NO, I'M JUST A ...(expletive)

 A fellow who came across my blog, wanted to know if I was a professional breeder or perhaps an end-all, pontificator of bird hunting.  I discouraged him by saying, "No, I'm just a ... (expletive)."   Compared to most, I'm a neophyte.  The blog is about the dog and my experiences--perhaps even the same sort that he was experiencing.

As a dog handler, I learned that 'our' biggest training problem is...(you guessed it) me.  There have been plenty of dogs in my life, but this time around, a higher standard is sought...hence my membership in the North American Versatile Hunting Dog Association.  Getting here (NAVHDA) has been an interesting journey.  When I get myself trained, the dog will be ready.

Nature's Bouquet

Years ago, I hunted deer...back before it became such a 'fashionable' and highly technical sport.  Being young and having much to learn--and also not one to sit still for very long--I would "still hunt" to apple trees and other food sources.  Often, a grouse would flush.  

Then, it finally happened...


Mid-morning in a deer season long ago, I took my shotgun, a model 1100 Remington and went into the woods.  The sun was bright, the air was warm and the leaves were dry.  The sweet intoxicating smell of autumn was in the air.  About a half mile from the house, the smells and grandeur of the day overcame me.  I unloaded the shotgun and found a good bed of leaves under an old oak.  Embracing the unpardonable deer hunting sin, I curled up in a comfortable ball and went to sleep.  Never had anyone slept on a more comfortable mattress.

Gone is the morning sun

I felt a chill and woke to discover that the morning's sun had set. With the arrival of an arctic front, temperatures were plummeting. It didn't take too long for me to cover the distance to home. I 'pondered' why I took a five hour nap and realized that I just didn't care.   

Upon my entering the kitchen, my mother said with her slight Quebec accent, "Did you catch a deer?"  ("Aw mom, you 'kill' a deer, you don't 'catch' one.")  "Well, did you see any?"


I answered, "Nope, nothing.  I didn't  see a thing."  (Certainly the truth.)  Convinced that I had 'little' to 'no'  interest in deer hunting, I thought about the possibilities of hunting wild birds with a dog.    That story unfolded over a long time...and is best told 'later'.

Present Partner and Companion

I DIDN'T GET HIS NAME

It's my opinion that --like 'fly fishing'--the sport of 'bird hunting' has its own unique "dimensions".  Here's an example from a few days ago:

K-Lee, my pudelpointer, had been 'cooped up' for a couple days and needed exercise.  So with little more than an hour of daylight remaining, I grabbed my jacket and shotgun (think 'just in case') and headed out to a local farmer's field that is bordered on two sides by streams and backed by a dense swamp.  I'd taken pheasant, snipe, and woodcock from there--though by then, the woodcock and snipe had long since migrated.

We parked next to an SUV, and I saw a hunter moving in and out of the riparian thickets.  I looked for a dog, but it appeared that he was 'flying solo'.  The man was clean-cut with gray hair, dressed in typical bird hunter attire and carrying a well-cared-for side-by-side shotgun.  The way he handled it made me think he knew how to use it.

As I put on my jacket, he came to his vehicle and we exchanged pleasantries.  I thought that he might want to continue to hunt nearby, so I said, "Let me know where you want to go and I'll go in the opposite direction."  He said that he was going down the road to another small field.  I opted to stay, as my main purpose was to exercise K-Lee.  We talked a bit more and he showed me a ruffed grouse that he had just taken from the thickets.  (He had it in a zip-lock bag which made me think he was both a planner and an optimist.)  I have to admit, I was impressed that he could take a grouse from this area.  They are 'few' and extremely spooky because of hunting pressure.   After brief conversation, we each went our way.  

K-Lee really had to run.  She just opened up and covered the field like a low-flying jet.  Once, scent pulled her to a screeching halt.  It must have been a vole or something smelly because after a brief investigation, she was off again.  We "poked" around here and there and she showed interest in a few other things, but nothing came of it. 

