tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-59022311587641659222024-03-17T21:35:07.515-04:00Firelight ReflectionsReflections on bird dogs and a wingshooting lifestyle. Firelight Reflectionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03771521381576396886noreply@blogger.comBlogger200125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5902231158764165922.post-66972718247863355912024-03-10T14:49:00.220-04:002024-03-10T21:56:38.762-04:00Guyz Got Game<p>By Randy Lawrence</p><p>Painful admission: I have been a sexist pig for most of my gun dog life. I have traditionally owned, hunted, lived with (for) female English setters.</p><p>But when I hear bloviating self-appointed experts drone on about females being “more predacious” or males being “more focused in training” or females being "sweeter" or more "cooperative" or males being forever marking things and spoiling for a brawl, I'm the first to call "Meadow Muffins." Most of those sorts of notions stem from folktales, casual-at-best dog handlers, and weird anthropomorphic stereotypes. I simply liked a good dog; several of my best just happened to be females.</p>Still, I get it. Unlike other loathsome stereotypes, there are admitted biological considerations in bird dog girl/boy biases, especially with intact females who will absolutely come into heat on their schedule, not on the Division of Wildlife’s calendar of seasons. And yes, males require monitoring and managing regarding manners and jostling for pecking order (though anyone who has broken up a fight between females, four-legged or two, might agree that breaking up a male fracas is much less perilous).<div><br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVYlblPgH82DsUov1ie5b9wylC0Hu7epmn9FlcoBQna7aBWZ0_J5DfttPJAXllGgx4PSRMnX_8p-zU-dNUb8uJIF0jF7AEUvg_XQInsP-z82LyrUrF62f-fZ2WXMicM95eMpl6f8pLKyiNnFalQJk12O7EhC87S-ZWbaL5dfkZY8CookWWUfAOQCksUPw/s323/deacon%20side.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="323" data-original-width="319" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVYlblPgH82DsUov1ie5b9wylC0Hu7epmn9FlcoBQna7aBWZ0_J5DfttPJAXllGgx4PSRMnX_8p-zU-dNUb8uJIF0jF7AEUvg_XQInsP-z82LyrUrF62f-fZ2WXMicM95eMpl6f8pLKyiNnFalQJk12O7EhC87S-ZWbaL5dfkZY8CookWWUfAOQCksUPw/s320/deacon%20side.jpg" width="316" /></a></div><p>But in general, I believe issues of “maleness” in bird dogs are really handler issues. In a short online piece entitled "Dog or Bitch - What Makes the Best Gundog," the trainer of Great Britain's Fenway Labradors, Jeremy Hunt, writes "(A) well-trained dog is aware that he has to contain his amorous intentions in just the same way that he has had to master other parts of his training as a civilized male. For some owners that degree of control is not always achieved in their dogs and can be a lifetime nuisance."</p><p><br /></p><p>In other words, most, if not all, of that Billy Bad Boy marking and humping and macho posturing is a handler problem, not a "comes with the testicles" inevitability.</p><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi07rl-pJSm3VlbtOCiLJ_rdbI2IXUCFyPnJzWNTTYIqKlTNZSVo8sPwAQs0r4wKwjYcZEPNWoR01cuNZK8CSuh6fn_mnf5gvKOVob8qYKI9s3_lSrAC6zzYSd5oE10LwlZue2V0cReQffJSaAhJOrblihKlqrGqovFubsHw-qDqeBkynVeeSPR_6rtjNg/s1910/Deacon%20and%20Randy.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1910" data-original-width="1537" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi07rl-pJSm3VlbtOCiLJ_rdbI2IXUCFyPnJzWNTTYIqKlTNZSVo8sPwAQs0r4wKwjYcZEPNWoR01cuNZK8CSuh6fn_mnf5gvKOVob8qYKI9s3_lSrAC6zzYSd5oE10LwlZue2V0cReQffJSaAhJOrblihKlqrGqovFubsHw-qDqeBkynVeeSPR_6rtjNg/s320/Deacon%20and%20Randy.jpg" width="258" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>I am almost embarrassed to admit that there was a time when my bias toward females was rooted in that I saw a great working female setter or pointer as a sustainable enterprise, one that would keep friends and me in class gun dogs into perpetuity, whilst generating a little sump'n-sump'n for the coffers. <span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; display: inline; font-size: 12pt; text-size-adjust: 100%;">Ask any serious gun dog aficionado who's at least on his or her 2nd kennel-and-yard scoop about that, and you will hear hearty guffaws (or at least discreet chuckles). </span></p><p><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; display: inline; font-size: 12pt; text-size-adjust: 100%;"><br /></span></p><p>For most of us amateurs deluded enough to raise two or three litters in a lifetime, that notion of reproducing Her Nibs of Wingbeats or, worse, generating a windfall of shekels-for-puppies seldom works out. When it does, it's more serendipity than science. And once we've outfitted friends, family, and ourselves with that next generation puppy, where's the backyard breeder's market for responsible, well-suited hunting homes?</p><p><br /></p><p>We live and learn. While we’re at it, let's dispense with the 300-lb gorilla in the corner: the vets and quick-fix (pun gleefully intended) problem solvers whose answer to every behavioral issue even tangentially relative to our dogs' sexuality is drugs and scalpel. That's the subject for its own blog post, but briefly, especially where males are concerned, my own observations come down solidly with the aforementioned Jeremy Hunt at scribehound.com : "...(W)hile vets are now very keen to dismantle male dog parts with great enthusiasm from a young age, the only real advantage I see is that it removes the ability to deliver the goods rather than diffuses (sic) the sexual urge. So while it's never wise to make generalizations, I would say that castration does not always take away the sex-drive and is no auto cure to re-educating a dog that loves to go a 'bitching.'"</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-8sZETdoElooBRbt6yRPy-RgslnWVXDAFywPoYSeyBVL_xaQt1m-EPSRbI3rqq3lJRNDUklcrbWIjchQX15t4bkgrYyNvXfSBSIvDe02pabtqgPYLyrqyCswkWWo5VsQHbWJuz8KU8TGFBSftJxDjfXbyGS4hT3awxc0anwfW_-wCJrAqFqLLL2yT-KA/s800/IMG_2257.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="552" data-original-width="800" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-8sZETdoElooBRbt6yRPy-RgslnWVXDAFywPoYSeyBVL_xaQt1m-EPSRbI3rqq3lJRNDUklcrbWIjchQX15t4bkgrYyNvXfSBSIvDe02pabtqgPYLyrqyCswkWWo5VsQHbWJuz8KU8TGFBSftJxDjfXbyGS4hT3awxc0anwfW_-wCJrAqFqLLL2yT-KA/s320/IMG_2257.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>From the distaff side of things, spaying can have obvious and legitimate advantages for a working female, though not without certain concerns. Likewise hormonal alteration or behavioral drug administration for either sex makes me more than a little concerned about long term consequences and possible impact on field performance.</p><p><br /></p><p>So, all things considered, at this point in my life, when I look at a litter, it’s the male puppies I am watching. Sometimes, that’s an advantage in that we are living in a time which, for better or worse, has folks bent on a female, meaning there are often more males available from which to choose.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha0ES_YIWmo9MuWoj1vFxotYmpAM_jW3x3enzCbfoQ5LddGHMFiUv7lxoz5Yn3EUPn3xVPUH_rwRMFSDvyksWkaBDPleuC1zPE7n-rPXlqv5roidBqIhbqUUlOMthnaOjErb4vtzOnVkDVCEe3WMMbOW6nY-AettrOS9Up2BqbJ2zXw7JcWbuIkB2PYGw/s800/Deacon%20%207%20weeks.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="708" data-original-width="800" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha0ES_YIWmo9MuWoj1vFxotYmpAM_jW3x3enzCbfoQ5LddGHMFiUv7lxoz5Yn3EUPn3xVPUH_rwRMFSDvyksWkaBDPleuC1zPE7n-rPXlqv5roidBqIhbqUUlOMthnaOjErb4vtzOnVkDVCEe3WMMbOW6nY-AettrOS9Up2BqbJ2zXw7JcWbuIkB2PYGw/w246-h218/Deacon%20%207%20weeks.jpg" width="246" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>Beyond that, when folks ask, “Why a male?”, I nod toward the three male English setters and British Labrador who travel, hunt, and live day to day with me and each other with minimal supervision. Better yet, I hold up the example of my friend Flint, the intact Token Dude who amiably lives in a sea of progesterone at the Firelight home office.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGfuPNlz9ZERagCGwmT2I3zCEcfye0p-EddnASGTdmGRCgc_VXqOeKuFr-XndKvpj9LtfH1FS7eFv_9JZSL1S8TUWeR3yWB7L-XpdU4-vT_L4Ft53kccIwZ4oTjEioHDV99oedec-eKg-9ICYb3Q7j2D7g2uJ8panHPqdHFUvu4z59OKKPd5HS_uY-NZw/s720/IMG_3040.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="537" data-original-width="720" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGfuPNlz9ZERagCGwmT2I3zCEcfye0p-EddnASGTdmGRCgc_VXqOeKuFr-XndKvpj9LtfH1FS7eFv_9JZSL1S8TUWeR3yWB7L-XpdU4-vT_L4Ft53kccIwZ4oTjEioHDV99oedec-eKg-9ICYb3Q7j2D7g2uJ8panHPqdHFUvu4z59OKKPd5HS_uY-NZw/s320/IMG_3040.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div> <p>Flint is a bird hunter's bird dog. He trained early and naturally. He hunts to the gun with great application and stands his game with intensity. Around the vehicles between hunts and at the hearth at home, Flint is biddable, agreeable, and kindly. Bonded for life to his littermate, Kate, you can usually find him taking his leisure alongside her on one of the dog-dedicated divans scattered around the places where Lynn Dee Galey's pack vie to be wherever she is.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg9PIN1X8xiLMhS44NuXtVlY_K3TPWkJhJpnzkd3my6CHz52hSaeuXUub_x8tncvr2Ct-5fWs7_WykQC6saYFtkrpSpMh7daBRyzQe-MxX2LrM6SqvzvMLbafFLNCvPz4xkYSm2NBYsWOwHfpDeXwZlhXq8EK3BuEi22iUhyLx3WM6AbGAF_arLU4iZSc/s2160/IMG_1024.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1620" data-original-width="2160" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg9PIN1X8xiLMhS44NuXtVlY_K3TPWkJhJpnzkd3my6CHz52hSaeuXUub_x8tncvr2Ct-5fWs7_WykQC6saYFtkrpSpMh7daBRyzQe-MxX2LrM6SqvzvMLbafFLNCvPz4xkYSm2NBYsWOwHfpDeXwZlhXq8EK3BuEi22iUhyLx3WM6AbGAF_arLU4iZSc/s320/IMG_1024.