Honey and Dave

by W. GORDON MEANS

1

A GOOD deal of spit and palaver, to say nothing of much printer’s ink, has been expended on the relative merits of bird dogs. I like a dog that has a merry gait, one that cuts up all the territory within thirty or thirty-five yards of me as I walk through the woods, one that understands that I have a definite part in the proceedings and that he therefore must not get too far away. It has been argued that such dogs miss a lot of birds that a wide-going dog would ordinarily find. I his may be so, but the coverts I hunt are not that big, and every experienced gunner should know all the hot corners of his favorite woodlands, rimmings, and strips.

I like to hunt with my dog, not after him. I get a big kick out of seeing him work and handle his birds, especially woodcock. Furthermore, as the years have begun to pile up, I’ve learned it pays to conserve my energies by taking as few unnecessary steps as possible. There’s plenty of walking a brush hunter has to do in a day, without having to thrash about looking for some dog that is frozen on a point a quarter of a mile away.

Generally speaking, I get along better with a setter’s personality than with a pointer’s. People ask me why I don’t try out a springer or a Brittany spaniel or a German short-hair or a pointing griffon. The answer is, I’ve enough on my hands with setters— and a cobbler should stick to his last. I believe that a good setter is as good as anything anybody can get.

I got off to the poorest kind of start training dogs because I was brought up in the school that believed that the only way to “learn" a dog anything was to beat it into him. Then an old-timer told me how he worked his dogs with a check cord at mealtimes, and I had a lot of luck with this. Some years after, I heard of the obedience classes in dog shows, and I got interested and joined a class with my then young setter Judy. This taught me even more than it did her, and now every dog I got has to go through that routine, though I don’t go in for shows or classes any more. It’s the modern way to train a dog, and I believe in it thoroughly. But you must keep it up until your dog knows his stuff, and then put him through his paces from time to time; not just once a month, but at least once a week - or, better still, once a day.

A well-bred dog should have enough nose and instinct to take care of the bird-finding end of the game, and usually will. The trainer’s job is to tie instinct in with obedience and eventual understanding of what it’s all about. Obedience therefore must be rigidly enforced.

Whipping creates in a dog’s mind the idea of something he must not do — and points can be hammered home in this way; but it will never teach a dog to do the things he must do in order to become truly outstanding. The memory of the whip will tend to make him see the negative rather than the positive side of life. Luckily, most dogs have wonderfully forgixing natures; they love their masters so much that they shake off a lot of stupid abuse, and in time man and dog get to understand each other better,

No one rule can he laid flown to fit all dogs. Therefore, it behooves everyone who starts to train a dog not only to lake into account the dog’s nature, but to take careful stock of his own.

I’ve owned many a good gun dog, some of which I’ve bred, raised, and trained: but never has there been within my ken another such as little Honey, a natural who hunted almost faultlessly from the day she was first put down in the field. I got her from the Glenn Rock Kennels in Ballardvale, where many fine gun dogs had flourished under the guidance of a great old-timer, Charlie Davies. When I went to see him he had just one dog for sale: the runt of a litter, eighteen months old, who had never been trained. This sounded far from encouraging, but I thought I’d have a look anyway. I was shown a little white, chestnut-ticked setter bitch that timidly smelled my hand to see if I were someone she could trust. Apparently the odor I exuded gave her confidence, for she jumped up on me and later snuggled close to my leg as I sat inquiring about her pedigree and the price that was asked for her.

Right from the start I had a hunch this little dog was what I was looking for, and I suppose that my faith in her built up her confidence in me. It was what might be called love at first sight; I have never had any other young dog that took my eye so completely as this one did. I paid the hundred dollars that was asked for her without even questioning the price, and took her home.

Honey was soon completely at ease with the family, though she was always shy and sensitive with strangers. She had a funny little way of asking if she was doing right. Unlike most dogs, she had to he encouraged to do things. When I fed her she would hesitate before eating, and look up at me to see if I intended the food for her. At first I had to tell her to go ahead before she would touch it. Likewise, when I took her out in the fields near the house for exercise, she would keep looking back at me to see if what she was doing had my approval.