We used up our hour and headed back.  Nearing the dirt road, I "heeled" K-Lee to the truck. I had just settled into the front seat when my "new friend" returned and pulled in next to me.  I lowered the passenger car window.  He was quite happy and --after graciously asking me how I did--he shared with me that he bagged another grouse.  I congratulated him and we chatted about how he was going to add the two grouse to his Thanksgiving feast.  He simply radiated with joy as he said, "Two birds down here, ...I haven't done that in years."  He expressed more gratitude for his good fortune, and then uttered good-bye in the form of a confession saying, "I just had to tell someone."  I wished him well as he drove away.  

I drove home, glad it was me that he told.   I experienced once more a dimension of the sport that I hope never to lose.   

Sadly, I didn't get his name.  ...I really need to work on that!

 

THOUGHTS FROM THE 2015 FALL

Upland bird hunting is letting up a bit in New England and now there's time to share a few thoughts that have been rattling in my mind--

Gun Dogs

Generally speaking, a dog is as trained as you are willing to accept.  

Ripsnorter's Fiona  NA1

I've had excellent, mature examples of handling and dog obedience through my participation in a local chapter of NAVHDA. It's my personal opinion that a well-mannered dog--for which you don't have to make excuses--is simply wonderful.   K-Lee and I are still far from our goal, but we're closer thanks to these men and women who lead by example.  I feel great gratitude for them.   Also, I'm much more interested in a dog's point and retrieve than in a dead bird.  Unfortunately, the retrieve is impossible without the latter.  (When I miss my shot, I try to tell folks I'm practicing "catch and release".)


Woodcock
I love these little buggers!  They come off the ground as fast as a grasshopper and zig-zag through the small trees like alien fighter pilots from a sci-fi movie.  They are just so much fun.  I admire my friends that know how to locate and follow them.




Ruffed Grouse
They are truly the 'wildest' bird that I know.  They run, flush and jinx through the alders and 'popples' like cruise missles flying 'nap-of-the-earth'.  How they keep from smacking into the side of a tree I just don't know.  They are so impressive! 



Pheasant
Upper New England pheasant are "put-and-take" birds.  Much like the general trout fishing here ...they're all stocked.  For several reasons--mostly "predation"--they don't last.  There's just not enough cover and food to keep them over.  What little cover that remains in winter becomes a 'target zone' for animal predators.  

Later in the season, the remaining pheasant have learned how to survive.  To me, this makes for a better hunt.  In my mind, one late season bird is worth three early ones.

Wood ducks
Man, how I wanted to jump some woodies with K-Lee this fall! The few times I found wood ducks, I was carrying 'lead', so I hiked back to the truck to restock my vest and hunt with 'steel' to satisfy the law.  Needless to say, the ducks were one step ahead.  The result?  A noisy, duck-less end.  (Working on that!)

Hunting in the fall sun
Whether feeling the cool dew of seemingly primeval  mornings, sweating through radiant afternoons while striding in golden grassy fields, taking breaks in the shade of a glorious maple--aflame with color, or resting in the soft, fragrant  needles under a pine; hunting on such days was akin to a religious experience.  Birds didn't matter.  Dogs and 'being there' did.

Hunting in the rain
"Purgatory"! 

More later....

QUILLED !

North America has a rodent that is called the porcupine.  It grows to be our second largest rodent--second in size only to the beaver.  It lives in the forest and is most active early morning and in the evening.  Like other rodents, it is a herbivore.  It's biggest feature is its "quills" which are specialized hairs that are stiff and have microscopic barbs on them.  It's covered with them, and the tail is the primary "weapon".  When an animal gets too close, the porcupine will flick its tail and implant up to 40 or 50 quills into the flesh of the "nuisance".  In the case of dogs, it's typically driven into the  snout and mouth area--although other areas may be struck, depending on the position of the animals.  

There is a lot of information on the internet about how to remove quills.  Generally speaking, this is not a DIY project!  Quills tend to break off--especially when the dog is agitated and pulling away.  


Further, quills may "migrate" into other areas of the body--even puncturing organs--which may cause serious infection or even death.  Getting the quills out is no laughing matter!

