AGAIN COMETH THE SUN

Sitting next to the picture window of our cottage, I feel the late winter sun burning through.  In anticipation, I peek outside looking for grass, but see only snow and mud.  Spring isn’t quite ready to show herself and I feel like I was refused a dance with “lady spring”.   My thoughts wander.

It seems long ago that I left behind the cutting, hauling, splitting, stacking and burning of firewood. These days, when the sun burns brighter, I soak in its rays and dream about the next season.   I can’t seem to keep myself from wondering, “How might the dog and I do better?”  “Where will we go to connect with wild birds?”   The weather has ‘softened’ enough that we walk a bit to build up my legs and lungs.   Ever vulnerable at my desk, I offer small fortunes to bird dog magazine publishers while daydreams of ‘perfect’ fall days surround me like a sparkling aura!
 

And the advertisements!!  Decades ago, all that we needed was a good fall day, an old shotgun, a few shells, and a compass.  We’d quickly wrap up our chores and sneak out into the back acreage to where we flushed a covey of pa’tridge last summer.  The high-tech guys usually included a map and perhaps a jack-knife in their pocket. 

Today, we need special boots, a ‘device for this’ and a ‘device for that’.  (Even our dogs use a GPS!)  Our shotguns need to be pieces of art—so we can brag about them in the pub—and we carry enough shells for an all-out fire-fight with a flight of woodcock.  We have first aid kits for our dogs that are larger than the first aid kits for ourselves.  Heaven forbid that our brush pants should be worn at the cuff!   

It seems that today, a well--outfitted bird hunter carries almost as much gear as a Navy SEAL.

Now, if you’re in your prime, weight may not matter to you, and an eight-to-ten mile walk with all the gear is “normal”.  You’re working the percentages--more miles, more possibilities.  Legs kill birds.  I get it.  

However, at my age, many more hunters are looking for “less”.  Less distance walked with a focus on “habitat quality”.  Less “weight”, less “stuff”!  A light shotgun with light loads works well in the grouse woods.  Admittedly, a light GPS is a wise choice to use with the compass.  

No longer do we carry a whole box of shells.  If things are so good that we run out of ammo, then we have the makings of a really great story—which fills our memories and lights our gatherings longer than another bird or two in the bag.  The water bottle is about half the size that it used to be.  Refills are back at the truck.  Instead of a separate dog bottle, we share.  Boots are evaluated with weight as ‘prime criteria’.  We’ve been out enough to know how to judge weather, and we know that one handkerchief and a carefully selected (light-weight) jacket will give us everything needed until we get back to the truck.    Matches and a knife are still important—however lightweight synthetic handles and smaller blades are a “necessity”.  Bowie knives are “out” and lightweight cordura sheaths have become my favorite.  

It’s kind of like listening to some really good ‘blues’… Less is more.

Still, despite the desire to reduce “weight”, (and in the light of “technology”) folks of my sort need to be practical—especially if we’re still “getting off the beaten trail”.  I used to tell my wife, “If I am found face down in the woods, just know I was having a good time.”   She never appreciated that sentiment, so I recently followed the course of some of my “brothers” in our local NAVHDA chapter and purchased a (lightweight) satellite GPS locator unit.  Between April and December, I’m often where there is no phone service, and if I get in trouble, the satellite messenger/emergency locator provides a few good options.  

Mark you, my ‘intention’ is to never press the satellite ‘SOS’ button, but I’ve lived long enough to know that having intentions is like having stomach gas.   The key to happiness is being in control.  

ROUND TWO!

History:  After her first TPLO (tibial plateau leveling osteotomy) procedure in 2014, the orthopedic vet said that the chances were 50-50 that K-Lee might need a future TPLO on the other leg.  Since then, I kept her "in shape" and at a correct weight hoping she'd be able to avoid the trauma.  She had the desired "hour glass" figure.

K-Lee in the "snow fort" she made.

This fall, K-Lee went lame.  After a few hours of hunting, she favored her right leg and limped along.  After a brief rest, she wouldn't put any weight on it.  I had seen similar symptoms in 2014 when she had problems with her left rear leg. (See further information on the June 29, 2014 post about "TPLO".)

I took K-Lee to her "primary" vet.  He did x-rays and felt that her problem was arthritis.  He shared with me the results of his x-rays.  We decided to treat her with rest, "carprofin", and "keep an eye on it".  I tried that for a while, but up to the last bird of the season (see December 22 post), she continued to exhibit the same symptoms.  My instincts were telling me that it wasn't arthritis.   So, I took her to the orthopedic vet in Norway Maine who performed a very extensive examination.

