Hot dust tumbled across the deadlands and funneled down into the valley. It slowed on the outskirts of town before spilling onto the streets. A tattered banner flapped against the side of the strip mall catching my eye. “Dogs Need Good Homes.” My truck made a sharp right-hand turn and came to a stop.
There was something about him that struck me instantly. Maybe it was his dark, hypnotic eyes, silently transmitting his coded soul into mine. He was handsome, lean, and muscular. His four month old frame was tall and lanky but solid, his coat still puppy soft. His calm and cool demeanor was evident as he exited his caged confides and nosed confidently into my wife’s outstretched palm. Jill looked up at me and instantly read my mind. We both immediately agreed, this pointer pup ought to have a good home; one full of love and care. Regardless if he grew to roam the uplands with hunting grace and style or if he just became an adored family member, undoubtedly, he was ours.
We acquired "Dewey", named immediately upon dispatch from his canine refugee camp, the following day. He came to us totting only a small bag of his vagabond belongings and a facial expression of total bewilderment. I handed over the requisite donation of $125 to the gracious shelter employee. In return I received a quick “thanks and good luck” plus a 4 month old black and white pointer who never had a real home.
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| Dewey found stray and adopted at 4 months old. |
The following details of this subsequent adoption may not be for everybody. But if you are open to hard work, dedication, and helping one poor, discarded, four legged soul find his or her proper station in life, then please read on...
There is no telling what Dewey had been subject to as far as quality of life or even the most basic of verbal commands before he came into my life. Without doubt, the proverbial clean slate could only be grasped with scheduled consistency and gentle repetition to his new found life. Given his matured appearance, I resisted the urge to push him quickly and kept to the devoted task of basic commands with replication under short durations. As always, we started and finished with copious amounts of play time. From the start, I introduced him to a wing on a string which he hereditarily pointed with focused desire, showing possible early signs of potential. I continuously reminded myself that I did not know if Dewey would, or could, unlock his inner hunting genetics of his bird dog family past. I needed to maintain an open mind, not wittingly conjuring up what I thought should happen but in the same mentality working with Dewey each day to initiate and hopefully activate his inner self. It was a test of gained knowledge, not only his but that of my own. In the end, if he did not measure up, that was unimportant. Whatever the outcome, he would not be judged in any way. The positive had already been found. We gave Dewey a good home and he in turn thanked us for it every day with his sweet nature and loyal soul.
As months progressed so did Dewey. He graduated from the bird dog basics and moved swiftly on to refining his fundamentals but not without the trails’ and tribulations of any adolescent. He had become confident on clipped wing pigeons many times over. He and had gained a strong, interpretive understanding of electrical stimulation as well as it corrective purposes. He learned to work mock hunts in various cover and held staunch with quivering legs at planted birds. I grew confident that he was almost ready to what would be his first pheasant season, now just three months away. Time was ticking and our first trip to the local preserve would become our own late summer’s battle ground. His greenhorn confrontation with a live rooster proved that both Dewey and I had a long way to go…
With an echoing cackle the rooster detonated right under his nose. For a split second I thought I actually saw Dewey’s brain matter pour out of both his ears and with it, over ten months worth of earnest training. The pheasant rocketed eight feet up , leveled off, and jet streamed up the hill towards the nearest thicket with Dewey hot on his tail feathers. A safe shot was out of the question. I flipped my gun back to safety and reached for the collar remote. By the time this all transpired both Dewey and the pheasant had reached the tree line. The wily cock bird continued on into the pine jungle with Dewey still on his vapor trail. The late summer sun was heavy on my back as I scrambled up the hillside. Sweat from fatigue was overwhelmed by my own anxiety given the situation quickly unfolding in front of me. From my vantage I could see Dewey zig-zagging back and forth along the tree line, his brain racing as what to do now; as was my own. From deep within the woods the rooster cackled and Dewey tore into the brush covered dead-fall like a demon possessed, fueled only by his own piss and vinegar. Unable to find even a human sized entrance into the fortified scrub, I stood motionless and listened. I could hear the flap of heavy wings followed by a briar busting four legged monster moving right, then left, and then right again. I caught a glimpse of Dewey’s white coat for a second but it was only a vague blur. I backed off the tree line thinking there might be a half lucky chance he might push the cock bird out of the woods, but did not believe that thought for a moment. From deep within the woods, the pheasant blasted off another long string of riotous cackles. More brush was pushed as dry popping twigs snapped under four fast moving paws came closer in a furious pace. I saw the pheasant explode upwards again, now close to the edge of the tree line. I swung my gun and made ready for an oncoming shot.
What happened next can only be left for comic relief. The rooster rocketed back skyward nearest the tangled edge and cast forth flying high and fast. Dewey, running directly below broke free of the border tangle. The pheasant, with a last ditch evasive maneuver, miscalculated a low hanging tree limb and collide harshly, snapping his neck cleanly in the process. Cart-wheeling to earth it landed with a loud thud on the open hill slope. Dewey instantaneously grabbed the now limp bird and proudly trotted over to where I stood...fixated in utter disbelief. What the heck should I do now? No shot was even attempted(twice), and no formal training between either of us for what to do now in this very unique case of “training”. All I could do was lean over to gently receive the pheasant from Dewey’s soft mouth and rub him vigorously on the shoulder for a job well done. I guessed that to be the only proper response to his hard work, since he seemed awfully proud of his own accomplishment. Little would I realize then, this one unorthodox situation of comic proportions would prove to become the spark of Dewey’s future pheasant fire.More live pheasant training would ensue soon after, which included many properly pointed, shot, and retrieved birds with Dewey responding with growing performance under countless different situations.
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| Dewey at 3 years old with hundreds of birds under his belt! |
To say that the one day in the woods and the broken neck bird was absolute, would be less than adequate. But I can’t dismiss that it had a major part in Dewey’s now glowing hunting desire. Many professional trainers may disagree or call out mistakes that I made.
One thing is evident, I never saw the blaze in Dewey’s eyes until that day. His switch had been flipped in a most unconventional way. For that I will never forget.
Best of luck out there. -Mark
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