K-Lee's first exposure to "quill pigs" was when she was about six months old.  She came running down the trail with something in her mouth. (I thought she had found something dead and was bringing it to me.)  When she got about thirty feet away, I saw the object in her mouth move. It looked at me as if to say, "Hey buddy, can you help me out here?"  

She was carrying a very-much-alive porcupine.  I reached for the remote and proceed to "trash break" while she was with the critter.  It had a good effect as she didn't want to touch it again....and she didn't touch the next one she found.  
I held a faint hope that a lesson was learned.

Her second experience was from being too close to one.  She picked up a few quills in the foreleg.  I removed them easily with a pair of pliers--amid her pleadings and protestations.  

Again, I hoped that she was learning about this.

The third happened in the Great North Woods.  She got a snoot-ful of quills just at the beginning of a "walk".  Needless to say, the order of business for the day changed from "exercise" to "exorcise"!  

The vet said, 
"This is not going to be a learning experience.  Dogs don't learn from this."


Our last experience was with a young porcupine only three days ago in the same part of the country.  K-Lee had a good afternoon finding wild birds.  She pointed nine and "located" a bunch more that didn't hold.  Just before we arrived back at the truck, she dove over a banking and came back with a dozen or more quills in her snoot.  Upon investigation, I found several more in her mouth cavity.  Expletives were in order, and being the faulted man that I am, I complied.   

Neither one of us had learned from the experiences.

Easy quills were already pulled out by K-Lee

When you're in the "north country", finding a veterinarian that is available is like finding buried treasure.  The vet in our town was out on a house call and wouldn't be available until the next day.  By the time I was able to contact vets in Lancaster (1 hour away), they were closed and would re-open for me at 8am the next morning.  I finally called LAVES (Littleton Area Veterinary Emergency Services which is open when other vets are closed) and drove to Littleton--about 1-1/2 to 1-3/4 hours away.  They quickly took her in and treated her.  (K-Lee had already pulled out some quills herself.)  The remaining quills were removed, she was probed for any remaining quill "tips", and after we paid the bill, K-Lee was groggily riding in the truck back to camp and a few days of rest.

At least she didn't make the mistake these dogs did....

 
 

We who enjoy hunting with our dogs understand that this is a risk we assume.  That thought doesn't make it any easier to bear.  

It makes me wonder though, western hunters train their dogs to avoid snakes. 
Isn't there a way to train our dogs to avoid porcupines?    


 

IT WAS SHE WHO CHOSE ME

Many of us have owned dogs that were stepping stones to the dog we have today.  They taught us something about ourselves, and perhaps a little bit or more about how to handle a dog. Allow me to take you down "memory lane" and tell you about my "Kid".

“Kid” was "Pheasant Ridge’s Sydney’s Kid".  Late one winter, I was at a sportsman’s show with my hunting buddy when we met a breeder that we both knew and (of course) we started to chat.  Next thing I knew the breeder said, “I’m moving West.  You don’t know anyone that wants a runt three-year-old Brittany do you?”  Frank and I both pointed to  me.

I visited the kennel and saw the dog.  She came over, said a hello in dog manner and hung around just enough to let me think that she was special.  I hummed and hawed and said “Let me think about it.”  I drove home trying to talk myself out of it.  I already had a large German Shorthair at home who was getting along in years.  I figured that he still had a few years in him. 

In the fifties, my first dog was an American Cocker Spaniel.  Oh, was Ricky a hunter!  The problem was that I didn’t know what I had or what to do about it!  He would venture down to the alders by the brook that ran along the edge of our field.  Occasionally, he would come back to the house with a muskrat-dead as a door-nail.  Looking back, I think he was into woodcock.  At that young age, I didn’t understand  that I was attached to that dog in so many ways.

Decades later, the attachment was lingering in me and had its hooks in the little Brittany “Kid”.  I continued to wrestle over the matter when the phone rang and the breeder wanted to know what I decided.  I told him where I was on the idea and he suggested that I take the dog and try her out for a while—to see if she would fit into the house with the other (2) dogs.