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>Lynn Dee is not anybody's notion of a "common" dog handler. Flint hit the ground with Firelight brains and temperament, but Lynn Dee schooled "Uncle," Firelight Seth and Flint the same way as she does the females: gender is a fact, not an excuse. There <i>will</i> be order in the House of Firelight, regardless of personal plumbing.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUwxwaP8IWVM0srdPgQnCf4wR_1p2phT4O-O_C-uM_FWo1GbOw5m_rla89R-MIUIBFYVEn3pIvPKxrmIwKeIq1EF3_HU25Hm0gYo_iAVnVEBRpIHEarXElk8aXG5oGYYwoCm7JyExaIIb73hbhUcgMvTN2_QBq35XrD9ZT6W30WzOwklW2QuoxifntBzI/s708/IMG_2407.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="708" data-original-width="628" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUwxwaP8IWVM0srdPgQnCf4wR_1p2phT4O-O_C-uM_FWo1GbOw5m_rla89R-MIUIBFYVEn3pIvPKxrmIwKeIq1EF3_HU25Hm0gYo_iAVnVEBRpIHEarXElk8aXG5oGYYwoCm7JyExaIIb73hbhUcgMvTN2_QBq35XrD9ZT6W30WzOwklW2QuoxifntBzI/s320/IMG_2407.jpeg" width="284" /></a></div><p>The frat house that is this old farm has hummed right along without fevered longing, misplaced marking, or dopey male posturing (at <span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; display: inline; font-size: 12pt; text-size-adjust: 100%;">least from the dogs). But a few months back, we were graced by a self assured, rough and tumble young female named Firelight Spice, a prospect of uncommon precocity (if I do say so myself). Obviously, I am much smitten, as in the old days. But as </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">this brash, dark beauty finds her spot in our hunting and home rotation, Seth, Deacon, Luke, and Finn mind their gentlemanly etiquette and daily remind Spice and me that "guyz got game" too.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEuBgxrd9rTvU_0X-b7PKrDDyUMuoLY4bvUMuMV1wrexWrJzMtZ3SFzpgsa7Wth7_Qr4PtJ9VDpF4pc1GfLxCjM5vToWBJrVP7SHeFZxixvIjzYOxyjouUQOkHd6os0OyqzV0hk-yNIk7g72vSk-nHNac12p82X0dKQTI8q0pTH8q9LUV91i192Y18w9w/s872/IMG_3042.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="872" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEuBgxrd9rTvU_0X-b7PKrDDyUMuoLY4bvUMuMV1wrexWrJzMtZ3SFzpgsa7Wth7_Qr4PtJ9VDpF4pc1GfLxCjM5vToWBJrVP7SHeFZxixvIjzYOxyjouUQOkHd6os0OyqzV0hk-yNIk7g72vSk-nHNac12p82X0dKQTI8q0pTH8q9LUV91i192Y18w9w/s320/IMG_3042.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF_LpLC-ic_1SFUI-vPhM1-vn-3Vbl77m5Jl4TtH1FWFh6UIq9kSJsbUjF5ghi5mp4GvMTOPwJKr1x3M4cEJ1uS9na2lDVMXDzeQJd1gWVsjFbpAXOsPibyyULzgGIcz-2ld1qN4Uzl7xvIcHx42G09DoQqYrB9vrxbJnrQnnPDjHCfF8TyWc53UEo_28/s995/IMG_3045.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="995" data-original-width="994" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF_LpLC-ic_1SFUI-vPhM1-vn-3Vbl77m5Jl4TtH1FWFh6UIq9kSJsbUjF5ghi5mp4GvMTOPwJKr1x3M4cEJ1uS9na2lDVMXDzeQJd1gWVsjFbpAXOsPibyyULzgGIcz-2ld1qN4Uzl7xvIcHx42G09DoQqYrB9vrxbJnrQnnPDjHCfF8TyWc53UEo_28/s320/IMG_3045.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh82u8wgJX_2rOD3ASoXbQkVbbC8v3rGpDWQi9CSqUfrS5LySClqA26v_ihfME8-Zr7E1wSlryTiPELVxXKcEYL-uZqtE27ZyhFqz3cktlCy4N1l-udqsUHf5feJCw1CZacWfFgXABMm_B8ui_pHgI6S42QZU8BEYgy8x0iy_x2_a38Kz-LG2j-6j6WWjw/s1262/IMG_3877.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1262" data-original-width="1262" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh82u8wgJX_2rOD3ASoXbQkVbbC8v3rGpDWQi9CSqUfrS5LySClqA26v_ihfME8-Zr7E1wSlryTiPELVxXKcEYL-uZqtE27ZyhFqz3cktlCy4N1l-udqsUHf5feJCw1CZacWfFgXABMm_B8ui_pHgI6S42QZU8BEYgy8x0iy_x2_a38Kz-LG2j-6j6WWjw/s320/IMG_3877.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span><p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div>Randy Lawrencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01915125036121915292noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5902231158764165922.post-13671868036185255922024-03-09T11:18:00.009-05:002024-03-09T11:54:06.474-05:00A Glimpse Into Learning<p>The other day on her run, 10 month old Crush snapped into a point on the trail but after just a few seconds self released and continued on up the trail. About 30 yards later a grouse flushed wild only about 20 feet from her, unnoticed until the flush. She went crazy, working the area including backtracking to where she had hit that hint of scent. </p><p>Fast forward to today when I was fooling around trying to get some video, and I saw this:</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/o4ExbuJRDJo" style="height: auto; max-height: 80%; max-width: 80%; width: auto;" width="320" youtube-src-id="o4ExbuJRDJo"></iframe></div><br /><p>Swinging in to me, she hit scent; it didn’t pass the sniff test so she didn’t point but she also didn’t leave. Instead she turned and hunted up parallel to the trail. I can only imagine her nose was set on High at that moment.</p><p> This 11 second video shows learning. In that brief encounter the other day she learned to not totally dismiss, or dwell upon, what might have been only a hint of scent. Instead, today, Crush turned and worked the cover forward. </p><p>Lessons include me. I was reminded to trust my puppy to learn and do the right things. I was reminded of the value of my staying quiet and letting the birds be the teacher, not thinking that I know more. </p><p>Had I said "Whoa!" the other day when she hit point we maybe could have handled that particular bird. She maybe would have learned that a hint of scent plus whoa = bird. However, I imagine that dogs come across crumbs of scent hundreds of time each run and it would be very inefficient (and aggravating to me) if the dog stopped and pointed each time because she thought that’s what I wanted. I sure as heck don’t know what they are scenting or if there is indeed a bird there. That's why I have a dog. Had I interfered the other day she would not have had that mini lesson about running birds. She learned more from her own mistake and the grouse's response than I could ever teach her.</p><p> </p><p><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; display: inline; font-size: 12pt; text-size-adjust: 100%;">The photo below is of my puppy, later in the run, pointing a bird that proved to be quite a ways off.</span> Crush is proving to be a good student. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYlcknCZsXdVv2G1Yw4GKRsx5FkfqLvJHYrabL3mkOqtPry7ZgtWhMhx7yOTl68_uQzCvDfOz9-5eNDehR60lgRk7Bbap2iFlShtjyT1yENhIJuMzAjHfRiCQ43h2hFjNWeVhQDA4pcoqoUdqN4SUTYuDxql3oB7OFghTIAAKF8S_bilSXBo56NpLSv5w/s2224/IMG_3920.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2224" data-original-width="1668" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYlcknCZsXdVv2G1Yw4GKRsx5FkfqLvJHYrabL3mkOqtPry7ZgtWhMhx7yOTl68_uQzCvDfOz9-5eNDehR60lgRk7Bbap2iFlShtjyT1yENhIJuMzAjHfRiCQ43h2hFjNWeVhQDA4pcoqoUdqN4SUTYuDxql3oB7OFghTIAAKF8S_bilSXBo56NpLSv5w/s320/IMG_3920.jpeg" style="height: auto; max-height: 80%; max-width: 80%; width: auto;" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Firelight Reflectionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03771521381576396886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5902231158764165922.post-7613417296826304472024-02-22T16:24:00.003-05:002024-02-22T16:58:15.880-05:00Trial dogs and Llewellins - Oh My!<p> By Lynn Dee Galey</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">For years breeders have been breeding their Ryman-types to
Ryman-types, feeling it was perpetuating a good thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But genetic regression to the mean has
resulted in common opinions in the bird dog world of <a style="mso-comment-date: 20240222T1234; mso-comment-reference: RL_1;">Rymans</a></span><span class="MsoCommentReference"><span style="font-size: 8pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="mso-special-character: comment;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">such as
“in the field they are as exciting as watching paint dry” and “is he on point
or just standing there.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s sad, but
true as I have seen dogs that deserve that disheartening assessment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I try to see and hunt with dogs from as many
different lines as possible and also to watch field trials to give me
perspective. That is what began my path to outcrossing in my own breeding
program to continue my legacy of good looking traditional setters with a high dose
of talent and style.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">As someone who has been running setters since childhood and for
a couple of decades also had show champions, I am all about having excellent
bird finders who also please my eye.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
the field talent must come first in choosing breeding stock and talent can only
be determined by seeing it with your own eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Every owner loves to say that <a style="mso-comment-date: 20240222T1252; mso-comment-reference: RL_2;">their</a></span><span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"> birddog
is “a really good one” but before I will breed to a dog I want to do my own
experienced, objective assessment. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">There is a startling variety of hunting English Setters in the
US. But as Hall Carter of Old Hemlock </span></span><a><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Setters</span></span><span style="font-size: 10.6667px;"> </span></a></span><span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">and I
discussed one evening, really good bird dogs are simply really good bird dogs.
