Like the surprise that is autumn—the suddenness of things that happen while you are living it instead of watching it—I’ve found myself with a herd of old dogs. I have a college friend whose oldest child is a freshman at the university. I wonder, how did this happen? Weren’t we just drinking pitchers in our dorm room and hunting quail in the desert? How is it that time marches yet the human brain does not recognize the beat of its feet upon the tarmac?

The first dog to go was the oldest and it was his back-end. One spring morning I was out on a horseback ride with the crew, limbering up for summer coming, un-kinking winter’s sloth. We noticed old Ike was missing and rode back to find him panting beside the trail, unable to go farther. He got to ride home on the saddle. Late in the season two years ago, he hunted his last chukar cliff. We didn’t kill any birds. I felt bad for him. He’s eleven now and he totters about on pencil legs and wheezes and barks at nothing much. But he is happy. Perhaps there will be one more pheasant. He was always best at pheasants. Just yesterday, he was a pup before the gun in a Nebraska CRP field with my brother at my side . . . .

I’ve noticed it in Duke too. Duane’s dog. I got Duke when Duane left this world too early and he fit right into the mix. He runs flat out and points tail-high. He’s a good one. I remember hunting with Duane in Arizona whenever I take Duke for a zip. He spins happy circles a lot: feeding time, walking time, shotgun time. Duke is a happy dog. He sprints with the pedal-to-the-metal and can be out of your sight in a moment. Yet, if you are not careful, this nine-year-old dog that acts like he’s two will be completely gassed and gone for the day. I love old Duke, but he’s old too. Good for maybe a half-day on the chukar crags of Nevada. A half-day in the hot rising September grouse tangles.

And now Sage. She has turned a decade old. And then some. Just like my college drinking buddy’s daughter going from an infant to a college entrant, this happened overnight while I wasn’t paying attention. A little female setter with a world of drive, energy and talent. A cargo-hold full of zest and zip and blast. She’s now an old lady.

We were in the Tobacco Roots this past summer when it happened. Hiking to a lake up a steep trail, far back in the country, heading to a high mountain lake, and then even higher. Perhaps we’d do a loop trip. In a dry summer, the mountains were baked to powder and Sage faded quickly, running one moment in grouse whortleberry and winded the next minute in the August heat. Mission aborted, trip truncated. I carried her over my shoulders part of the way back to the truck. Sage is by far the most talented bird dog I have ever been around and now she’s an old lady with only half-days ahead.

Years back, I had a bird dog that ruled the skyline. I was a younger man then and I let him drink the wind. We tore it up together and I probably will never have another one quite like him, nor another moment like that. I can see him now in a North Dakota pheasant field chasing a crippled rooster. The rooster rises against the setting sun and the hard-charging male setter leaps off the ground and pulls it by its tail to the turf. After a long retrieve, the bird is at hand. That dog died tragically young; he didn’t get to be an old dog.

And now, oddly, I have three old bird dogs in my fleet, dogs with years and miles behind them. Veterans of cap rock and corn-row. They sleep now, curled in tight knots, dreaming pheasant dreams or chukar nightmares.  They deserve that—a warmth of woodstove heat, a dream, a good meal and just one more hunt.


This story is excerpted from the author’s regular Up the Crick column which appeared in the September/October edition of Wyoming Wildlife News.

Author: Tom Reed

Four English setters tell me what to do.

13 thoughts on “Geezers”

  1. I can relate Tom. My 10 year old Sunny just physically cannot do it anymore, but she still wants to hunt as much as ever. This is the hardest part, for me; to put aside my desire for her companionship in the field and to do what’s best for her. I love old geezers.

  2. What an awesome account of past field companions. This tale brought back memories, some locked away for way too long. I had two such dogs pass two years ago that died too young. Today I have two unplanned but mirror images of them both. Not a day goes by that I don’t look at them and recall one hunt or another with the two I lost.

  3. I loved the line let him drink the wind. My Daisy is 9 this season and arthritis has let some air out of her rear wheels. I will always take her and if she dies with her boots on so much the better. Even Palmer and Nicholas get to Tee off first at the Masters.

  4. My dad used to ask me: “You going hunting again?” I would answer”Yep, while the dogs and I still have land to hunt on.” I have lots of memories of past bird dogs that I cherish. Glad I went on all those trips. Each dog will be remembered.

  5. I conversely have many season before me. Only halfway into the second decade of my life, I realize that this fate lurks somewhere in my future.

  6. I had an English Pointer, Calvin, who I got from a lady who found him in the parking lot of a casino in the middle of LA. I only had him a year, and then he got really sick, and gave up the ghost in March. He was pointing birds until the afternoon before his long sleep. I waited a few months, but couldn’t help myself, and now I have this not even year old ball of energy who plays fetch for an hour at a time, sometimes dropping at my feet, and sometimes bowling me over as he just runs me down in his enthusiasm. He’s the spitting image of Calvin, and his name is Monty. My other dog, an eight year old pug, beats his ass on a regular basis, and makes him tap out. Watching the two of them makes it a fun day, whatever else is going down. How can I get this dog to settle down and hunt birds? Don’t really care, just want to see him “drink the wind.” Thanks for that.

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