The next day I was at his house and walked through the gate and into the dog yard.  I stooped over and said, “Kid”.  She ran across the yard and leaped into my arms.  It could have been collusion between Kid and the breeder, but I was already hooked.  She chose me.  I was a little unsure about the “bond” as we drove out of the yard.  Was it real?

A few hours later, I was visiting a friend who  was in Hospice care.  Somehow, Kid got out of the vehicle and started running.  There was lots of traffic nearby.  Others were calling to her, but she was ignoring them.   I knelt and called her name.  She came like a shot and almost crawled inside my jacket.  It was a relief and a “sign” for me.  Things were looking up!

Born To Be Wild

There was a problem  at the Swetthaus however.  Both my wife AND Kid felt like they were the "reigning queen".  My wife would exert her matriarchal influence, (and so I learned later) Kid would go and pee in her closet.  (“So there!  Take that!)  To make a long story short, we got through that contest, but my wife never liked the dog.  Lucky for me, because she didn’t “spoil” Kid.  Time went on, and Kid became more and more “mine” —or perhaps I became more and more “hers”.

When she would point a bird, there wasn’t much “style” or “pizzazz”.  She was like a wind-up toy that finally used up all its spring.  She would just stop.  If you weren’t paying attention, you’d miss it.  It didn’t take too much to teach her something, but if you put pressure on her, she’d do the Brittany thing of acting like you were killing her.

When my brother died, she provided comfort and companionship in the woods.  When my Shorthair passed away, she filled a void that had been growing due to his ’canine cognitive disorder’.   Kid would visit my aged parents next-door, and let them make of her.  She played that card very well.

Queen of the Nile

Kid was a canoe-sized Brittany.  I would put her in my canoe and comfortably paddle from shore.  She would put her feet on the gunnel and because of her diminutive size, there were never concerns about tipping over.  (She hated to swim, but she would in a “Kid emergency”.)  My life was such a commotion at the time that I never bothered to correct that.  I paid for it more than once!   She was a pleasure to hunt with alone.  She stayed close enough in the woods that words were not necessary.

My wife didn’t like her riding in the front seat (think dog-hair).  But somehow she did  when we were alone.  I kept her groomed with a “puppy cut” so the “hair issue” wasn’t too bad.  It made her more or less a “wash and wear” dog.

Last pheasant just before Christmas

Yes, she taught me a lot about myself, and some things about dogs.

One day, I returned from a business trip and she was lying in her bed, ill.  She would vomit and looked distressed.  I put her in the car and took her to the vet’s office where we ran several tests.  The answer came back and verified the vet’s preliminary thoughts.  Her kidney s were failing.  We reviewed the options available and they were dismal.  I held her in my arms and could feel her wanting to go.  ("Just let me go boss.")

At the vet’s office, I held her with my hand over her heart.  I had to be with her at the end.  We had “said our goodbyes” in the truck—if a man and dog can do such a thing.  Unable to speak, and barely able to breathe, I felt her (big) heart slow and finally stop in her little body.

They let me out the side door.  I was sobbing like a schoolgirl whose heart had been broken.  It was pitiful.  However, in spite of the deep sorrow I was grateful that she had been a gift in my life, and it was she who chose me.

Quietly Heading to the Rainbow Bridge

THE PUDELPOINTER

I recently took time "off" to undergo a surgical procedure.  Upon returning, I was surprised to notice that many of my friends and readers were still confused about "the Pudelpointer", so here goes:

First, it is pronounced:  Poodle-poynter, not puddle-poynter.

Unlike the labrador-poodle crosses of the 1980s which spawned the growth of a "designer dog" market, the Pudelpointer has been an established breed for over a hundred years.  In 1870, Germany was competing with England as the major industrial power in Europe and influential Germans "pushed" for their countrymen  to develop dogs that reflected their own type of hunting.  They needed dogs that could do it all.  One of such people was a baron who wrote under the pen name of "Hegewald".  He was very influential in encouraging the development of the Pudelpointer and eventually, the German Wirehaired Pointer. 