A really good hunting dog could be successful in certain types of trials and
the really good trial dogs can excel as hunters. It’s the “really good” that
makes the difference.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Neither dogs who
are boring to watch or dogs who are hyper and run into the next county are really
good ones.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">Intentionally I live smack dab in prime grouse habitat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Using wild birds for training and development
allows my dogs to show me what they really have. It is also handy when I want
to evaluate a potential stud dog and can simply invite them to come visit and
we “take a walk” if I won’t have the opportunity to hunt with them come
fall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">This past fall, much of my hunting season was dedicated to
developing puppies and a yearling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This
made for lots of fun and many, many trips into the woods.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Included in the group were one linebred
Firelight pup, a yearling outcross to a CH Llewellin, and puppies from an
outcross with some very famous trial champions behind their sire.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Too young for the fall was an “ace up my
sleeve” <a style="mso-comment-date: 20240222T1258; mso-comment-reference: RL_4;">of</a></span><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> a
beautiful granddaughter of my Seth, from the breeder of my very first <a style="mso-comment-date: 20240222T1309; mso-comment-parent: 5; mso-comment-reference: RL_6;"></a></span></span><a><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">English</span></span><span style="font-size: 10.6667px;"> </span></a></span><span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">back in
the ‘90’s. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">One must be very aware that outcross breedings are not a
matter of putting two dogs together and expecting that the puppies will be a
lovely blending of the most desirable traits of each parent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, in these youngsters, the results
were fun and promising. All of the youngsters are gentle, calm, biddable and
good looking. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The linebred girl will be
a solid, honest bird dog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Llewellin
yearling outcross (and her siblings) are smooth, fun and eye catching afield, very
productive bird finders and bird handlers for their age.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My two
trial outcross puppies are super exciting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Pointing grouse from 5 months, their search is advanced beyond their age;<a style="mso-comment-date: 20240222T1300; mso-comment-reference: RL_7;"> </a></span><span class="MsoCommentReference"><span style="font-size: 8pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="mso-special-character: comment;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">they slam
on to point and are cool and composed while holding birds. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">2024 will see Firelight females bred to an outcross of a
highly reputable “trial” line, a Llewellin outcross bred back to a Firelight <a style="mso-comment-date: 20240222T1300; mso-comment-reference: RL_8;">male</a>,</span><span style="font-size: 10.6667px; line-height: 107%;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">and a
linebred gal crossed to a very precocious old-blood Llewellin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It promises to be a fun year.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">Some of the youngsters from this past fall </span></p>
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</div>Firelight Reflectionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03771521381576396886noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5902231158764165922.post-2880906443445159292023-10-05T15:21:00.000-04:002023-10-05T15:21:09.474-04:00Male Dog or Female Dog?<p> <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">I am frequently asked which do I think is better, male
dogs or female dogs?</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">I’ll cut to the
chase with an answer that reminds me of writing reports in my career in educational
psychology:</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">There is greater difference between
individuals than between the two groups (genders.)</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">Hunter preference for one gender over the other seems to run
in waves. For a while the demand will be higher for males, then everyone wants
females.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, are there really differences
and what are they? <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_MFF2tuFVJFUuBAhlpoBmxxaK29Nz4I4xPh6fiDZ8UXhJkBnhyphenhyphenlnI2bzfgNjFfgPkOwRxXYk0gr93VNxDRc8rnU_YLLYZC0bDsLnVjH6MnGCxkkXKo_XgqBUPapeNNSKLxDDuKHf4h_HPW0TTQ4J-i-LxTipwU6zXNHI0K8LswHjWzfs06dpU6QS_hUM/s2228/IMG_2406.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2228" data-original-width="1570" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_MFF2tuFVJFUuBAhlpoBmxxaK29Nz4I4xPh6fiDZ8UXhJkBnhyphenhyphenlnI2bzfgNjFfgPkOwRxXYk0gr93VNxDRc8rnU_YLLYZC0bDsLnVjH6MnGCxkkXKo_XgqBUPapeNNSKLxDDuKHf4h_HPW0TTQ4J-i-LxTipwU6zXNHI0K8LswHjWzfs06dpU6QS_hUM/s320/IMG_2406.jpeg" width="225" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">With my dogs, the b</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">iggest real difference is going to be size.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My females are consistently 50 lbs, give or
take a couple pounds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My males have more
variability, ranging from 55-65 lbs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Size
is pretty much a personal preference.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Some hunters feel that the musculature and bigger size of my males gives
them an endurance advantage in thick cover, especially for those who hunt day
after day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Others feel that at 50 lbs
the females are lighter on their feet and more agile, giving them better
stamina. In the home and on your lap in front of the fire, some like that
smaller dogs take up less space. Smaller crates take up less room in a vehicle
as well.</span></li></ul><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: -0.25in;">Sexual maturity/desexing. No doubt, females coming into heat is a disadvantage. It's messy. We have to be so careful to keep her away from males and most boarding kennels won’t take a dog in heat. And don’t they always seem to come into heat during hunting season? If neutering the female is an option,</span> for multiple health reasons, the smart owner waits until she is at least 18 months before spaying so there will likely be at least one, maybe two heats to endure before the spay. Spaying is also costly; $500-800 seems pretty typical not to mention the risk of surgery which is minor, yet always worrisome.</span></li></ul><div></div>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle"></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">There is no real reason or advantage
to neutering a male; in fact studies show that doing so increases chances of
bone cancer and ACL injuries. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
question of a male marking in the house is simple: that is an obedience and
socialization issue, not a hormonal one, and falls under the same rules as
housebreaking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> The s</span>ame goes for “humping”
human legs or other pets.</span></li></ul><p></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">I breed for a smooth, shiny, low maintenance coat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Females, once spayed, typically undergo a
significant change in the quality and quantity of their coat. The texture
becomes fluffy and cottony and often more profuse which requires more grooming
especially after hunting. The same can happen if one neuters a male.</span></li></ul><p></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">I am often asked about gender personality differences. This is a tough one and definitely where I think that
individual differences matter more than gender. A broad generalization is that
my male dogs are perhaps more selfless and just want to be your buddy. They
want to ride shotgun in the truck and hang out with me in the workshop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They will lie on the hard floor just to rest
their head on my boot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My females are very
affectionate and will race to the door to go with me and want to be in the same
room as I, but once there they seek their own comfort on chairs, dog beds or
the sofa. In my experience, my females perhaps are a bit more focused on themselves, the males
on the owner.</span></li></ul><p></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="tab-stops: 84.0pt;"></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">Some
hunters have had the awful experience of a buddy having an aggressive dog that harasses
or attacks other dogs at the truck or at camp. Those attacks typically involve
males but I must say that I have never known one of my males to be aggressive. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A bad situation can create a problem, for
sure, but a well bred setter is simply not an aggressive dog. In fact I am
afraid my males would fare poorly in a dog fight as they just don’t have it in
them.</span></li></ul><p></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">Hunting prowess is also where the differences are individual, not
due to gender.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In 54 years of setters I
have not seen any quality difference in nose, run, bird finding, staunchness or
retrieve that I could attribute to gender.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></li></ul><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">So, the gender preference for me is a case of do what
I say and not what I do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I was to
have just one or two dogs as my personal gun dogs, they would be males. They
would be my low maintenance truck buddies. Instead, I have a pack full of
female dogs and only one male. But that is because I need females for breeding.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I do not believe in repeatedly breeding
to the same male(s) so I do not keep my own stud dogs; instead I seek out the
