Post by FWS on Oct 27, 2012 10:43:12 GMT -6
Duck hunting eventually becomes up to the dog
By Bill Monroe
The Oregonian
Saturday, October 27, 2012
Spring, a small Munsterlander, is a far more intense hunter than her sometimes-napping partner.
ST. HELENS -- Your eyes aren't quite as sharp as last season.
Your muscles complain about setting the decoys, then insist on a seat with a back in the blind.
Your eyes seem heavier than last week. Must ... doze ... for ... just ... a ... moment ...
And your ears? What ears? Widgeon whistles, pintail trills, teal squeaks, they're all in another dimension. Even a noisy mallard barely breaks your aging sound barrier.
So, time to give up duck hunting?
Not on your aching Glucosomine, pal. Pop an aspirin, pour stronger coffee and corral your canines -- no, not what's left of your teeth.
Watch the dog.
Well, maybe not Kis, our 13-nearly-14-year-old chocolate Labrador retriever, whose best duck hunts these days take place in her frequent naps (as do more and more of mine).
My best current watchdog is Spring, our 4-year-old Small Munsterlander.
Four hunt days into her fourth duck season, she's jelled into yet-another once-in-a-lifetime hunting dog. The saying goes every hunter gets such a dog in his or her life. I've had half a dozen, each a fond memory for its own unique style.
My dogs and I tend to train each other. Each has a different personality. I don't impose any strict regimens and they learn the basics -- come, sit, stay (including, at times, out of my way).
To be sure, training a hunting dog is indeed important and even necessary for most bird hunters passionate about both their sport and their dogs. In fact, I don't even fault the notion that a well-disciplined field dog is a much happier dog.
I've simply accepted my limitations (per Clint Eastwood as Harry Callahan in "Magnum Force"). So much to do, so little time, such wonderful dogs -- that love me right back no matter how loose our mutual rules.
For example, our first first-of-a-lifetime dog, a golden retriever named Kokanee, was so good she could find and retrieve specific rocks I threw for her into shallow waters -- even those with rocky bottoms.
Early on, we established a routine duck-hunting curriculum that fit my fitness as a 30-something. My job was to shoot the duck and hers was to mark, retrieve and transport the bird to the nearest-point-of-land; wherein my follow-up task was to go get it while she returned to the blind.
Only occasionally did the nearest-point-of-land occur on the opposite side of the river or pond (one time it was the Willamette River, but I got the duck after a long drive and permission from an amused landowner).
Kokanee's successor, Keta, another golden retriever, specialized in retrieving birds that dropped far beyond our sight line. My lingering memory is of Keta disappearing over a snow-bound rise on a wheat-field goose hunt near Wasco after a wounded Canada goose. Long minutes later, the goose reappeared first, flapping wildly skyward. Attached to its rear end was Keta, only her hind feet hitting the snowy ground as she guided the feathered propeller toward us.
Kam ("Kamloops," also a golden retriever and our only male dog) was a battleship, furrowing in water and muck alike to reach his quarry. He was a self-appointed teacher for any and all of my hunting partners' dogs, routinely plowing to the target well ahead of them in an obvious educational effort.
Kam and I often hunted alone.
Hali (a German shorthair pointer named "Halibut" for the distinct dark/light markings on each side of her torso) specialized in making new friends. When things got slow on a duck hunt, she simply slipped away to visit hunters in the nearest (usually, but not always) blind -- and retrieve whatever ducks she found.
In less than a single duck season, I became familiar with most of Sauvie Island's Eastside units and met lots of very nice and usually understanding hunters (including one somewhat-agitated teenage boy who actually managed to keep up with her; ah, youth).
Kiss ("Mykiss") and her successor, Kis, ("Kisutch") were/are chocolate labs from the same kennel, with the same genetic penchant for speed. They each learned early to pay attention to the duck call ... wait for the final feeding chuckle ... crouch when I reached for the shotgun, then beat the shot string to the duck.
If I stood up, I'd better shoot at something because they were already nearly to the drop zone.
And now it's Spring (short for "Spring Chinook," marking her April birth).
She's accepted both my advancing age and assorted infirmities, as well as her appointment as my caregiver.
Unlike most of my other hunting dogs, except for Hali, she never naps in the field. Perhaps it's a European thing. As Jens Aavild, our one-time Danish exchange student frequently told me when he wanted to be taken somewhere during mid-afternoon, "There will be time to sleep when you grow old.")
Spring's eyes constantly scan the decoys, the sky and every passing bird larger than a snipe. Chickadees, sparrows, etc. aren't shot, so aren't important.
Large birds such as geese, herons and mallards can bring her to her feet.
If a duck lands on the water, she whimpers until I wake up, then whines through all of the noes and, if the bird is too far away, sometimes yips until it takes off, then glares at me when I don't shoot.
When I do shoot, she's already marked the fall (or, when I miss, gets there anyway to make sure).
Wednesday, when I scored an unusual-for-me delayed double, she was halfway to the first bird when the second dropped. After retrieving the first, and without hesitation, she returned to the other side of the pond and got the second.