The "Pudel" of the late 19th century was not the companion/non-sporting Poodle of today.  Rather, it was a curly-haired, hunting (and perhaps herding) dog that was very much a "water dog"--in fact, pudel comes from the German and means to splash.  The idea was to create a dog that was both a water-loving retriever and a dog that instinctively pointed game.  This was the period in which many breeders were seeking to develop versatile gun dogs--ones that searched out game, pointed it, and retrieved it to the handler/hunter.  The sportsmen wanted a dog that could do it all. 

The "Pointer" was an English Pointer.  With Germanic efficiency, the breeders called the new (c. 1880s) breed "Pudelpointer".  After extensive crosses and line-breeding, many of those engaged in the project felt that they had created the "perfect" dog, but others--Hegewald included--continued with the work and developed the German Wirehaired Pointer...which is another success story.

Today, the Pudelpointer is experiencing a resurgence.  Aside from those who affiliate themselves directly with "the mother country", breeders in the US have organized themselves in two different ways.  Some owners are organized into a breed club such as the Pudelpointer Club of North America (http://www.pcna.org).  The breed club controls who, when, where, etc. dogs are bred.  It is closely controlled in order to maintain the highest standard of husbandry.  This is very similar to the European model, and has its benefits.   The other group is the North American Pudelpointer Alliance in which breeders subscribe to a set of rigid standards and dogs are not bred that fall below a certain threshold of condition and performance.  If you click on the following link, (http://www.pudelpointer.org) the Pudelpointer that you see on the homepage is K-Lee's grandmother.  Another very informative website is Cedarwood Kennel's website  http://www.cedarwoodgundogs.com . 
K-Lee comes from Ripsnorter Kennels--which has produced many champion German Wirehaired Pointers--including some whose "children" that made it to Westminster.  Their link is http://www.ripsnorter.net. Okra is K-Lee's mother.

The Pudelpointer is not registered in the American Kennel Club, and for that I'm grateful.  Competition in the show ring tends to exaggerate certain features that are not conducive in the field.  For example, think on the little Cocker Spaniels that look more like a mop than a hunting dog--or the Setters that are groomed with such long aprons and feathers that their coats would be a disaster in the coverts and take hours to clean.  If the show rings/judges would follow the guideline of "form follows function", such excesses would disappear--but they don't.  (Enough of my rant!)

The Pudelpointer (so far) is a dog that is sold only to hunters. While they make great family members and are great with children, to keep one solely as a companion or pet would be a great disservice to the animal.  They need to hunt--it's in their DNA.

That's why I'm working so hard on "recovery".  October is but a few weeks away. If K-Lee and I need someone else to do the shooting, that's okay too.

DOG SENSE

The other day, a NAVHDA friend of mine said to me,  "I read your blog.  It's not as much about pudelpointers as it is about 'life'."  I thought about that for a nano-second and realized that he was right.  It is about life--life with a pudelpointer. Yeah, I can live with that.


As you may recall, last year I spent the summer months and the early part of fall helping K-Lee recuperate from surgery.  The operation was explained in a previous post.  It's not that the dog and I share everything, but this year it's my turn.  Doctors have discovered I have a somewhat rare heart problem that needs to be corrected.  I'm pushing to be be "boots on the ground" this fall.

What is particularly amazing to me is K-Lee's response to my "condition".  I think it has to do with the sensitivity and nature of dogs--especially dogs that are close companions.  Even before the diagnosis, she took to lying by my chair when I'm on the computer.  She is much more gentle around me and forgoes the "antics" when excited.  We even share a recliner--the only furniture that she is allowed to "access".  She used to hop right up onto my lap-- all 53 pounds.  Now when she gets up to lie in my lap, it is now done with tenderness.  I'm wondering if she can read my "aura". 

Clearly, she senses the situation and acts accordingly. 
I'm hoping that someday I'll develop the same trait.  
But for now, that's too far to reach.
.