best stud for each breeding. My dogs are also with me for life. When I retire a
female from breeding she lives out her life as my gun dog and companion. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">So I think the male vs female debate largely falls back onto the old wise words that when shopping for a puppy - pick the breeder, then pick the litter, then just reach into the box and pick up a puppy.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMTEVcXvf1OolsaO6NnvvXx3Ht_GY-rKqb2NP1erdRKrqLiSeSeNN0rcSQOuMpJg_gZXuwRkgZxaJ0Dv8Xg6o4okslayPVk1HmlkbXjXijgCq17VpOKQt47GcNmrVbh12LPo8fD6j3H7bWSWq7yHuN2K5BQx30s7TJwWEgNLm2eiyab_QKv1AKOjol8WU/s708/IMG_2407.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="708" data-original-width="628" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMTEVcXvf1OolsaO6NnvvXx3Ht_GY-rKqb2NP1erdRKrqLiSeSeNN0rcSQOuMpJg_gZXuwRkgZxaJ0Dv8Xg6o4okslayPVk1HmlkbXjXijgCq17VpOKQt47GcNmrVbh12LPo8fD6j3H7bWSWq7yHuN2K5BQx30s7TJwWEgNLm2eiyab_QKv1AKOjol8WU/s320/IMG_2407.jpeg" width="284" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span><p></p>Firelight Reflectionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03771521381576396886noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5902231158764165922.post-9511762712977818282023-08-17T09:26:00.000-04:002023-08-17T09:26:19.073-04:00Abusing the Good Name of Others<p> <span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">by Lynn Dee Galey</span></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">A friend called today and asked my thoughts on a litter that
has puppies available and ready to go. The litter owner was encouraging him to
buy a puppy and told him that the sire was from the famous XX kennel and the
dam was from the equally respected ZZ kennel so the pups were going to be great.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My friend understandably was attracted
to the litter based on this pedigree since in past years his family had actually purchased
from both of the named kennels. After I did a little research and
checking I replied that I strongly could not recommend the litter. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My friend was surprised because he knows that
I like each of the lines behind the pups.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>So, what was the problem?</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Kennel ZZ and Kennel XX have both been breeding for
many years and they have worked hard to earn their strong reputation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Earned it through honest, ethical breeding
practices and dealings with other breeders and puppy buyers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The problem here is that the owner of this
litter is doing unethical things that the good breeders would never do yet they
are bragging and banking on those good names as a sales tool. This litter owner
is lying by omission by not telling potential buyers that their sire of the
litter has hip dysplasia and failed his OFA xrays: they are perhaps banking on
the fact that most buyers would just trust and not check the OFA database where
the dog’s dysplastic results are openly listed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In addition, the mother to the litter was bred at only 10 months of age,
she had her litter before turning 1 year old. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>IF the breeding was accidental, the ethical
thing to do would have been to have the vet spay the female right away to avoid
producing pups from this disastrous breeding. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Although the litter owner had been in recent contact
with the female’s breeder, they never told them about the litter, knowing that
the breeding was in direct violation of the purchase contract signed when
buying her as a puppy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The lesson here for puppy buyers is this: if in order
to sell puppies, someone is advertising other breeders kennel names from the pedigree,
contact the owners of the kennels being named.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Ask them if they endorse or recommend this breeding. If it is a quality
breeding involving their line they will be pleased to talk about why they think
it is a good litter and you will hear it straight from the source as to what
traits and characteristics their line is expected to contribute. Contact the
good breeders whose name is being used, you might also learn that the litter goes
against the very reputation they have worked to earn. That someone else is
simply trying to profit by using their name. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Honor the names of the good breeders and be an
informed buyer.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7FAoYg5fHc5a8F-Xw1YYAZZdRxhn31hPmD-aYIyN3nZhSl3nl5h7SOKgwsttNb3ux1zRalTPZEBCUJ9xjkX2YcEhZBuFFdfDyA0fr6qm7Z1D5wutu6faaq9wdfP-zjxQNtwSYdTOaB69x3OvOdohPkU_z59Oy4v4BipmFNVjtu5n5hfXelycejc42c1w/s240/Gus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="203" data-original-width="240" height="203" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7FAoYg5fHc5a8F-Xw1YYAZZdRxhn31hPmD-aYIyN3nZhSl3nl5h7SOKgwsttNb3ux1zRalTPZEBCUJ9xjkX2YcEhZBuFFdfDyA0fr6qm7Z1D5wutu6faaq9wdfP-zjxQNtwSYdTOaB69x3OvOdohPkU_z59Oy4v4BipmFNVjtu5n5hfXelycejc42c1w/s1600/Gus.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Note: Since I know that my friends will quickly ask, no, the dogs involved in this situation are not Firelight. </span></p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"></span><p></p>Firelight Reflectionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03771521381576396886noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5902231158764165922.post-46038989907399883982023-04-14T11:22:00.001-04:002023-04-14T11:22:51.567-04:00Diary Page of a Dog Breeder<div>by Lynn Dee Galey</div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-size: large;">2:00 am. I wake and hear Dance panting. It's too warm for April, with temperatures abruptly jumping into the 70's. The forecast says it will peak at 80 before falling back to the more comfortable (to this northern hermit) 50's and freezes at night. </span><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Dance takes a big drink and looks for a snack, a positive thing since she has been protesting this whole pregnancy and whelping process by snubbing nearly every food that I bought or prepared for her. At bedtime she had fallen for the "this is my sandwich but I'll share/give it to you" trick and ate a bologna sandwich (on whole grain oat bread, for those worried about nutrition). </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Continuing with her gourmet dining I now offer her a bit of well soaked kibble with a dollop of canned cat food on top. To my delight she eats it. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">I hear noise from Annie's puppy room and check the camera. She is in the box feeding her pups, and soon they are romping around her.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhanJLrb42Ql7JL8ibfi4cElZhwx8uIpOyywsLiVeOKSGKR2UoWAPh7EcpuALPsIYD20Ox-65pmPqVHy6DE3je6gwGOA7KxwO_hgrNrVw-V3oDZWJjLZ3N2N8khzN7R-jH2TypF8KiOS7jvz9sgMD8UimdFJF2RUZ2P97MDWEV-bX71ylcSU9p9WIQp/s2048/339707776_967854614383964_4943982462811819086_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="945" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhanJLrb42Ql7JL8ibfi4cElZhwx8uIpOyywsLiVeOKSGKR2UoWAPh7EcpuALPsIYD20Ox-65pmPqVHy6DE3je6gwGOA7KxwO_hgrNrVw-V3oDZWJjLZ3N2N8khzN7R-jH2TypF8KiOS7jvz9sgMD8UimdFJF2RUZ2P97MDWEV-bX71ylcSU9p9WIQp/s320/339707776_967854614383964_4943982462811819086_n.jpg" width="148" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">I let Dance out into the yard and stand on the porch listening to the dark quiet and looking up at the clear sky and stars. She quickly comes back in to return to her pups. I crack open the window above the bed and feel the fresh air drifting in as I return to bed. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">A moment of peace and satisfaction. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLfdUZZL_OQpjCWc4I17--d62Y_Z6fekkWG25qZcOPhwZv8X8yjf8yr9K74p69RLNlHnQ1OibMsCaMQgMHeJsSn51Y-xdVczN1MNOjLN8etG6VVeZUqcD3KxrwUxeV6fiJCtel-iqa8hmljfege5tVLYEcpxdNOByph12tAUAOnBlJnhuBh-OrJyYV/s1720/337993734_617409283228417_8712347865095207149_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1720" data-original-width="1290" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLfdUZZL_OQpjCWc4I17--d62Y_Z6fekkWG25qZcOPhwZv8X8yjf8yr9K74p69RLNlHnQ1OibMsCaMQgMHeJsSn51Y-xdVczN1MNOjLN8etG6VVeZUqcD3KxrwUxeV6fiJCtel-iqa8hmljfege5tVLYEcpxdNOByph12tAUAOnBlJnhuBh-OrJyYV/s320/337993734_617409283228417_8712347865095207149_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div></div>Firelight Reflectionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03771521381576396886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5902231158764165922.post-85865192686946069562023-03-11T17:37:00.000-05:002023-03-11T17:37:04.005-05:00Of Bird Dogs and Brio<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidBIfNYSCCHhSitsws0Gp26XoBWuszjyar9w0AilV2E0thhCJlFbWjY6WK8JVgjLzoZC4ZJYanBwyCPf8Na6hblj5GMAYQNicVFQ7qqzqjtXDIktp-8zLy4a9TJopGM4nxjaJOwQTPtrMRkCiywcTIlOC8UnTrywHySmasbNss7hlqer1Zny2U97NZJA/s992/IMG_7435.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="817" data-original-width="992" height="264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidBIfNYSCCHhSitsws0Gp26XoBWuszjyar9w0AilV2E0thhCJlFbWjY6WK8JVgjLzoZC4ZJYanBwyCPf8Na6hblj5GMAYQNicVFQ7qqzqjtXDIktp-8zLy4a9TJopGM4nxjaJOwQTPtrMRkCiywcTIlOC8UnTrywHySmasbNss7hlqer1Zny2U97NZJA/s320/IMG_7435.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>by Randy Lawrence</p><p>From the beginning, description of gun dog performance has cribbed some of its vocabulary from the world of horses. Perhaps that is rooted in fox hunting, where horse and hound are inextricably tied. But even we boot leather bird dog aficionados have been known to steal an expression or two.</p><p>Dogs and horses with unusual stamina are said to have "bottom." A canine or equine that goes off script, that is, becomes unresponsive to handler or rider, is described as having "the bit in his teeth." Much of what we value in a bird dog's gait comes from the free-flowing examples of the class saddle horse on the move.</p><p>A word to describe the most charismatic of horses is "brio," a term with Italian origins that my dictionary says stems from the early 18th century. That same dictionary defines "brio" as "enthusiastic vigor; vivacity; verve."</p><p>That belongs in the lexicon, for I like that in a dog.