Firelight Bird Dogs

Firelight Bird Dogs

Wednesday, July 2, 2025

The Orvis Fly Rod

By Lynn Dee Galey

I’m not sure why I’m writing this here because it is off-topic from the Setters. It is a story about my Dad who was passionate about hunting and fishing. And it was my Dad who handed me a small collar for my 11th birthday and said the pick of the litter we had out of his Maggie was mine to keep for my first setter of my own.  So maybe this does fit here after all. 


My Fathers most treasured gift when he retired was a sweet little fly rod and reel from Orvis. He was a family man and would not have indulged in pricey gear for himself.  His more pedestrian rods and reels had always served him just fine.  But this little beauty was ideal for the streams and rivers in his beloved northwestern corner of Pennsylvania.  He put that rod and his retirement time to good use with countless little trips, yet always back home for lunch. 

The fish were not large but he didn’t care.  He practiced catch and release anyway. The challenge of convincing a trout to come out from beneath an overhanging bank and take his fly was enough. His time was long before artsy photos were taken to share a fisherman’s catch. The memories were enough. When I visited we would drive around and he would show me his “spots.”  Often they were small little streams, barely wider than his rod was long, riffles and pools to be seen only by those who walked along, shaded by tall hemlocks and moss covered banks. 

It was those moss covered banks that brought about his phone call to me one particular morning. His voice was sad and resigned as he described how he had slipped down a bank the day before. He fell onto and snapped the rod just above the smooth cork grip. After grieving overnight he had called Orvis to inquire about repair. This was long before the company’s “no questions asked” warranty. The service person who fielded his call was kind and listened to the story of how he came to own the rod as well as what had happened: she understood the importance of this little whip of gear. Rose assured him that they would do their best to repair the rod and instructed him how to send it attention to her name so she could help it through the process. 

He sighed as he told me that he instructed her to call with an estimate of cost before repair because his sense was that the repair would cost more than he could pay. As soon as we hung up I phoned the Orvis rod shop, which was only 4 doors down from my office in Manchester, VT, and I asked for Rose. Over the phone I sensed her smile as I said, "Here is my credit card number for the repair.  I don’t care how much it costs."

Less than two weeks later Dad excitedly told me that Rose had called saying the rod was repaired, “at no cost!”, and she gave him the FedEx tracking number as it had gone out that morning. 

But it never arrived. Despite multiple calls from Dad and Rose the rod was never found. Such sadness...until

about a month later when a different package arrived from Orvis. Inside was a brand new fly rod and a note from Rose saying that Orvis wanted him to get back to fishing. 

I inherited the rod too many years ago now. How I wish I could hand it and his net back to my Dad and send him off with one of my friends who guide nearby with their wooden AuSable longboats. They are good men and I know would make sure he didn’t slip on the banks. 





Saturday, June 14, 2025

5505

5505. That’s how many nights Storm has curled up on her blanket in her corner of my bed in her 15 years.  I don’t know what made me calculate that last night after she hopped up and settled in. 

I have had a setter sleeping at the foot of my bed since I was 11. I don’t want to know how many nights that is in total. Growing up, the family’s setters did not get onto the furniture yet my own dog did sleep on my bed. 

The spot on my bed had traditionally been reserved for the senior dog in my household. Yet Storm joined her mother, my beloved Tweed, when just a puppy. I don’t know why, some things I just don’t question.  When Tweed passed she left such a void that her other daughter, Sally, was invited to sleep on that corner of the bed. Sally’s passing last fall hit so hard that her spot remains empty in memory. Her granddaughter Dance slept there for a few nights last month when she was feeling lost after her puppies went to their homes. But she now contentedly sleeps next to her older daughter Crush on the sofa in the back living room. 

Several of the new puppy owners report that their young'uns are already sleeping in their bed with them, despite the best laid plans for them to sleep in a crate. Sometimes the circles of life are good dogs curled in a ball at the foot of the bed. 