I knew it was useless to start to yard break her, as time was so limited; so after a day or two in which she had got entirely accustomed to her new surroundings, we started out to pit our skill against that of wily grouse and the nimble timber doodles.

That first morning was a truly memorable one. My sister Jessie and I headed for a covert which held both partridge and woodcock; in it were also some little ponds to which ducks were apt to come. It was a fairly open covert crisscrossed by wood roads and the trails of wild creatures. Honey trotted ahead continuously, always looking back for directions and encouragement. We went very slowly to give her ample time to examine and investigate all the strange new smells of the forest.

We were rounding a turn on one of the lanes, and as I watched the dog, who was on a little knoll to our right, I saw her half stop on a scent that really seemed to her to be something of great importance. She took a step or two forward and then to my great astonishment she pointed. Whatever it was, was over the top of the knoll and around the bend of the lane. Telling Jessie to work quietly up behind Honey, I stole round the corner, where I could see down the lane. I knew that if this should turn out to be a game bird, everything depended on my killing it.

I had hardly got set when a big grouse left the knoll with the usual thunderous getaway and sailed majestically down the lane, a perfect straightaway shot. Had I missed that one, I’d have put my gun aside forever.

At the shot Honey dashed to my side with that funny little inquiring look of hers. She was trembling, partly from fear and partly from excitement, but calmed down when I patted her and told her she was a good dog. Then I led her up to the freshly killed bird and let her smell it and get all the enjoyment a dog gets out of inhaling the sweet scent of game. She didn’t offer to pick up the bird, nor did I encourage her to do so. I didn’t even speak to her then, but let her alone, to figure out in her own way just what had taken place.

After a while, I picked up the bird and we sat in the warm October sun. Honey lay close beside me with her head in my lap, looking up and blinking at me from time to time. She seemed contented and I hoped that she was beginning to realize how well she had done on her first bird. The day was young, so we went on deeper into the covert. Luck still perched on my shoulder, for I killed two more grouse — one over another point, and another that, flushed off to one side of us. Honey came in to me at each shot. There was no denying she feared the noise of the gun, but the smell of the warm dead birds was kindling within her the fires of all her breeding and instinct that had come down through countless generations. The conflict between the dog’s sensitiveness and her desire to hunt and to please me was probably what made her such a success at the start, for she did not go dashing about, but stayed just far enough out so that she was easily controlled.

I thought three grouse were enough for the first day, so back home we went; and the next day being Sunday, I gave Honey a rest.

2

WHEN we got to hunting woodcock she behaved fully as well as she had on grouse, and inside of a week she was handling both birds to my complete satisfaction. This was in the days when the limit on woodcock was six and on partridge four, and there was enough game to give a dog a lot of work, especially if I had one or two shooting partners along, which frequently happened.

One day in particular, I well remember. We were in the covert where Honey had first distinguished herself, in the part where woodcock were apt to be found, and not far from a little pond. On the way over, I had noticed a big cock pheasant run into a patch of briars; and leaving Honey in the car, I had walked him up and killed him, for I was fearful that she might be tempted to break her point if allowed to work on one of these fleet-footed fowl.

Arriving on the woodcock ground, I noticed a flock of four black ducks in the pond. I could see them plainly through the trees, although they were some dist ance away. The pond was in an open field, but I thought I could creep up on them if I could get on the other side where the grass was waist high. Thinking that Honey, who had not been taught to heel, would spoil my chances of a shot if I took her with me, I tied her by her leash to a small tree. I should have known this wouldn’t work. She barked and howled and put on such an act that I had to go back and quiet her lest she disturb the ducks. I untied the leash from the tree and we started off again. When we reached the far side of the pond, I got down on all fours and, holding Honey by the leash with one band, and my gun with the other, wiggled slowly toward the spot where I had last seen the “quackers.”