THE MELT-DOWN

“Whoa!  Whoa!!  WHOA!,”  I yelled.  K-Lee “busted” the bird.  She was chasing it across the field and into the brush.  She wouldn’t stop for me or the e-collar.  Moments later, the bird made its escape and she came to me—as if giving me a consolation prize.  I picked her up and carefully held her off the ground with her rear-end much higher than her head. (I wanted to get her attention and get her focus off the bird.)  Carrying her back to the spot where she transgressed, I shouted several times at her, “Shame!  Shame on you!!  Shame!  Shame!”  I firmly placed her  where she should have remained in the first place.  

"Bird On The Run"

We were taking our turn in a NAVHDA  Merrimack Valley Chapter training clinic.  It was at that moment that I realized I had thrown the “still small voice” (see March 2nd post) out the window and was using the “big voice”.  (Oh, the sour feelings of failure!)  K-Lee knew better than to bust a bird but she gave in to temptation.  Full disclosure:  She had been waiting  nearby the bird field.  While she was doing so, she was with other dogs who were ramped up and excited—whining and barking to tell their owners that they wanted to go, go, go after birds.
 ....It's as if my pup has a competitive streak.

When released, she ran hard and fast and slammed into a point.  One of the gunners said, “Well, that didn’t take long.”  It didn’t.  She usually hunts at a more casual pace for me, but that afternoon she was wound up like a spring-driven toy at Christmas.  She flew!  I had no problem with that.  The problem was that she didn’t stay “on point” like she usually does.  She saw the bird try to escape and the chase was on!  Deep down inside, I thought that she might try that, so I had the training collar turned up for a serious correction.  She blew right through each correction with no more than vocalization.  I sensed that the men who were gunning for me were probably concerned that I was being too harsh. 

I thought to myself, “Never scold your dogs or your children in public”.

I felt like a hypocrite and a brute. (No, I didn't strike her!) Both the dog and I were going through a melt-down.  After I placed her on the spot where she originally pointed, I kicked around a bit in the grass—as if I were trying to flush another bird.  She acknowledged my command “Whoa” this time, but I knew very well that she knew there wasn’t a bird there anymore.  Her nose is that good.  I was “wound up” after that bit of "theater", but felt that maybe the it had been timely and appropriate.   After a few moments to calm (us) down, I released her to find the next bird.

K-Lee had to work a bit for the second one--she cast left, right, back, farther and finally slid into a point.  I went to her and was pleased that she remained steady.  She looked like a painting.  I walked around a bit and saw the bird.  It was jammed into a spot from which I was sure it wouldn’t be able to take flight.  Looking back, that was a really bad assumption--for a host of reasons.

“Mistake #2” was bending over and grabbing the bird.  It was more than K-Lee could stand.  She charged to my side with a (sort of) “I want it boss!” look. Having the bird in my hand did nothing to calm her down.   One of the gunners asked me if I still wanted to deploy the bird.  I said “Yes.  I’d like to see how she handles it.” 

The bird flew, and the gunners did their job with excellence.  I told K-Lee to “fetch”, but she must have anticipated me.  She took off like a nitro-fueled dragster a micro-second before the command fell from my lips.  She came back yanking on the bird like my neighbor's kid works on a piece of bubble gum.  (I think she likes to make the birds squeak.)  She sat and delivered—though hardly the best that she’d ever done.  The bird?  It had seen better days.

I was once told by a breeder who is also a senior NAVHDA judge, that my dog would probably turn out to be a really good hunter for me, but (most likely) she wouldn’t be a good test dog because of her temperament.  I believed him, but after this day’s “melt-down”, I really believe him.  This is the second time that K-Lee  went “over the moon” in this environment.  Each time there was shooting, birds, other anxious dogs as she waited her turn in the field.  Perhaps in time, with more exposure we can "dial her back" a bit.   

As I’ve previously said, my priorities with K-Lee are first, companion dog; second, hunting partner; and third and last, NAVHDA testing dog (to help in our development).  I’ve nothing to prove—we just want to have a good time and try be the best we can become.  So we’ll continue to work on the requirements of the Utility Test because it will make her a better dog.  ...but to actually test?  The jury is still out on that one.   Anyhow, we're sticking with it.  There’s much, much more to a NAVHDA chapter than the tests.   

 # re-learning “sotto voce”