Saturday, May 31, 2025

Pocket Tales: May 31. Empty Nest

Many ask how my dams react when their puppies leave to their homes. Dance has shown more attachment and concern than any other of my females.  She is such a good girl, perhaps tonight after the last pup flies off to Montana with her owner Dance will need to sleep in my room. 



Little girl sleeping alone for the first time. Curled up in the rocknbowl with her toy crown and dinosaur. 

Friday, May 30, 2025

Pocket Tales 5/30: Timing and down to 3

 An early morning trip to the vet showed that Pocket is still a couple of days from being ready to breed. Well, at least hormonally ready. Pocket is a force, aka Mob Boss, and last year intimated a stud so much that he refused to breed. I am trying a different stud this year in the hope that Pocket will like this boy better. Meanwhile I genuinely appreciate her hormones holding off until Dance’s pups have left so I will have the time to devote to driving Ms Boss to meet her suitor.

Six pups have left to their families with 4 going yesterday.  Reports back indicate everyone is doing well and having fun with owners actually getting some sleep. Just the 3 here this morning with 2 heading out this afternoon. Travel papers for border crossings and airlines are ready. Tonight, for one night, I will join the ranks of those with puppies adjusting to being without their littermates. Tomorrow it’s off to the airport to meet her family and she flies at their feet til home in Montana. 



Monday, May 26, 2025

Pocket Tales

We often forget that what is a way of life for us is quite unknown to others. It has been suggested that I journal about what it’s like for me having a pack of bird dogs and to plan and raise a litter. As I prepare to send my current litter off to their homes I am also juggling breeding Pocket for my next litter so this seems like a timely topic.  This is the first post, more over upcoming weeks.

I have only one or two litters a year, for many reasons. One huge reason for me is that I want a personal connection with the hunters I choose to get my puppies. Guys who are out there gunning over their dog 30-60+ days a year across the continent are the best way to get real-time feedback on the talent I’m producing. They are why I breed. With an average of 10 puppies in each litter, I simply would not be able to maintain good communication with more. 

I joke that I’m simply the social director for the puppies.  This morning is typical. A hunting buddy and his brother stopped in to visit; his brother had just missed out on a contract to buy his dream up-north house near here and consoled himself by sitting on the porch floor beneath a pile of puppies. As we chatted, a family who is getting one of these pups arrived. They had spent the holiday weekend up at their cabin and as such arrived in two vehicles full of kids and in-laws and joined us on the back porch. 

It’s now a couple hours later and quiet here once again as the others head back home. Dogs and puppies are sound asleep. Water bowls are cleaned and filled and it’s almost time for puppy lunch. I think I’ll do the same while I have the time. 

Puppies are good medicine


Monday, December 23, 2024

Gifts Wrapped in Belton Orange


"'There are two things got no place in this world," the Old Man said, "an old dog and an old man.  They perform no useful function, and generally smell bad, too.'"  -  Robert Ruark, The Old Man and the Boy (1957).

Christmas is nigh, and we've just come in from the cold, Seth, Casper, and I.  Like me, Seth needs more frequent comfort stops these days. Lately he summons me from his big orthopedic bed,  first with a series of low whines, then an indignant yammering bark, a stodgy English lord ringing for the butler who never gets to his master's chambers quickly enough.  Seth struggles to his feet while I put on my coat, his friend Casper, the terrorist terrier, dancing circles around us, taking up the conversation and reminding us that he needs to go out as well.

My great-grandfather's long strap of heavy sleigh bells hang inside the front door, our nod toward holiday decor.  They jingle all our way out to the cluttered porch where Seth gathers himself before easing down into the yard to make his rounds - truck tire, garden trellis, the perennial bush I planted last spring, the one with the name I can't ever remember.   Casper has already broken skim ice on the water bucket by the little garden cart. Seth joins him there for a long, loud drink.