So near did we get to the quarry that when I jumped to my feet they were completely befuddled. Two of them took to the air, while the other two made the fatal error of diving under the water. I dropped the air-minded pair and had time to reload and pick off first one single, then the other, as they came up for air and jumped for the sky. Honey took it all in, but as she had never been in deep water I did not let her go for the dead birds. Instead, I waited for the wind, which was favorable, to blow them ashore. Then I let her retrieve them. After all this excitement we went back to our woodcock corner and bagged three—all in all, a mighty fine mixed bag for one day.

When the season came to a close that fall, I was confident the dog question was settled for several years to come, but Fate decreed otherwise. At the end of my vacation I had to go away on a business trip. I left Honey in the care of a man who took dogs to board, and who ran an exceptionally fine kennel of his own. As I knew him to be absolutely trustworthy I expected no trouble, but on my return I learned, to my sorrow and dismay, that Honey had died. The kennel man had done all he could for her and had called in the local veterinary, who was also a man in whom I had the utmost confidence, but they could not save her.

I asked the vet what he could tell me of the cause, but he said he really did not know—it seemed to him that she was more brokenhearted than anything else. She just couldn’t stand going buck to a kennel after the glorious fall we had had together. Doubtless the fact that she missed me had much to do with it, but probably the real cause of her death was some congenital weakness. It must be remembered she was a runt to begin with, and during the time we hunted together I had noticed she tired easily and lacked stamina.

She was just too good to last.

3

DAVE had plenty of what it takes to make a good gun dog — strength, stamina, brains — and his long nose was as sensitive as the needle of a compass when it was a question of locating game. By and large he was the best all-round dog I ever owned.

Before the pup was six months old he was in a trainer’s hands, and 1 did not see him again until the second season after that, when I went out to shoot over him. He was wild and headstrong, and the trainer, who had been used to gentler blood, feared I’d never make much of a dog out of him. We succeeded, however, in killing a couple of grouse over his points, and I liked the way the dog behaved on game; so I paid my bill and took him home.

I had four or five shoots with him that fall. They were what one might expect from a young hotheaded dog. A good bird finder he surely was, but I had to rale pretty high ;is a dog finder sometimes to locate him when he was on point. I realized that I had not given him enough work; so I sent him to another trainer, a man more used to hot-blooded flogs, and he got him down to where he belonged. When the next shooting season came along, Dave began to round out into the grand dog he was to become; and it was after that season that I went to work touching him to retrieve on the system of checking him with a cord at mealtime. This system was also intended to have the extra advantage of making him staunch and steady on point.

Every night I’d place his supper at one end of a bare room, then snap a long cord to his collar, starting and checking him without moving myself as he made for the food. It took only a short time before he would sland patiently right over his dish and wait until he got the word to fall to. Then I started doing the same thing with raw meat, and he became so perfect that he would not only hold the meat in his mouth at a command but would even bring it to me and drop it into my hand.

Once I took him to a cocktail party and left him sitting quietly in the car while I went in to join the festivities. In a little while one of the guests, noting him, remarked how handsome he was — which turned the conversation on him and naturally to his ability as a bird dog. I said I was sorry I could not show him off on game, but if they were willing, I could prove he was a good retriever. All hands agreed; so I called him from the ear, having first secured a slice of cold lamb from the buffet. Asking everyone to be quiet for a minute, I covered his eyes with one hand and threw the meat into a far corner of the crowded living room. I then uncovered his eyes and let him smell my hand that had just held the meat, telling him at the same time to “go fetch.”He was off in a jiffy, weaving his way through the assembly, and soon found the piece of lamb and brought it to me, placing it gently in my outstretched hand. Of course the applause was tremendous.

The following season, when he was four, Dave had really come into his own, and through the next eight memorable years my shooting partners and I killed many a grouse and woodcock over his points. Besides this, I think he was the best retriever I ever saw.

