Taking stock of what’s left to do in late summer
This week, I’ve taken to thinking out loud. In the writing world, we call this taking stock. It’s a nicer form of complaining that hides behind literary merit, of which I am still searching for.
As I write this, it is moving to late August. Time for back to school. High school football camp is in full swing. The bands are learning field shows and marching around town. Dove season is just around the corner with early goose season not far behind. Hunting licenses have been obtained. Plans for the World Rabbit Field Trials (who knew there was such a thing?) are underway. You might be trying to squeeze in a late-season fishing trip or you might be one of those diehard anglers who fishes even as the snow flies. Maybe you are sitting on the front porch reading Gene Hill. Whatever it is that you do to prepare for whatever comes next, you are probably into it by now.
I have been busying myself with brush hogging fields, cleaning up paths, clearing shooting lanes and repositioning some stands. The planning stages of building a proper shooting house for my brother, Glenn, and me are underway. He is getting up in years and will need adequate supervision if he is to continue deer hunting following his retirement as magistrate. Truthfully, we are looking for yet another opportunity to goof off and the shack might ultimately prove nothing more than a really nice place to take a nap during deer season.
I have started to knock off a few of the chores from my list that need doing before summer’s end. I’ll begin sighting in my rifles and pistol here, shortly. I should make a trip out to the Washington Sportsman’s skeet range and pull the trigger a bit if I am to have any hope of connecting with some slow-flying grouse or woodcock in Wisconsin later this fall. Seems like every one of my knives needs a new edge. The shooting bench has seen its better days with one of the legs beginning to rot. Friends will begin dropping by soon to use the range prior to deer season and the shooting platform will also need some repairs before it can once again be called rock steady.
If you are Pete Pavick, you can be found, nightly, on the Gamelands working your birddogs. They drive by my house every evening, beeping the horn, (Pete, not the dogs) taunting me both on their way to and from workouts, reminding me that I should be out there working hard, too. I wave to him from my porch swing, hanging my head in shame, muttering swear words at Pete for being such a showoff. Ever wonder why some guy’s dogs are a pleasure to hunt over and some are like mine? In the words of my old football coach, John Bayer … “Bates! Champions are made in the offseason!” We didn’t win many championships in those days but the premise stuck. Their hard work will pay great dividends come bird season. I have to admit, I’ve not worked as hard in the offseason as I need to or as I used to, for that matter. I may be learning to live with a little more mediocrity with each passing season. No hard feelings, Pete.
I have spent the summer months trying to convince myself that my German Shorthaired Pointer, Gertrude, is too old to hunt any longer. Now 11 1/2 years old, she is relegated to the quick spin around the paddock at the end of the morning after the other dogs are put up. Gertrude likes to pretend she is still a huntress, like I like to pretend I’m still a ballplayer. Her hunting days, like my playing days, are largely over. She is content to lay against my feet as I write, and I listen to her moan and groan with the aches and pains of an 80-year-old battle-scarred warrior. There are more tumors and cysts and dry patches than dog, it would seem. Oh, there was once a time. But her time has come and gone. Maybe mine too?
Deep down, you and I both know it’s simply an excuse for not getting that new puppy and all the accompanying work that goes along with one. Too many chewed up boots, too much whining at 3 a.m. to be let out to pee, too much dog hair on my school clothes. I could fashion other excuses but I cannot summon the energy at this moment without a nap. It’ll make me feel better, that’s for sure, and Gert won’t complain. She is content to be by my side. I think I can hear her snoring already.
After our nap, maybe we’ll take a ride over the summit. I hear there’s a guy with some Springer Spaniel puppies for sale. Supposedly from hunting stock. Always wanted to try a flushing dog. Don’t tell Gert, she’s a pointer you know.
We might stop by the hardware store and price a new collar. Maybe even one of those cute little brass name plates. Of course, I’ll need a length of rope for a check line. And a new bell. And a bed. Maybe we could split an ice cream cone on the way home.