</p><p>One of the much ballyhooed virtues of the throwback type of English setter is a calm, low-key demeanor by which we set great store. The notion is that such a dog is much easier to live with than the high-wire hijinks of so many of the more modern bloodlines.</p><p>But some dogs are "calm" to the point of being phlegmatic. Doltish. "Drooling goobers," as a close friend has characterized them, seeming not to care whether school is in session or not. If it wasn't for the occasional tail wag, we might be tempted to put a palm to the rib cage to see if the dog is breathing. That kind of dog likely stays within skeet range while hunting, makes for a great fireplace andiron, and an easy pose for the family Christmas card.</p><p>But a Drooling Goober has nothing for my soul.</p><p>A dog can have spark, a big personality, an obvious enthusiasm for life beyond the feed pan, without being a wacked-out Odie from the <i>Garfield </i>cartoons. A dog with "brio" is one that is fun to live with, to school, to hunt over, because everything he does is done with a bit of dash, a measure of joy. That kind of dog is lovely to look at on the move, or in repose. He simply catches your eye just standing there.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij4MYuws8R_vbST5xOYETfa1J612Yie6tnCuZAcgs25066OOS7nPtaPZWDow5t1vrJGgXfT_-gG8GPY4Y2EKSSXFQ9Vo_88ht8oGAPu3aYJt34O0kGxQ6pYWtjl4FIah-sf6arYJ-mGeXuOb9hEFsDYGaWNXyDioPoTTDA0LMZMsOFucRzbG9Dz2eUOg/s1242/IMG_0711.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="835" data-original-width="1242" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij4MYuws8R_vbST5xOYETfa1J612Yie6tnCuZAcgs25066OOS7nPtaPZWDow5t1vrJGgXfT_-gG8GPY4Y2EKSSXFQ9Vo_88ht8oGAPu3aYJt34O0kGxQ6pYWtjl4FIah-sf6arYJ-mGeXuOb9hEFsDYGaWNXyDioPoTTDA0LMZMsOFucRzbG9Dz2eUOg/s320/IMG_0711.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8k4tOngGvoclRZCzC3Z8mf7H3rEiC6_zYECFtM4BWHqFnri3cEqhfFGqDpVW6UHzQwmViVLLhV7C4idllSrUTOepj5SmZr4QNcbqaAOlaHo7UypwtpVXR0QbpQYPP30bqjIe2SxLNj6clEbErgjSbODM-lIlphw-wky1HfMcrxkFbOLcYsG7683DgtQ/s995/IMG_3409.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="995" data-original-width="994" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8k4tOngGvoclRZCzC3Z8mf7H3rEiC6_zYECFtM4BWHqFnri3cEqhfFGqDpVW6UHzQwmViVLLhV7C4idllSrUTOepj5SmZr4QNcbqaAOlaHo7UypwtpVXR0QbpQYPP30bqjIe2SxLNj6clEbErgjSbODM-lIlphw-wky1HfMcrxkFbOLcYsG7683DgtQ/s320/IMG_3409.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>A thoughtful gun dog breeder once wrote that we gravitate toward certain dogs for the same reasons we gravitate toward certain people. I like people who are upbeat and expressive. People who are quirky. Original. Happy in their work and play. People who understand when it's OK to be playful and when it's time to get down to business.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie8_Y4ZvCoYPsOFy-jBQI3h-BbgS2Rnbldod-soNf560OR_KyXBeIo7BE9c_IC0Ry8ftjakksSOO8gjaxsf3lCVyd4K-QkvPWJTB1R8RPR7m3dWcu0Txawyvoz8aX0qazhVLD-SMEfRcknT1AIiCuRsy4ICBeO_imMOuO-AJ45N1JV9qscr4Q9xKwSog/s2048/4C212A97-A857-4983-83D1-44343BC01B19.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1669" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie8_Y4ZvCoYPsOFy-jBQI3h-BbgS2Rnbldod-soNf560OR_KyXBeIo7BE9c_IC0Ry8ftjakksSOO8gjaxsf3lCVyd4K-QkvPWJTB1R8RPR7m3dWcu0Txawyvoz8aX0qazhVLD-SMEfRcknT1AIiCuRsy4ICBeO_imMOuO-AJ45N1JV9qscr4Q9xKwSog/s320/4C212A97-A857-4983-83D1-44343BC01B19.jpeg" width="261" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg74lImq5YdC6Ho_oZta0Qsja3wbNAk3kVCQ8yO57THOXiBz4bh8BJphBwPp5M-OGnP8S5ZXci4iLPwbfGzhcQTt-WiAwTypIwqp0HxtlyHkdSNj_Xn0detpBBWIEzgDV_WZsryOulsLtAUY5dguekvtoOMF6BaBA27Ge5OknyYEn23BJ1U1bDaLO1DXw/s1025/IMG_6131.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="882" data-original-width="1025" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg74lImq5YdC6Ho_oZta0Qsja3wbNAk3kVCQ8yO57THOXiBz4bh8BJphBwPp5M-OGnP8S5ZXci4iLPwbfGzhcQTt-WiAwTypIwqp0HxtlyHkdSNj_Xn0detpBBWIEzgDV_WZsryOulsLtAUY5dguekvtoOMF6BaBA27Ge5OknyYEn23BJ1U1bDaLO1DXw/s320/IMG_6131.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"> </span><b style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></b></div><div><p>That's Firelight Seth. He is, as the young folks say, "a good hang." </p><p>When Seth is in the room, I have trouble not watching him. Not hall monitor watching, as with some of my other crew members, but watching to see what he's doing or thinking...because Seth is no poker player. I know where his head is at most of the time. He gets all sober and thinks. He laughs. He is also a bit of a worrier, Seth, and right now, his concern that Luke or the puppy Patch will cadge a toy that he might want has him lying near my desk with a plush buffalo, a Kong, and one of those thick rope do-hickeys between his paws where he rests his head and watches his housemates, also making sure where he is lying conveniently keeps Luke and the puppy from being closer to my chair. </p><p>Seth bogarts all the Good Stuff that he had to do without in another blighted period of his life.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7FpY0xq5nD5bNtQMjqvDk3g1tvrdA2ld7mAfDhIikpwIVGdbjRlr_MwKRg2kYMIyN5oESQkdxHVXMLL6slazHT8DF2p8SC1uvC4nYYO-BP_hDwW36T0dgfA9kr2DoZ9NQxnZoTUNP4DioA7hj2QQFtsXXHVDGXt-PUUsYfIZb1f6sGQMM_Y7QXdmgpQ/s1020/IMG_3392.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="967" data-original-width="1020" height="303" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7FpY0xq5nD5bNtQMjqvDk3g1tvrdA2ld7mAfDhIikpwIVGdbjRlr_MwKRg2kYMIyN5oESQkdxHVXMLL6slazHT8DF2p8SC1uvC4nYYO-BP_hDwW36T0dgfA9kr2DoZ9NQxnZoTUNP4DioA7hj2QQFtsXXHVDGXt-PUUsYfIZb1f6sGQMM_Y7QXdmgpQ/s320/IMG_3392.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><p>He is also incredibly patient with younger dogs. When called upon to babysit the pointer puppy McNab, Seth put on a brave face, but his eyes were pleading. "What manner of fresh Hell is this? Can you please help a brotha out over here?"</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTAk-3IvhnjuTRt-GfA2N2PuptFu_Mx5SMenKB6p9hiYWSCtyrOwGuN39Rz7wBJ7j45IUQfROjs4rkb5v8wRNXw-Xr6M2P0Bm8z4oPwsTzkUpbxcCnfk4-hdYNoKDBx1qxByQjc1cFE-UT_g6O_jrLyjEQfqtHTi15VGk6NoMZbbvrRNEdb-jAL-wIaA/s2883/IMG_4030.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2883" data-original-width="2251" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTAk-3IvhnjuTRt-GfA2N2PuptFu_Mx5SMenKB6p9hiYWSCtyrOwGuN39Rz7wBJ7j45IUQfROjs4rkb5v8wRNXw-Xr6M2P0Bm8z4oPwsTzkUpbxcCnfk4-hdYNoKDBx1qxByQjc1cFE-UT_g6O_jrLyjEQfqtHTi15VGk6NoMZbbvrRNEdb-jAL-wIaA/s320/IMG_4030.jpeg" width="250" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p>A freakishly mild February has the woodcock back in our home covert on the earliest date in recent memory. I have watched different dogs take on the thickets of cane briar in and around our several acres of black alders for 33 years. Most of my dogs slow down and pick their way through; even some of the most confident pointers and setters we've run on this farm - Riley, Doc, Fancy, Dusk, Deacon, Moxie - have gone at that covert with a measure of, shall we say, "discretion."</p><p>Not Seth. His SOP is, "Where's the first tee? What's the course record? Hand me the driver!"</p><p>His tail cracks as he pushes cover, juking like a cutting horse on a cow, skirting the meanest parts on the down wind side, slowing only slightly when his nose catches Something Different. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvuUEY5-QfCCgXVQaQZUzbKKfDUjmI1HogXzzyzF37Kto9Wf4nwT4e1JwtnKrKiX49QvPcztnjsRiG2LVmpw4FRffsS_XiSSNOl_HZkxC2f5GmGueT0HN7CUTLUmLPHyeVy_eHho81WqO5yzEcCKLe5_-38sn5xiATwfhLenQKoHJQUYqWCmZrsqcKvQ/s640/DSC00046.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="407" data-original-width="640" height="204" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvuUEY5-QfCCgXVQaQZUzbKKfDUjmI1HogXzzyzF37Kto9Wf4nwT4e1JwtnKrKiX49QvPcztnjsRiG2LVmpw4FRffsS_XiSSNOl_HZkxC2f5GmGueT0HN7CUTLUmLPHyeVy_eHho81WqO5yzEcCKLe5_-38sn5xiATwfhLenQKoHJQUYqWCmZrsqcKvQ/s320/DSC00046.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>For a big dog, Seth is cat footed. I don't hear him pounding the turf. He flows through the meanest cover with a big flowing gait that is both powerful and agile. When he is solo, especially here on his home turf, he is wider, stretching his range to the very edge of his collar bell because he knows where the birds (and I) should be. </p><p> He checks in without coming in. He knows his business, and I try hard to stay out of his way. I will sing to him- "Heeeeeeeeey, YEP! Yep, Yep!" - the way the field trialers do, like my old friend Bob did on this farm for 40 years, whenever we want to change directions. A dog like Seth will retire a fella's whistle.</p><p>The only thing hotter than the unseasonable air is one of his signature points, tail up, head slightly down, ears forward as I wade into the thick 'n' thorny to get his bird in the air.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilIEEsU7nvg-ctgzp63xjXJhOsbOVbxXv5kHnmUzbpVHB9hP8vWjQHNvRaNLei4NPS5vhEbOEFp1B0kVeGq4qWofeltA7Q1l2PEhoJEto_3Ouut48sEI09qoQUKjL6hlWvgkvyt3YvVjoe7aQltRCEeNq6g69AOy3hx069MIulh9lMWECZKfY68E6VGQ/s1833/IMG_7440.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1833" data-original-width="1833" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilIEEsU7nvg-ctgzp63xjXJhOsbOVbxXv5kHnmUzbpVHB9hP8vWjQHNvRaNLei4NPS5vhEbOEFp1B0kVeGq4qWofeltA7Q1l2PEhoJEto_3Ouut48sEI09qoQUKjL6hlWvgkvyt3YvVjoe7aQltRCEeNq6g69AOy3hx069MIulh9lMWECZKfY68E6VGQ/s320/IMG_7440.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>He bulls in at the flush, and, shame on me, I let him, the blank gun's report a sort of benediction/exclamation point. If he swings back, I'll call him in and set him up where he pointed. If he doesn't, well, today, I am not inclined to play a game of Wannabe Trainer With An Old Dog Who Knows Better. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikCYifKl6hrhz9x2pMnweco3n5afYQ8R-JkErEhdHwxEaP--kn1nEnbFTJVyZ4umDT0nX0yg99hq5NEZitbbUnbWG35IpSkSXtdtFkPvuJytpBRV-e2_7bjPmZu4ysR5ty_RAZrhO3-B_vWRfgQ1b-78_iGwFaCkeC7tW-egok17JNWVmaCjHt1g6i_A/s2174/IMG_7433.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2174" data-original-width="2174" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikCYifKl6hrhz9x2pMnweco3n5afYQ8R-JkErEhdHwxEaP--kn1nEnbFTJVyZ4umDT0nX0yg99hq5NEZitbbUnbWG35IpSkSXtdtFkPvuJytpBRV-e2_7bjPmZu4ysR5ty_RAZrhO3-B_vWRfgQ1b-78_iGwFaCkeC7tW-egok17JNWVmaCjHt1g6i_A/s320/IMG_7433.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p>Today, we're totally simpatico: after this long, frustrating winter, I want to get on with it. I want to see if there are woodcock along the old fence row, across the creek, in the paper birches that have sprouted in the old wetland impoundment across the lazy bend of the little creek...because...well...we're having a good time.<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7FMTrcwhY-iE1Ip5eBr4sr1oP9zavka0OMb0ruTnOOn8qP4NWmaCuLA5t0b5N5L0zUbp3BMzB-vgQSzK9IAtTu-uOX_kQ6xQ56LtCsHrGhhJdvV_uBP_ZYolcR-VjzP0ccXt0YoncwIMP8ym-KtxuwLLs8_vt5W07-ZirRV9YLgtxL7WxMfKgk2sCBw/s1683/5C191844-A018-4546-8521-DE394F0DDBE2.