I watch him there, tottery on an arthritic right stifle.  He blithely ignores the cranky little dog growling his objections to sharing the bucket.  I call them "Vincent" and "Julius" from the move Twins.  Like Julius, the Danny DeVito character, Casper is the product of the streets, a cagey, cocky stray adopted by my aunt out of a big city shelter. Seth is Arnold Schwarzenegger as "Vincent," the trusting, easy-going himbo who is forever wondering why our entire pack can't just get along.

The sun is out, but there's a chill wind blowing, and I'm grateful for the heavy fleece jacket.  If I don't chaperone, Seth will wander off, first to the pigeon loft to gaze up at birds loafing in their high aviary, then down into the barns just to see if there's a stray cat that needs pointing.  I remember a sporting photographer telling me that whenever a shot of a "hot point" is needed and there're no game birds handy, nothing makes a dog stand taller than a grouchy cat crouching in a wire cage.  The feral cats that ghost through our barns and loafing sheds won't hold, not even for a majestic, high-headed Seth point.  When they slip away,  the old dog shambles dejectedly back up to the house looking almost-but-not-quite-guilty.  Seth can't hear much, so he's apt to stand and wag his tail as I scold, "What are we doin' here?  Huh? Can you not just stick with the program of out-and-back-in?"


Today I am distracted putting some tools away.  When I look up, Seth is dog gone.  No faster than he walks these days, I know he's not far, and he's not - I find him trying to hoist himself up for a drink from the horses' water tank.  He acts surprised to see me and follows as I turn for the house.

Casper is barking at the door.  He is excited for his "We reported back like good dogs" treat from the big bag on the counter.  He is already bouncing there before Seth and I can jinglejangle back through the door.  An ear worm Christmas ditty twists into commentary on Seth's compromised gait:  "Sleigh bells ring/Are you listing?"  He gimps over to his own place near the treat bag, but lets Casper do the begging.  Seth always trusts that I'll hold up my end of any bargain;  Casper knows better.  Unlike Seth, he keeps score, recalling every time he's ever been shorted by my geriatric ADHD.


The dogs settle in as I drop back into my desk chair.  Holiday paper, scotch tape, and a pair of game shears, the only scissors I could find, are scattered on a low table by the desk.  The last several presents needing wrapped are stacked off to the side.  I check the football scores, go back into the kitchen to fetch the diet soda my doctor wants me to quit drinking, check messages to see if my friend Nick, hunting the last afternoon of our deer gun season, has a deer down and needs help.  This behavior is my version of Seth's wayward cat stalks: anything to keep from getting back to my fumble-fingered wrapping.  


 Seth's afternoon as baby sitter.

I hear Seth muttering as he works at getting comfortable on his bed.   We've both aged less than gracefully the past year.  For me, it was pneumonia that lingered for weeks, then a total shoulder replacement on the right side followed by five months of therapy.   For Seth, it's been the rise of arthritis in his right knee, the continued degradation of his hearing, as well as scattered incidents of what my vet calls "canine sundowner's," leaving him anxious and confused as the evening falls, sometimes through the night.  The big orange dog and I huddle together during those spells, our proof that we're brave for each other.  Always. 


In full retreat from Christmas chores now, I turn on the computer and pull up Seth's photo file. I browse scenes from Seth's time here with me and before with Lynn Dee.  The field portraits remind me that we're both retirees from Day Jobs we loved; I've never had a problem admitting that Seth was better at his than I ever was at mine.  


Strong, athletic, smart, sensible, the unfailing team player, Seth went to his game with an edgy confidence that pinned birds and made the shooter's role easy.  In his prime, he was fast and wide, confident and honest.  When he finished with an alder tangle or deep, aspen choked swale, we moved on.  Had there been a bird there, Seth would have been staunch downwind of it.

