  Flyfishing and tying.  Photos.  Links to favorite outdoors sites.  Hunting.  Horses.  Adventures.  A really fine dog.

Mostly, my writing is about as good as my fly-tying.  Looks okay there in the vise, but oftentimes ends up floatin' crooked.  Or with an eye so gummed up with head cement that the tippet won't thread through it.

I'll keep trying, though.  And perhaps some good will one day come of it.