Conclusion: She was now having the same problem in the right rear leg and the ligament was wearing out.  It would probably be a big problem in a few months.  He showed me the (very High Resolution) X-rays and pointed out the problem and how he would repair it. 

He said, "It's really about expectations. If you want to hunt with her, she would require  surgery.  If you want her to be simply a pet, she could probably last a long time without surgery--although she'd become increasingly lame each year."  

We chose the procedure.  (If K-Lee couldn't hunt and run in the woods, she'd be miserable.  She lives for that --even more than I do.)

Round Two:  The operation was performed December first, and K-Lee is healing magnificently.    She is now at the point where she can take take 10 minute walks--three times a day.  In another 3-4 weeks, she'll be taking 20 minute walks, then 40 minute walks.  We will be exercising and getting ready for spring "runs" in April. 


Musings:  There seems to be two schools of thought on this particular problem.  One is that an athletic dog that is spayed 'too young' (less than eighteen months) is prone to developing these ailments because the joint tissue and bone "growth plates" don't develop adequately.  The other is that the problem is genetic and spaying has no identifiable affect--and that the study samples regarding spaying are narrow and assumptive, thus not giving a complete story.

You're gonna WHAT ???........You're kidding!  ...right????

An objective reading of the veterinarian medical reports provides positive and negative findings for either option.   I couldn't tell anyone which "school of thought" is correct....perhaps both!

I do know that if I didn't have "pet" insurance, it may have been much more difficult to make a decision.  Such operations go for about $3,500 or more.  Without pet insurance, the temptation to take a financial "short cut" may have affected our decision-making.  However, with the coverage of our (major medical) insurance policy, we comfortably made what my wife and I felt was the right decision.  What we paid for out-of-pocket was a mere pittance to what we would have paid if we were without insurance.  

The pain of a small monthly premium doesn't seem that bad. 

 

"PRESSURE"

The lead trainer moved deeply into my "personal space"-- much like my US Army drill instructor did so many years ago.  It confused me a little, but I knew and trusted him.  He was clearly pushing me.  He was saying, "You can falsetto can't you?  Let me hear you falsetto.  C'mon, falsetto!  You can do it!  Give me a falsetto!"  It was amazing to me.  I was almost having an out-of-body experience. 

Ah, summer fun!

I was thinking,  "So this is how the dogs feel when they are being trained!"   

It was June 2017 and I was attending a NAVHDA chapter's training session in Maine.  It was a "train the trainer" exercise, focused on helping a handler identify his/her weak (handling) points.   It was very, very good "medicine"! 

The lead trainer was trying to pull me out of my low-energy, "mono-tone-ous" behavior--for K-Lee's sake as well as my own.  He was also trying to get me to exhibit energy that would "help" the dog's and my relationship.

Cognitively, I understood what he was doing.  I probably looked dumbfounded, but internally, I was  marveling at the emotions I felt under his "pressure". 

1. I clearly understood what he wanted.
2. I wasn't afraid of being hurt by him but felt "pressured".
3. I wanted to do it.
4. I wasn't sure if I could do it..

To be on the receiving end of that "pressure" was amazing!  We talked afterwards and I told him that "I'll have to ask my doctor turn up the pacemaker."  We both  chuckled at the thought.

Besides the fact that K-Lee has an emotional side that can go from zero to a hundred in a heartbeat;  physically, I have slowed down considerably.  (The falsetto would have been an equivalent to the squeaky voice that people use when talking to babies, puppies and kittens.)  If I had wound her up, I wouldn't have been able to keep up.  Therein was the dilemma.

I spent the next several weeks thinking through the event--doing mental replays of each station and how I was handling.  I wondered if dogs do that after training sessions.  ...I'll bet they do.

K-Lee contemplating pressure

When K-Lee and I are in the woods and "on our game",  I'm generally satisfied that we work well enough together.  I decided to focus and build on that.

I'm thankful for the "pressure" experience.  It helped me to come to a better understanding of my expectations and goals.  

When I think on it, I realize that training "pressure" is good--not only for dogs, but people too.  







 

LAST BIRD OF THE SEASON

I don't know if it's true for all of us, but the last bird of the season often holds special memories for me.  It happened again this year.  K-Lee and I were exploring a riverbank area that typically gets birds pushed into it by other hunters.  It's one of our "end of season" destinations.  

After we had walked about a quarter of a mile through the mixed hardwood and brush,  K-Lee started tracking something and went over a rise.  In disappointment, I heard her "game bark" (more of a "yip" really).  I suspected that she had either "bumped" the bird or it took flight before she could point it.   Still, she kept at the hunt, aggressively working the sparse, late-fall cover.  Beyond another small knoll, she went out of sight again.   