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="844" data-original-width="1683" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7FMTrcwhY-iE1Ip5eBr4sr1oP9zavka0OMb0ruTnOOn8qP4NWmaCuLA5t0b5N5L0zUbp3BMzB-vgQSzK9IAtTu-uOX_kQ6xQ56LtCsHrGhhJdvV_uBP_ZYolcR-VjzP0ccXt0YoncwIMP8ym-KtxuwLLs8_vt5W07-ZirRV9YLgtxL7WxMfKgk2sCBw/s320/5C191844-A018-4546-8521-DE394F0DDBE2.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>Later, when I sing him around toward the brushy draws on the hillside, he's like a kid being pulled off the best roller coaster at the county fair, glancing back over his shoulder as if all of those spindly alders are going to pack up and leave before he gets another ticket to ride.</p><p>But he's grinning when runs by, head up, happy to be working, happy to be into birds...happier still when the slip lead stays in my vest and he knows we're simply regrouping for another go. </p><p>His white and orange silhouette flashes in the pale late winter sun, slicing up those hillside thickets with "vigor, vivacity, and verve."</p><p>With brio. I like that in a dog. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkotkr0nO9LSdLZgI_th9ylWrF4PKG6werzfImEJbK5cvU_PNr_4i3LKxuhYit00C80ucMUCCYdiXrXGfg2sNAvfdW7bWDJ8JjvkOEopMOkxaKZ4GAfBXif-qeETx0rqsiFf9j2bnjaKhBRG-sw30XXx8C-Pu0vKGtZ3AGt_amXPKfOTkbA9WbWl3upg/s2048/779E98EA-2693-4885-915F-18121AC6F7C2.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1886" data-original-width="2048" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkotkr0nO9LSdLZgI_th9ylWrF4PKG6werzfImEJbK5cvU_PNr_4i3LKxuhYit00C80ucMUCCYdiXrXGfg2sNAvfdW7bWDJ8JjvkOEopMOkxaKZ4GAfBXif-qeETx0rqsiFf9j2bnjaKhBRG-sw30XXx8C-Pu0vKGtZ3AGt_amXPKfOTkbA9WbWl3upg/s320/779E98EA-2693-4885-915F-18121AC6F7C2.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p><br /></p><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p></div>Randy Lawrencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01915125036121915292noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5902231158764165922.post-32557752984682266202022-11-25T16:40:00.002-05:002022-11-25T16:53:37.956-05:00Rough Fall<p>by Lynn Dee Galey</p><p>Hunter's blogs are typically about glory days, full of birds, steady dogs and steadier guns. Like many others, I have a huge catalog of photos from so many of those days across the many years. And there will be many more to come, I'm sure. But this years entries are not as plentiful as most years and I have come to discover that I'm not alone.</p><p>We don't read much about are when things out of our control fail to align yet have considerable impact on our hunting. This piece has been percolating in my brain after similar conversations with several very good grouse hunters. Three of those hunters are friends that I consider "1 percenters" on ruffed grouse. These are guys who know grouse and habitat inside and out and talk about the diet and habits of grouse as thoroughly as some do their children. Their bar is set high for how their dogs handle birds and the dog is to set them up for efficient, productive gunning. But the common thread heard in each of our conversations is that this has been a very rough fall on ruffs for each of us with fewer hours on the ground and fewer birds in the bag. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhavVEt2JzBriMNRShOqbAEYN-T7xlsATG1TIxPbrylxLvsmZeD43utJ8xXf_UaUHWaQYFUWocckE18geepABY2p5ravRZFTYJiv_l0KdrYhimVY6M4IaIqQvhtnlFggy9MBwuvJeZQH51RkycCzxZDg3BTSms_r1pHf99t8SznGzvTGuwF8wi8LnRy/s876/Add%20Watermark_2021_12_16_11_40_38.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="876" data-original-width="843" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhavVEt2JzBriMNRShOqbAEYN-T7xlsATG1TIxPbrylxLvsmZeD43utJ8xXf_UaUHWaQYFUWocckE18geepABY2p5ravRZFTYJiv_l0KdrYhimVY6M4IaIqQvhtnlFggy9MBwuvJeZQH51RkycCzxZDg3BTSms_r1pHf99t8SznGzvTGuwF8wi8LnRy/s320/Add%20Watermark_2021_12_16_11_40_38.jpg" width="308" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Weather came up as a big player this year with temperatures much too warm, many days getting into the 70s. It was possible to get out for a short hunt early in the day, coming back to the truck sweaty and hot and dogs played out by the water buckets. But to those of us who typically hunt 50+ days in the early season it felt wrong. We couldn't get into the usual rhythm of the Fall, when this year we would wake in the morning and feel in the air that it was already warmer than we like to hunt. Too often we would pull on shorts and a tshirt instead of hunting pants and boots and disappointed dogs would sigh and go lie down.<p></p><p>Conditions were dry, too. Bone dry. The rustling of leaves on the ground makes for good word play but serves as a loud alarm for wildlife, and birds were heard but not often seen as they blew out far ahead even in front of solid dogs. The warmth however seemed to attract an ever-increasing number of out of state and downstate hunters and every pull off was well worn from truck tires. Tailgate photos from those folks showed numbers of woodcock and maybe a single grouse. It apparently was a good year for woodcock hunters.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh-BynXlpu2BY2VHr9ofhAQSHWaDwWQsTzoBQURYbhrZWybWGGTYkR1PlS99wD_qm9w17P-09lRSlNeL3W5yFP6hGahYyzwKTa234fMPJkOzYZlHKxOY8ExA_NfcGrZEmQP50_4cwGpHU59OMeWmt0R0t8HH0OBxQqGuYK5nMHAwnd-yNLiQV0drK88" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="172" data-original-width="293" height="188" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh-BynXlpu2BY2VHr9ofhAQSHWaDwWQsTzoBQURYbhrZWybWGGTYkR1PlS99wD_qm9w17P-09lRSlNeL3W5yFP6hGahYyzwKTa234fMPJkOzYZlHKxOY8ExA_NfcGrZEmQP50_4cwGpHU59OMeWmt0R0t8HH0OBxQqGuYK5nMHAwnd-yNLiQV0drK88" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Employment and jobs this year played a bigger role than usual for friends. I'm not sure if it is a reflection of the instability of our country's economy or perhaps a phase related to the age of my friends, but job losses and job demands devoured many hours for several friends. These are folks who normally have their work and hunting schedules ironed out months in advance for a seamless number of weeks of hunting. </p><p>Personally this fall I struggled with multiple dog injuries which is very unusual for my crew of 7. I literally go years without any dog issues but this fall some of the dogs spent all of their allowance at the vets and weeks at home on the DL. With my vet being an hour drive each way, each visit interrupts a whole day. My vet is a bird hunter herself and just yesterday when she walked in and saw me sitting there again asked, "What are your dogs doing to you lately?!!"</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEitY_B-VUSyd63KVB1hcGFMEwrUIjWuaXV7QCnEAdEfv6zhVGhNK9xbRHxYwqhacW1aj9gR3Xh2PTLIE_hUB3xhUteJWjurXBBEx36CeXTN4HtY3E9q4ecOiUY1Ldbwc_Txk5xpA6LOpBODkgkCd0hAw47Ll8jspwwUS5XXjfHsm75WzKQtIOZuCIaS" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="206" data-original-width="155" height="203" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEitY_B-VUSyd63KVB1hcGFMEwrUIjWuaXV7QCnEAdEfv6zhVGhNK9xbRHxYwqhacW1aj9gR3Xh2PTLIE_hUB3xhUteJWjurXBBEx36CeXTN4HtY3E9q4ecOiUY1Ldbwc_Txk5xpA6LOpBODkgkCd0hAw47Ll8jspwwUS5XXjfHsm75WzKQtIOZuCIaS=w153-h203" width="153" /></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiQZzh58t2up-SIsjwSM8Y5cIRdBwo0LtJkubfbbleVjpHU2KBPwJ44UHGETGTdpgG58Nfd_MZOMP2eGlvnNbo2FUCuUhldrjxGslYEQjWXR0gr32Lwm-XysCZAchOtCpl0PKdAukuMdLmAL3m-c0QqX1AiRXQeo4dhi91AHqYoNEukkLw_RBIXcmLs" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="203" data-original-width="168" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiQZzh58t2up-SIsjwSM8Y5cIRdBwo0LtJkubfbbleVjpHU2KBPwJ44UHGETGTdpgG58Nfd_MZOMP2eGlvnNbo2FUCuUhldrjxGslYEQjWXR0gr32Lwm-XysCZAchOtCpl0PKdAukuMdLmAL3m-c0QqX1AiRXQeo4dhi91AHqYoNEukkLw_RBIXcmLs=w166-h200" width="166" /></a><br /><br /></div><p></p><p>I don't write this to whine or complain and conversations with friends were not whine sessions either. Just an observation, more of a surprise, or disappointment. We each still had memorable days this year, just not as many, and it all felt a bit out of sync. We each hope that late season in December will offer good days yet to come. The 18" or so of snow out my door is taunting our optimism, but the collars, boots and gun are all still sitting near the door. </p><p><br /></p>Firelight Reflectionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03771521381576396886noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5902231158764165922.post-47629232319779598512022-10-19T12:22:00.001-04:002022-10-20T21:45:14.428-04:00They Don’t Know…<p><br /></p><p>“They tell you not to cry.</p><p>They tell you he's just a dog, not a human.</p><p>They tell you it will pass.</p><p>They tell you that animals do not know that they must die.</p><p>They tell you that the important thing is not to make them suffer.</p><p>They tell you that you can get another one.</p><p>They tell you it will happen.</p><p>They tell you there are more unbearable pains.</p><p>But they don't know how many times you've looked your dog in the eye.</p><p>They don't know how many times it was you and your dog that looked in the dark.</p><p>They don't know how many times your dog was the only one by your side.</p><p>They don't know that the only one who hasn't judged you is your dog.</p><p>They don't know how scared you were the night his moans woke you up.</p><p>They don't know how many times your dog has slept next to you.</p><p>They don't know how much you've changed since the dog became a part of your life.</p><p>They don't know how many times you hugged him when he was sick.</p><p>They don't know how many times you pretended not to see when his hair was getting whiter and whiter.</p><p>They don't know how many times you've talked to your dog, the only one who really listens to you.</p><p>They don't know how good you were to your dog.</p><p>Little do they know that only your dog knew you were in pain.</p><p>They don't know what it's like to see your old dog trying to come over and say hello.</p><p>They don't know that when things go wrong, the only one who isn't gone is your dog.</p><p>They don't know that your dog trusts you, every moment of his life, even at the last moment.</p><p>They don't know how much your dog loved you and how little he needed to be happy, because you were enough for him.</p><p>They don't know that crying for a dog is one of the noblest, most meaningful, truest and purest things you can do.</p><p>They don't know about the last time you rocked him hard ... being careful not to hurt him.