Hmm ... kind of like she'd been trained, eh?
By Bill Monroe
The Oregonian
Saturday, October 27, 2012
Spring, a small Munsterlander, is a far more intense hunter than her sometimes-napping partner.
ST. HELENS -- Your eyes aren't quite as sharp as last season.
Your muscles complain about setting the decoys, then insist on a seat with a back in the blind.
Your eyes seem heavier than last week. Must ... doze ... for ... just ... a ... moment ...
And your ears? What ears? Widgeon whistles, pintail trills, teal squeaks, they're all in another dimension. Even a noisy mallard barely breaks your aging sound barrier.
So, time to give up duck hunting?
Not on your aching Glucosomine, pal. Pop an aspirin, pour stronger coffee and corral your canines -- no, not what's left of your teeth.
Watch the dog.
Well, maybe not Kis, our 13-nearly-14-year-old chocolate Labrador retriever, whose best duck hunts these days take place in her frequent naps (as do more and more of mine).
My best current watchdog is Spring, our 4-year-old Small Munsterlander.
Four hunt days into her fourth duck season, she's jelled into yet-another once-in-a-lifetime hunting dog. The saying goes every hunter gets such a dog in his or her life. I've had half a dozen, each a fond memory for its own unique style.
My dogs and I tend to train each other. Each has a different personality. I don't impose any strict regimens and they learn the basics -- come, sit, stay (including, at times, out of my way).
To be sure, training a hunting dog is indeed important and even necessary for most bird hunters passionate about both their sport and their dogs. In fact, I don't even fault the notion that a well-disciplined field dog is a much happier dog.
I've simply accepted my limitations (per Clint Eastwood as Harry Callahan in "Magnum Force"). So much to do, so little time, such wonderful dogs -- that love me right back no matter how loose our mutual rules.
For example, our first first-of-a-lifetime dog, a golden retriever named Kokanee, was so good she could find and retrieve specific rocks I threw for her into shallow waters -- even those with rocky bottoms.
Early on, we established a routine duck-hunting curriculum that fit my fitness as a 30-something. My job was to shoot the duck and hers was to mark, retrieve and transport the bird to the nearest-point-of-land; wherein my follow-up task was to go get it while she returned to the blind.
Only occasionally did the nearest-point-of-land occur on the opposite side of the river or pond (one time it was the Willamette River, but I got the duck after a long drive and permission from an amused landowner).
Kokanee's successor, Keta, another golden retriever, specialized in retrieving birds that dropped far beyond our sight line. My lingering memory is of Keta disappearing over a snow-bound rise on a wheat-field goose hunt near Wasco after a wounded Canada goose. Long minutes later, the goose reappeared first, flapping wildly skyward. Attached to its rear end was Keta, only her hind feet hitting the snowy ground as she guided the feathered propeller toward us.
Kam ("Kamloops," also a golden retriever and our only male dog) was a battleship, furrowing in water and muck alike to reach his quarry. He was a self-appointed teacher for any and all of my hunting partners' dogs, routinely plowing to the target well ahead of them in an obvious educational effort.
Kam and I often hunted alone.
Hali (a German shorthair pointer named "Halibut" for the distinct dark/light markings on each side of her torso) specialized in making new friends. When things got slow on a duck hunt, she simply slipped away to visit hunters in the nearest (usually, but not always) blind -- and retrieve whatever ducks she found.
In less than a single duck season, I became familiar with most of Sauvie Island's Eastside units and met lots of very nice and usually understanding hunters (including one somewhat-agitated teenage boy who actually managed to keep up with her; ah, youth).
Kiss ("Mykiss") and her successor, Kis, ("Kisutch") were/are chocolate labs from the same kennel, with the same genetic penchant for speed. They each learned early to pay attention to the duck call ... wait for the final feeding chuckle ... crouch when I reached for the shotgun, then beat the shot string to the duck.
If I stood up, I'd better shoot at something because they were already nearly to the drop zone.
And now it's Spring (short for "Spring Chinook," marking her April birth).
She's accepted both my advancing age and assorted infirmities, as well as her appointment as my caregiver.
Unlike most of my other hunting dogs, except for Hali, she never naps in the field. Perhaps it's a European thing. As Jens Aavild, our one-time Danish exchange student frequently told me when he wanted to be taken somewhere during mid-afternoon, "There will be time to sleep when you grow old.")
Spring's eyes constantly scan the decoys, the sky and every passing bird larger than a snipe. Chickadees, sparrows, etc. aren't shot, so aren't important.
Large birds such as geese, herons and mallards can bring her to her feet.
If a duck lands on the water, she whimpers until I wake up, then whines through all of the noes and, if the bird is too far away, sometimes yips until it takes off, then glares at me when I don't shoot.
When I do shoot, she's already marked the fall (or, when I miss, gets there anyway to make sure).
Wednesday, when I scored an unusual-for-me delayed double, she was halfway to the first bird when the second dropped. After retrieving the first, and without hesitation, she returned to the other side of the pond and got the second.
Hmm ... kind of like she'd been trained, eh?
