Musings of a mostly dogless outdoorsman
By Dave Bates
For the Observer-Reporter
As I write this week’s installment, my Gertrude is lying across my feet, which in truth, is where she spends the bulk of her time these days. Gertrude the Wonder Dog is nearing 13 years of age – 91 in canine equivalence. As she struggles to her feet on the hardwood, her legs do a split that is powerfully painful to witness. Each time she rises to her feet, I hold my breath thinking that this might be the occasion that those ancient legs won’t close. Her belly is full of cysts. Her eyes are given over to Lenticular Sclerosis, the clouding over of old dog eyes. Elbows are a scaly mass of doggie callous. The broken femur she suffered as a 16-week-old pup nary slowed her pace even with a bit of hardware remaining inside her weary bones. However, the arthritis in her hips is notably present and advancing.
So what is a bird dogger to do when his partner is well on her way to giving up the ghost? A few of my hunting buddies say crazy things like “Now is the time to bring home a puppy. The old girl will love the company.”
I have heard more moronic ideas but I can’t remember when. They are also the kind of buddies who think it a marvelous idea to bring the girlfriend over and have their wife cook dinner for the three of them. Nuff said.
I guess I’m just not built that way, in regards to old hounds mixing with puppies nor wives and girlfriend’s socializing, for that matter.
Gert has been a dedicated retriever over the years. She was a passable pointer but her master possessed only a rudimentary understanding of refining the pointing process. Joe Palmer and Dale Harshman tried their best to see that she wasn’t completely ruined by my poor training. But, oh, did we have our days.
For now, I think it’s best to make her comfortable and not pester her with annoying puppies monopolizing the attention and affection rightfully belonging to the old gal. It might just break her heart. She has earned her stripes and deserves the utmost in care and consideration through her declining years. Sure it means one more year putting off the training of her replacement but some things just can’t be rushed. Watching her cloudy old eyes through the screen door as she is left behind while new puppy is put through her paces surely would be the cruelest form of torture. No, I think it best that we let nature run its course, be it a few months or a few weeks or however long God decides.
Bird season will soon be upon us. This is the second season that I’ll be mostly without my girl, afield. I tried to take Gertrude out one last time, for old time’s sake. I wasn’t expecting much, just a final spin around the block. She wandered off, no longer able to hear my commands and wound up too close to the road she can no longer see. Some friends who recognized her brought her back to the truck and waited for me to arrive like a parent having lost Junior in the department store. Worried sick. Completely relieved. Sadly realizing that this just isn’t working any more.
We know the day we bring them home, this adorable ball of fur and energy and love, that there will most definitely be goodbye. It’s the deal we make in exchange for being dog men. We embrace every good time knowing that in the end, we will bury our best friend, sooner or later. There is relatively little to mark the time. Some snapshots of those special “best” days, a couple of grouse feathers and maybe some empty 20-gauge hulls in monument. Our memories, at least for now. A dried tear stain or two inside our field journal. And a smelly old collar that we somehow can’t bring ourselves to throw away. Every so often we’ll pull it off the hook, give it a sniff, running our fingers over the worn brass name plate trying to conjure up some of the old magic that once was. In doing so we pay homage to a most cherished dog soul and friend who has made us a bit more complete and hopefully a little better of a man.
She shudders and shakes, woofing at one more woodcock taking flight from the good ole’ days of her dreams. Good night Gertrude. Sleep well.
Dave Bates writes a weekly outdoors column for the Observer-Reporter. He can be reached at alphaomegashootingsolutions@gmail.com