Woodcock hunting here in Ohio sometimes means punching into hells of saw briar, wild rose, and blackberry canes mean enough to test the toughest cordura field pants.  Seth would pile into those nasty patches, especially as he learned springtime woocock would rest in their shelter.  While I cringed, he'd bull through and come out the other end torn and bleeding, dog-smiling as if to say, "You, my man, know how to show a guy a good time!"  Never once when the cover was tough or the day extra long did he quit, hunting the whole way back to the truck every single time, even this season, literally on his last legs.

Did he ever get the bit in his teeth?  Sure.  But it was never with the self-hunting belligerence I've endured with other setters and pointers.  Seth was simply a determined dog with a lot of hunt, forever pushing cover.  He worked with a conviction that if the birds weren't Right Here, then they'd certainly be Right Over There, and he'd prove it to me if I would only swallow the whistle and stay out of his way.



From Seth's file, I click on one for the pointer Moxie, another for Fancy Dancer and Riley, still others for the good Aspenglow setters I followed for so long, photos from 42 years of pointing dogs. There are the recent pics of Firelights Deacon and Luke, and finally Lynn Dee Galey's Spice, Seth's granddaughter that Lynn Dee now lets me trail behind, all the while marveling at her bred-in gifts, smitten by her bright, quirky ways.  


It's the day after the Winter Solstice, and the night eases down like a slow curtain.  I turn off the computer and pretend not to see the family gifts yet to be wrapped.  Seth is stretched on his bed, breathing softly.  He doesn't hear me as I step into the kitchen, nor does he stir when the jingle door ushers Casper and me out for late chores.  We'll let sleeping Seths lie as we wrestle bags of dog food from the truck tailgate on to the porch and pour a bucket with kibble for the dogs who will eat outside. 

Their food bowls filled, Luke, Deacon, and the Labrador Finn don't even lift their heads at hoofbeats from fast stepping Amish harness horses clopping down our asphalt road, hastening buttoned up buggies full of my good neighbors to Sunday vespers.  Their church hall is north of the farm, and through the bare trees on my property line, I can see the glow of electric lanterns as men unhitch horses and lead them into the big barn parishioners built in a single day a couple of summers ago.  

Seth is standing at the door when Casper and I have finished, and of course, the first thing he wants is out.  I walk with him in the crisp December air, Venus already climbing the southwest sky.  I can't deny the small ache inside as the big dog dodders around the yard.  It seems like just the day before yesterday, he'd be an orange streak racing out into the hayfield to do his business, reluctantly trotting back up to the porch when I whistled.  


Presents With Presence:  Littermates Firelight Seth and the great Firelight Sally, Deacon's dam.

The season has me especially aware that every day with Seth has been a gift that I didn't deserve, full of the same kind of color and wonder and belonging that is the best of how my family and friends celebrate Christmas and Hanukka.  I like to think that every day Seth and I are together, we prove Robert Ruark wrong...at least the "function" part.  Our "function" is not letting how we are physically this evening make us forget how we've been so many other days and nights, hunting hard and living well.  My role is to remind him that everything's going to be alright.  His is to model being brave.

Always.



Wednesday, November 27, 2024

The Good Way

By Lynn Dee Galey

Today a texted photo and story made me give thanks before the calendar called for it on turkey day tomorrow.  

“Pup made a teenage boy very happy today. Young man’s first grouse over a point. It was as close to perfect as it gets and it’s an absolutely huge male. One of the biggest I’ve ever seen. Pup also made his owner very proud. I have always said one of the hardest birds to kill is a mature, male ruffed grouse. He was a rock star today, I can’t thank you enough for him!”

The young man is his daughter’s boyfriend and over two years had earned the invitation. Their day was a good one with my friend taking two grouse of his own.  I asked if the young man had taken a photo of him with his birds and his reply, “No. That’s ok. I have the memory and sometimes that’s enough.”

His modest reply is what being a hunter, a sportsman, a mentor, is all about. I’m proud to call him friend and thankful for the reminder of how good bird dogs impact our lives.