Quickly walking about 200 feet, I rounded a bunch of tag alders and saw K-Lee on point.  She had a bird pinned in a brush pile!  Anticipation swelled as I circled around them and walked in from her left front.  Exploding upwards, a rooster made a raucous departure.  The bird cackled angrily as its wings frantically grabbed air.  It rose high above K-Lee and careened sharply to the right. K-Lee did a "spin in-place".  

In all the commotion, my first shot was a miss.  I took a breath, settled myself down, and let the Benelli speak again.  The rooster crashed into a tall maple and fell about 25 feet into the alders.  I marked the spot and sent K-Lee to fetch.  Unfortunately, she thought that the bird had gone off in a straight line and was determinedly looking for "a retrieve" in the wrong place!  After a few moments, I was able to call her into the alders to start a search.

I don't know if "air washed" (of scent) is a true thing, but there seemed to be no discernible scent in the area of the fall...at least none that was a clear indicator for the dog--so I took her in another direction to settle her down. My hope was that the bird would either have time to give off scent from it's "hide", or K-Lee would be settled down enough to pick up the faint scent of its track.   A few minutes later, we re-entered the alders and she quickly found that the pheasant had burrowed itself under a pile of detritus.  The rest was shall we say, "history". Satisfied with one good point and a bird in the bag, we made our way back to the truck.    

On the morrow--at the bird's expense--K-Lee and I shared "the meal of victory".                 
 

MOMENTS REVISITED

A friend of mine recently loaned me a book of essays on Woodcock hunting.  It was good...I mean really good.   It resurrected memories of my first bird hunt with my (soon to be) hunting 'pard'.  He was a family friend that offered to take me hunting.  (Actually, I whined and begged like a teenager and he gave in.)  I had never gone bird hunting before, and wanted to 'try it'.  Though I was an absolute novice, I knew that I should come up with my own location and not ask to see any of his special spots.  Such things are kept secret--even among family friends.

My friend picked me up early one morning and we went to a place that I thought  might hold birds.  He deemed the cover "good enough", and moved me into alders and pole-sized growth.  The chill of the frosty morning pierced my jacket.  My fingers and toes were numb from the silent cold.  I wished for the sun to get higher in the sky.  Except for the "dawn-reveille" of song-birds and the noise of beaver in the water, all was still.   It seemed in the early morning light as if we were alone on planet Earth.

Photo by John Graf

His dog was a "Goliath" of a Brittany--weighing in at almost 60 pounds.  He stood stock-still, quivering in anticipation.  The Brittany's feet were firmly planted on the ground as he stared towards a very small opening in the alders.  There was no question: he was "on" a bird.  Apparently, the gods of bird hunting had favored us with  migrating woodcock.  My "guide" talked me through the process of "walking in and flushing the bird".  The bird got up so fast that I was emotionally unprepared.  "You'll have to be quicker than that." he said.  (I mumbled some lame excuse.)  He said, "Stay alert.  There may be more in here."  My heart rate and breathing increased with excitement.  I thought, "How can such a little bird generate so much excitement?"

Another a few more yards and  the canine "Goliath" was 'on point'.

Again, my "guide" and his dog let me walk in for the shot.  This time I was ready...much too ready.  (I learned that day that I would be better off with one shell in the gun than two or three.)  I was already thinking about the second shot as the first was fired.  (Doing so is a guaranteed miss.)

I fired.  (Miss!)

Trying to stop the little bird from escaping, I racked the slide on the Ithaca and fired again.  (Miss!)  As child development professionals are wont to say, I was "overly stimulated". I acted more like an anti-aircraft gunner than a hunter.  It seemed as if I was trying to put enough pellets in the air  that the bird would run into a few of them!

Again!  (Miss.)

We managed to take a few woodcock that day.  I don't remember who got what, nor do I care. I do however, remember the moments--his Brittany standing like a quivering statue with its fur soaked from  the early morning dew.  The smell of rotting foliage, the wet dog smell and the hot steamy vapors coming from his nose. He almost seemed to be saying, " Are ya ready??"

I remember the surprise of the flush as the bird popped several feet into the air and headed for the tops of the alders. I remember the whistling of the bird's wings and the cordite smell of the gun powder that lingered in the air after the shot--a favorite perfume.  And I remember my friend's calm teaching voice as he corrected me and let me learn from my mistakes.

All that and more flooded back into my consciousness as I read the borrowed book.

At least for me, hunting isn't about the score, it's about the memories.  They last forever.   As the commercial says, "What's in your wallet?"

Thanks to Jeff for taking a chance on me and lending me his very special book!