</p><p>They don't know what you felt when you caressed his face in the last moments of his life"</p><p><br /></p><p>- author unknown</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihPaYuf7pzKmDOHfoThndRurl3SGw3wF3-iQuC_lfdJbdr9PnprSxFq_4X4bZllVDsMxCWX6mWvcc9q9B27GiJ1uNKe_0dr5Rl9vqAugGJa8tG4ve6T5L2PDfUpMy88YQEM1abTtFY41p6TM7gUPVoQwKMkuXSfA9LDvkqLHixsv0JTA32B1C1PyZS/s4032/355B25AB-268E-4C77-8335-6B327986D57F.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihPaYuf7pzKmDOHfoThndRurl3SGw3wF3-iQuC_lfdJbdr9PnprSxFq_4X4bZllVDsMxCWX6mWvcc9q9B27GiJ1uNKe_0dr5Rl9vqAugGJa8tG4ve6T5L2PDfUpMy88YQEM1abTtFY41p6TM7gUPVoQwKMkuXSfA9LDvkqLHixsv0JTA32B1C1PyZS/s320/355B25AB-268E-4C77-8335-6B327986D57F.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p>I probably need to add that I have not experienced a recent loss at my kennel but I share this for all dog lovers and especially for two dear friends whose own tears are streaming this week. </p>Firelight Reflectionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03771521381576396886noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5902231158764165922.post-83486763528146993122022-10-08T12:02:00.001-04:002022-10-08T12:02:44.477-04:00Beeps and Bells, Tech in the Field<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgZSD7VuAyeJJFcBSrhydLlrhKGNdAntNoPFdZoLnv6Sm84CFBRzC_SYe5MLQvwI1y9vkpEThC_p5jkolya6y85cOcvJFyX0UPJblF1uLyrHXT1BhS35yWfHZZ_z7ulZ2kBZHBkQfNVe9Cv9G7N0yNSdIloZc91_Z_1ar0-FfHPWGmQY2piU9mhpm5F" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgZSD7VuAyeJJFcBSrhydLlrhKGNdAntNoPFdZoLnv6Sm84CFBRzC_SYe5MLQvwI1y9vkpEThC_p5jkolya6y85cOcvJFyX0UPJblF1uLyrHXT1BhS35yWfHZZ_z7ulZ2kBZHBkQfNVe9Cv9G7N0yNSdIloZc91_Z_1ar0-FfHPWGmQY2piU9mhpm5F" width="180" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">Friends will recognize this as the ever-present mess
at the end of my kitchen table. But what it represents is my conflicted participation
in technology in the field.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">I started using GPS collars many years ago when my finest
grouse dog ever, Patch, was almost 12. I watched her one day in the woods as
she stood paused on a check back to where I was and I realized that her hearing
was failing. Her increasing deafness meant that she was unable to track my
opposite-of-deer-stealth through the woods and if she could not catch a glimpse
of my movement then she didn’t know where I was. I figured that if she was
unable to locate me then I had better be able to find her. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So an ugly, clumsy Astro collar joined her
simple leather collar with the brass bell, and a handheld unit took up space in
my minimal vest.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">After Patch passed, the Astro was used only in
Montana and Kansas where the dogs range far and wide and can be on point 400
yards away without me knowing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many visitors
feel that the woods here in northern Michigan are vast and remote but in
reality, roads and atv trails are crisscrossed throughout and never far away. <o:p></o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 18.6667px;">Being able to look at the handheld and see where my dogs are has become a crutch of sorts and I use the collars daily.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">This year I added a Fenix watch which works along with the
Garmin handheld and despite my initial thoughts that it was overdosing on
technology I have to admit that it actually simplifies things. A quick glance at
my wrist tells me distance and direction for each dog and I just leave the bulky
handheld in my pocket. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 484.8pt;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">I still don’t use the
stimulation/shock option on the collars; I simply don’t need them for my dogs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, I have trained them to come around
when I tone (beep) them on the collar which works well on windy days when they cannot hear my somewhat
puny lip whistle and I am making a turn or heading back.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 484.8pt;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">So, each day I come
home and dump the mess of gadgets on the table and dutifully plug them into
their chargers. When ready to go again the collars beep as I turn them on, I put
the handheld into the vest, the watch on my wrist, and the dogs all dance at
the door, each hoping that it is their turn to have a collar strapped on and be
loaded into the Jeep.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 484.8pt;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">I still, however, truly
miss the countless days when I simply pocketed a few shells into my jeans pocket,
slipped the bell collar over the chosen setter head and walked out the door. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Bells now sit as dusty memories
on a shelf.</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 484.8pt;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiXt2Ri5fltzeBG-vrGGrp1SZx5mnFa4LZVCTVwPYhpEkETPVqkeMXDTCzE73iuDRrBGYttmjxlVtp60SNSwnbZgTz_NYpK7SaroMDAJPeYoWyz7U67zIxEHempLH1ifcq9n4sHFGtV1RWFuXSJSi_UAocalJXssw76lhzLICXTcgVpUTwB5EIdm9V_" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="538" data-original-width="959" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiXt2Ri5fltzeBG-vrGGrp1SZx5mnFa4LZVCTVwPYhpEkETPVqkeMXDTCzE73iuDRrBGYttmjxlVtp60SNSwnbZgTz_NYpK7SaroMDAJPeYoWyz7U67zIxEHempLH1ifcq9n4sHFGtV1RWFuXSJSi_UAocalJXssw76lhzLICXTcgVpUTwB5EIdm9V_" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p>Firelight Reflectionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03771521381576396886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5902231158764165922.post-62027763461009385632022-09-15T13:26:00.012-04:002022-09-15T14:01:50.113-04:00Hunting and Taking Photos<p> <i>By Lynn Dee Galey</i></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Of the human senses, studies show that smell is the most strongly tied to memory. To this day if I catch a whiff of black cherry pipe smoke, I half expect my long gone Dad to appear. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: medium;">But it is my hunting photos that most often take me time traveling, and I can remember exactly where the photo was taken and the experience of being there. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3qcLCd2TL2avsWyMP3PDxiofeQnB42F22X4bL1-Dbr1-VGeJvvz8ISlvRSo7fkKS4xESeUy_Ubjp7TSQAfAqSbjeRrw5u-4kBQUWE4SHI3vvVEdh95BMXbqzAFcqhsvdkcqhxpRhYYvU6DSB--iRT0VoxABDG4F4ptAgGEEqHcbhUb3-BYoCXPLVj/s2290/64D71A1D-DFEE-4774-87F6-D4F66932BD6B.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1527" data-original-width="2290" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3qcLCd2TL2avsWyMP3PDxiofeQnB42F22X4bL1-Dbr1-VGeJvvz8ISlvRSo7fkKS4xESeUy_Ubjp7TSQAfAqSbjeRrw5u-4kBQUWE4SHI3vvVEdh95BMXbqzAFcqhsvdkcqhxpRhYYvU6DSB--iRT0VoxABDG4F4ptAgGEEqHcbhUb3-BYoCXPLVj/s320/64D71A1D-DFEE-4774-87F6-D4F66932BD6B.jpeg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span><p></p><p><b style="font-weight: normal;"></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: medium;">This is the reason I take hunting photos - try to hold on to those moments, to be able to refresh my memory of them even years later. Happening across a photo off season of a point or of a view or natural landmark often leads to me opening folders on the hard drive to once again touch the memories. The heat or cold that day, or the drought, or how the dog was soaked from dew. How that dog sounded as it moved through the grasses. Being in awe of a forever horizon, or the sound and colors of the leaves beneath my feet. Hunting partners, some no longer with us. That pup’s first point and retrieve. </span></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjng17apjXokB3VtsSimni0vkxlgd65HYuYXz2K3hqeAB_uAx6T1Y4yQgrMRVcac8Tm_h54PVO3sLPEBM8CrMkhFKyhN2kn-amIpg6WGT8r7m3eXV0qlXm_c8bWTfiJUXp55gSZDdtXygOAKLwvYbATq-pSeajaTADQRpXBusWXAZLWHjVWtihELLsB/s2160/22EA8A29-DEE0-47D5-B9C4-4A16E8C1B063.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1435" data-original-width="2160" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjng17apjXokB3VtsSimni0vkxlgd65HYuYXz2K3hqeAB_uAx6T1Y4yQgrMRVcac8Tm_h54PVO3sLPEBM8CrMkhFKyhN2kn-amIpg6WGT8r7m3eXV0qlXm_c8bWTfiJUXp55gSZDdtXygOAKLwvYbATq-pSeajaTADQRpXBusWXAZLWHjVWtihELLsB/s320/22EA8A29-DEE0-47D5-B9C4-4A16E8C1B063.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNw-w4_MlMbHVthsCvRGgfz0GpU-m_xLca3tz3rqNtTWgalGdmIv-3p_TIFr4yThgovZ4Ye5Lw6H3nKzzwpOUdXUI1P0uCoUHNu-Ii614S3YMTvcc3czIuvqZgaV_z0QhqDusQaJhG-vlFZ-BNvinmhBsj2geqMyqEeaLjnRzvqUA96Gw_aOke65C8/s800/210B8128-0A12-45CA-B6D0-F146FBF3170D.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="533" data-original-width="800" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNw-w4_MlMbHVthsCvRGgfz0GpU-m_xLca3tz3rqNtTWgalGdmIv-3p_TIFr4yThgovZ4Ye5Lw6H3nKzzwpOUdXUI1P0uCoUHNu-Ii614S3YMTvcc3czIuvqZgaV_z0QhqDusQaJhG-vlFZ-BNvinmhBsj2geqMyqEeaLjnRzvqUA96Gw_aOke65C8/s320/210B8128-0A12-45CA-B6D0-F146FBF3170D.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Social media and high tech cameras and phones have turned hunting photos into a competition. “ I killed more birds than you.” “I shot my first bird 10 minutes into the field and posted it right away.” “My dog’s tail is higher.” “ My rig is more serious looking.”</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I encourage my Firelight folks to take a lot of photos of their dogs and hunting but instead of seeking affirmation from others, I hope that their photos:</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">1.</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Provide a flood of memories of the experience for many years to come. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">2.</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Allow photography to slow us down and use making photos as a training tool. Taking photos of the dog on point reminds us to take our time, don’t rush into a point, expect the dog to do its job. Meanwhile, photos taken can reinforce steadiness as our dog must hold the bird as long as it takes the gunner to take the pic, stow the camera and walk in for the flush. </span></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8W8wHzYPc5wU1g_gXCUwKOITxGvNjdH-rDNmQoksS-MmBj8hfRWcueDHNHD__fGpoHaRlKk3mIwa7hOzMtMvYIC9ZkWeOeHwavXk0c71asECcAcGznM19imMbqOnl6ec1CmbX-W_6xnjJ_HvkD0ORV-FLryc8I9FBRI2a98gwMgx5iZ2-CFXTq1wi/s2160/155F454B-364B-4039-B987-C816F3385D9E.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1509" data-original-width="2160" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8W8wHzYPc5wU1g_gXCUwKOITxGvNjdH-rDNmQoksS-MmBj8hfRWcueDHNHD__fGpoHaRlKk3mIwa7hOzMtMvYIC9ZkWeOeHwavXk0c71asECcAcGznM19imMbqOnl6ec1CmbX-W_6xnjJ_HvkD0ORV-FLryc8I9FBRI2a98gwMgx5iZ2-CFXTq1wi/s320/155F454B-364B-4039-B987-C816F3385D9E.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Take your camera or phone along hunting and use it. What you experience on the hunt today can be vicariously enjoyed for many years.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsR5XFC5pn6rkjSZdiUazvK2lt20OShJA3YkQCWx3RxLefMVjgDu9QU4SdGCgobj7Qq4kj3eNOla_CBMn9PmZy0GE49M76cmgGeGyi-WuWnDx9b03jP2TBPYFNw5YcKv8er7VY8a00KoWqiN-LDzXTzJDao4VMAFIz5c7yOzDGteMnJPFKmTDZD1Z_/s800/4B533949-9502-4829-9931-C4EFD2349DC6.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsR5XFC5pn6rkjSZdiUazvK2lt20OShJA3YkQCWx3RxLefMVjgDu9QU4SdGCgobj7Qq4kj3eNOla_CBMn9PmZy0GE49M76cmgGeGyi-WuWnDx9b03jP2TBPYFNw5YcKv8er7VY8a00KoWqiN-LDzXTzJDao4VMAFIz5c7yOzDGteMnJPFKmTDZD1Z_/s320/4B533949-9502-4829-9931-C4EFD2349DC6.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span><p></p>Firelight Reflectionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03771521381576396886noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5902231158764165922.post-52101855731552075352022-08-20T09:03:00.004-04:002022-08-20T09:03:23.279-04:00What's With the ©Firelight on the Pics?<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">by Lynn Dee Galey</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">I hate thieves. They impact our every day lives in so