Everyone who has shot woodcock knows how hard it sometimes is for a dog to find one that has fallen stone dead. It is not uncommon for a good dog actually to step on a dead bird and not be able to locate it. Something unaccountable happens, which kills the scent when they are knocked out cold. One fair autumn afternoon I was walking through an open field with my friends the Gunner and the Groper. Suddenly from behind us a woodcock jumped up out of the grass. No flutterer he; we must have awakened him out of a sound slumber and almost scared him out of his feathers. Anyway, he went flying low and hard like a quail, and by the time we turned to shoot he was almost out of range. At first it appeared that our shots had had no effect; then he suddenly started to tower; evidently one of the thousand or more number nine pellets had hit him in the head. Upward and upward he went over some poplar woods which bounded that end of the field, until he appeared no bigger than a swallow. Then he suddenly collapsed and fell lifeless, deep among the trees.

We walked up to the edge of the field and looked in. The woods here were a forbidding tangle of down timber as a result of a heavy ice storm the preceding winter. The bird might be anywhere within seventy-five or a hundred yards of us, surrounded by a jumble of trunks, branches, and brambles. I ordered Dave in, and we sat down on the grass to await results. He was gone a long time but at last he came trotting out, and in his mouth was the woodcock, almost as unruffled as it had been when it quit the field — a wonderful piece of retrieving.

With all his virtues, however, Dave was not without his shortcomings. It was always hard to keep him from chasing rabbits. He would draw to a perfect point, and then, when the rabbit bolted, he’d be away sometimes for quite a while in the vain hope of catching Mr. Bunny. Though he bravely tried to improve, he really never got the better of this weakness.

4

A PERFECTLY trained dog should be taught to break his point at a command and flush the bird for you, but this is something that should only be attempted after a dog is well along in years and has proved to be completely staunch and reliable. Dave acquired this trick, and no amount of whistling could make him leave a point; but if I were near enough to speak quietly to him, he would walk in and put the bird up. This was especially useful, as it gave me a chance to get into a good shooting position and then have the bird served up to me as if it were at skeet. Even with this additional advantage I fear I let him down more often than I should have; and when one of those misses occurred, it burned him up plenty. If any dog ever registered disgust Dave could, and that look might have been worth a lot on ihe silver screen.

In this connection, a very ludicrous and humiliating thing happened one afternoon. Dave and I were working out a certain thicket, a spot so overgrown with juniper that it was impossible to see the ground at all. Out of these junipers sprouted maples and wild apple trees here and there, and in the offing was a nice stand of white pine in which a grouse could take refuge. Dave, whom I could make out only by the movement of the junipers, finally slopped by a particularly bushy and gnarled apple tree. On making over to him I found him on point with his nose thrust well into the lower branches of the tree.

It was impossible to see anything on the ground, but, as there were good openings through the trees on all sides, I ordered him to put the bird up. Instantly he sprang forward; there was a terrific flapping in the bush and he backed out with a partridge in his mouth. Another wounded bird, thought I; and as this wasn’t the first time that Dave had brought in birds that had been knocked down and lost by others, it was a fair assumption. I took it from him and was examining it in my hands, having laid down the Greener for a moment; all of a sudden the bird gave a violent flutter and the next second was headed with devastating speed for the pines. I snatched up the gun and fired, but I was too surprised to take careful aim, and at that there was barely enough time to get off one barrel before it vanished in the sheltering haven of the trees. I didn’t dare look my dog in the face, and I was thankful he couldn’t talk.

In the early thirties, time was beginning to tell on Dave. The Gunner, the Groper, and I had had many glorious days with the old dog, but finally his stout heart began to falter. I could not bear to leave him when we went out with another dog; on the other hand, it would have been wicked to ask him to do the work that he would cheerfully have tried his best to do till he dropped. Fortunately the end came suddenly, and he died of a coronary thrombosis.

I still remember my handsome black and white setter — the little warning wag of his tail when he found a scent; the cautious, almost catlike approach to a bird, perhaps a half point, then a full point rigidly telling us to get ready, for the bird was about to take wing; then the thunder of the wings and the little eddies of brown and yellow leaves left in their wake; the roar of I he guns; and as a grand finale, the bird brought to my outstretched hand by that wise old maestro of one of the greatest sports on earth.