Canine crystal ball conundrum continues
A couple of weeks ago, I was afforded the pleasure of hunting with the would-be grandmother and mother of what would hopefully be my next pup. To say that I was impressed with the possibilities that unfolded before me would be putting it mildly.
All of my German Shorthaired Pointers were out of my buddy Phil’s kennel. His dogs date back to the late 1990s – at least as far back as for me acquiring my first bird dog and my second came 12 years later from what would prove to be good stock. His newest renditions do not hail from the same bloodlines but the quality is still noticeably there. While these new dogs have not hunted grouse nor woodcock, they have definitely seen their fair share of pheasants, both of the stocked variety at the Gamelands and on private game farms.
The transformation from being totally unfamiliar to grouse and woodcock lasted exactly one morning. A few busted woodcock and the girls had the idea that they were missing a key element of this bird business. Shortly thereafter the points became more steady at every encounter. By the end of the day our girls were pointing woodcock like they had been handling them their entire lives. At the close of Phil’s visit it was evident that mom and grandma could hold their own, the genetics were present and accounted for and I had a lot to look forward to in the event that the youngster has a litter this coming spring.
While there are a lot of “ifs” in this mix there are some most positive attributes to lean on as well. I love GSPs. Phil’s dogs always seem to have the sweetest of dispositions. I have always had pretty good luck teaching my dogs to retrieve, even if my knowledge of reinforcing the point and keeping my hounds working close enough proves a real challenge. Noses have never entered into doubt when it comes to this lineage. As far as build and physical makeup, my dogs have always been beautiful, at least in my eyes. My last, Gertrude, believed she was the most beautiful dog on the planet and could stand for hours in front of a full-length dressing mirror, admiring her beauty. She was a large roan female with truly classic bird dog looks. Her predecessor, Gertrude I, was a soft, slightly undersized GSP with a mostly white body and coppery accents. Both were love bugs who wanted to be around the office, lying in front of the fire or traveling in the truck with their master, constantly.
So what does all this gazing into my canine crystal ball get me? A lot of questions. No real answers. And a host of possibilities that make for a bright future if everything comes together in the spring. If a suitable sire is found? If she comes into her heat cycle at the appropriate time? If the breeding takes? If there is a female pup with my name on her? Will all the extra time and energy from my recent retirement prove the difference maker down the road? But this is where the fun lies; in the things to come. Within the possibility. She might very well be my last bird dog. Maybe I’ll have one more down the road. No matter what, I can’t fend off the building of the excitement as I look out across the field and see the future quartering in front of me. I can’t help that my interest in what “could be” plays out like a movie soundtrack as a bird is retrieved to hand. I realize that I am mostly just along for the ride and that too many issues are not in my control but I am eager to see where this whole storyline takes us. Even the timeline is not mine to call but rather dependent on nature and her fickleness. Only my canine crystal ball knows the answers to these questions.
And then the true irony gets tossed into the mix. A couple of friends hired a guide for a few days in early October because we were without a dog at the time. While hunting with our guide, I fell in love with one of his large-headed little lemon-and-white-colored English Pointers. She was on loan from another kennel and he alluded to the fact she might indeed be for sale in the coming months. Her name was Aurora and she was going on six years of age but she was a pure hunter and a love bug to boot. I would have taken her in a heartbeat and the more we hunted together the more I fell under her spell. The guide told us that she was a kennel dog and had never been in the house as a pet. He was hoping Aurora might end up as a couch dog for the remainder of her life, that she deserved something of a soft ending from her rough beginnings as a working dog.
As I sat on the back porch drinking coffee the other morning, the phone rang. It was our guide, Brian, and he wanted to know if I had departed Wisconsin, yet. I told him I had just arrived back home. He informed me that my girl was for sale and at a song. Procuring her would mean a return trip to Wisconsin and included the risk of bringing a six-year-old kennel dog into our home.
Fire up the crystal ball. No telling where this one might be going.
Dave Bates writes a weekly outdoors column for the Observer-Reporter. He can be reached at alphaomegashootingsolutions@gmail.com