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.
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