many ways that we don’t even think about it: lock up your doors, cars,
children, dogs, guns, crates, wallets, bicycles and anything you don’t want to
lose. And unfortunately, unscrupulous behavior extends into dog breeding.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Online scammers are stealing photos of
quality puppies and dogs – and write ups about the dogs and breeding – from
good breeders and use them to create fake websites and lure in unsuspecting
buyers.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">It all looks and sounds good
until the buyer sends in a deposit and bam, the scammer blocks them and their
money is gone. This is happening across all breeds. People are too trusting in
their excitement about a puppy and the internet has made it even easier to
steal both photos and people’s money.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I have had photos stolen and used by others. Years ago
I even had a kennel logo stolen and used by a trophy company. So, with puppy
scams becoming even more frequent I am trying to prevent my photos from being
used by putting ©Firelight as a watermark on them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sure they can photoshop and remove my
watermark but hopefully they will be less inclined to bother. Or, if someone
sees my watermark photo being used somewhere unauthorized, maybe they will notify me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So yeah, I hate thieves and this is one small
step I am taking to make their lives a pinch more difficult. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg3px0KABTFaf6qf6isJNSr2LXdLkaaLsxUTKbM1ZctKoWx3xegMSTYAT83t7u_aYyCZjVoz5H-w-dsfH9-Nzqv0uLEgUx0LqlA0wK03eisGRQKagFx9kiRC9Odms3suSFVV843vos59eT6yXUvEzEdZBp_48MQ7pj3nw5VFt_RS0O8SHISFy3hLzRq" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="820" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg3px0KABTFaf6qf6isJNSr2LXdLkaaLsxUTKbM1ZctKoWx3xegMSTYAT83t7u_aYyCZjVoz5H-w-dsfH9-Nzqv0uLEgUx0LqlA0wK03eisGRQKagFx9kiRC9Odms3suSFVV843vos59eT6yXUvEzEdZBp_48MQ7pj3nw5VFt_RS0O8SHISFy3hLzRq" width="205" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p>Firelight Reflectionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03771521381576396886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5902231158764165922.post-36394203287062631742022-08-16T20:00:00.000-04:002022-08-16T20:00:02.820-04:00Pre-season, Naturally<p> by Lynn Dee Galey</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“I haven’t seen the dogs, have you?” We were just
taking a short 15 minute walk to look at a possible cover so didn’t have any bells
or GPS on the two dogs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After a few
minutes, at the far end of the clearing I thought I saw a familiar sight buried
in the thick green cover; some black and white of my 12+ year old on point. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We silently walked up and sure enough a large
brood of ruffs flushed in front of her, strong flight scattering left and right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She released after they flushed but moved
forward only 30 feet and froze.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As we
walked further, we saw that she was now backing the 16-month-old who was not
far ahead, solid on point. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our silent approach
then caused a second brood to flush in front of the youngster and both dogs
released and happily scoured for stragglers.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Points, backs, and steady into the flush on wild birds
in our first walk of the pre-season. This. This is what I want and expect from
my dogs. (And I hope is a good bird omen for the upcoming season!) No
“pre-season training” or “tuning them up.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For my dogs, it takes two parts
to get to days like this: genes and me. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">First is to have a dog bred for instinct.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I want both parents to be dogs who, as
youngsters themselves, showed the ability to handle wild birds. Parents who
naturally developed to staunchly hold point, no whoa or check cords or
ecollars. Dogs whose teachers were the birds and dogs who were eager,
precocious learners who remembered their lessons.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Second part is the owner. Wild birds are the best
teachers, not us and definitely not pen birds, so it is our job to get our pups
into wild birds so they can learn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Watch
as pup blows through their first birds, don’t shoot and don’t shout. Just watch
and do it as often as you can.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If your
pup has the genes you will see them learn, progressing from busting to
pointing, taking steps then finally standing staunch. Then, when they are
staunch, get to work and shoot that bird for them. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Seven month old Firelights learning from sharptail grouse in Montana</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdjZs90RVZqiTLLZMRNVGkrGuZhNZVe9W76IVLkAhrLCUO5RvRQu-jw-juH9hICC0y2ZSgm5xCGOHi1hUvj16DgDsjpU1j_TYCGVYfTAbqu0d5nQreWGyyjATViltdRGwkp7smYi3UoJVsLIMEwubgUyl9OvGkL7xoJJxNnSEbpSa_6E7M8VuvgGlA/s800/Seth%20MT%20pt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="594" data-original-width="800" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdjZs90RVZqiTLLZMRNVGkrGuZhNZVe9W76IVLkAhrLCUO5RvRQu-jw-juH9hICC0y2ZSgm5xCGOHi1hUvj16DgDsjpU1j_TYCGVYfTAbqu0d5nQreWGyyjATViltdRGwkp7smYi3UoJVsLIMEwubgUyl9OvGkL7xoJJxNnSEbpSa_6E7M8VuvgGlA/w308-h229/Seth%20MT%20pt.jpg" width="308" /> </a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3JC6MSIxUKzk-sj7S3wV-0m5OiTtZ7YtL2byhJD85y_3arVlEFDzQMNbiQVUKTSoB1excKjELdEPS0iYiQFgt3JFNyU1mye3A3J-Mxajw-lOUv1YQLhWUT39MD7qPIaCd71JxrC0aclg_pCsxHXOFT4zBinWUM6_1VakLre-IxxcgdEc_rqY7wPql/s800/Sally%20sharptail.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="534" data-original-width="800" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3JC6MSIxUKzk-sj7S3wV-0m5OiTtZ7YtL2byhJD85y_3arVlEFDzQMNbiQVUKTSoB1excKjELdEPS0iYiQFgt3JFNyU1mye3A3J-Mxajw-lOUv1YQLhWUT39MD7qPIaCd71JxrC0aclg_pCsxHXOFT4zBinWUM6_1VakLre-IxxcgdEc_rqY7wPql/w283-h191/Sally%20sharptail.jpg" width="283" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmHdPBegF86Gxdzk481UA5id3UouLRM2qMwlx47Dg6r72Oivn0vo7suFVhwtfuxYq-Bu_-fiJa9DnZTCJLsjSFl933-Z4-DlmTxvDnWGOZRyFbCeD8_jF3posGZ26Ve6n3_RPzUdY7Nf0W9TS0KMX6fb6QfH9fYgsaeR9D57Wi6omZ4JCyd8lmnoMx/s1679/10%2024%20e.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmHdPBegF86Gxdzk481UA5id3UouLRM2qMwlx47Dg6r72Oivn0vo7suFVhwtfuxYq-Bu_-fiJa9DnZTCJLsjSFl933-Z4-DlmTxvDnWGOZRyFbCeD8_jF3posGZ26Ve6n3_RPzUdY7Nf0W9TS0KMX6fb6QfH9fYgsaeR9D57Wi6omZ4JCyd8lmnoMx/s1679/10%2024%20e.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div>Firelight Reflectionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03771521381576396886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5902231158764165922.post-40843764215399079592022-07-24T10:46:00.001-04:002022-07-24T12:43:20.859-04:00Sailing the Grassland Seas<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">By Randy Lawrence</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBnLBfNFSPHThd1NmS_HSQynvvv8hcRnaWcFITfMWJ9TOFHCJZTZoFqlqZydYO6Um4Bl5M6z_qQzwuw3wlu8zlQxFPTVO8kBvlQUbZ5ulYwHj5AD-VT2d5G3OIdbexf4rCoG_UzDqBdkpVnW2BROc0UMNJO41h5mOySJXK2Y1OSgyGFTWiMDiJgDp7rw/s1500/Dec20_Last__chance1500x1070.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1069" data-original-width="1500" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBnLBfNFSPHThd1NmS_HSQynvvv8hcRnaWcFITfMWJ9TOFHCJZTZoFqlqZydYO6Um4Bl5M6z_qQzwuw3wlu8zlQxFPTVO8kBvlQUbZ5ulYwHj5AD-VT2d5G3OIdbexf4rCoG_UzDqBdkpVnW2BROc0UMNJO41h5mOySJXK2Y1OSgyGFTWiMDiJgDp7rw/s320/Dec20_Last__chance1500x1070.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b>"Last Chance" by Charles M. Russell</b></div></span><p>West-bound pioneers called them "prairie schooners," ox drawn freight wagons, their billowy, sail-cloth canvas rigged to voyage the seas of prairie grass that covered our North American midland. </p><p>That's only fitting, because those grasslands, in not so distant geologic time, were once the floors of mighty oceans caught in the squeeze of tectonic plates. The inexorable continental shifts that jutted the vast spine of high mountain ranges from today's Alaska to Patagonia alternately filled, drained and dried mighty oceans on their eastern flanks. </p><p>In that wide country, we chase Sharptailed grouse, Greater and Lesser Prairie Chickens, and ponderous Sage Hens, our dogs coursing search patterns above the fossils of crustaceans and fishes and jagged-toothed carnivorous sea monsters that died with the dinosaurs 65 million years ago.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh95695N-pEnghTTrmdVdrGp4PWVvNVkf-dUMLyk4P7_Fh_MNmZIBN915cUFotDTTcXX8R-qdBoqBgifZ1FqvVp5tAQjkxvL2nY3msmpKwUqFmDr1FSvY8sWjadDwVgQv0we2ml5XIn75Bg93OrJWpjf4pQdOTnsrA8kNy80WGknRVjq5cKyhAR4-uPlw/s458/prairie-shooting-find-him-by-arthur-fitzwilliam-tait-art-gallery-oil-painting-reproductions.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="458" data-original-width="458" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh95695N-pEnghTTrmdVdrGp4PWVvNVkf-dUMLyk4P7_Fh_MNmZIBN915cUFotDTTcXX8R-qdBoqBgifZ1FqvVp5tAQjkxvL2nY3msmpKwUqFmDr1FSvY8sWjadDwVgQv0we2ml5XIn75Bg93OrJWpjf4pQdOTnsrA8kNy80WGknRVjq5cKyhAR4-uPlw/s320/prairie-shooting-find-him-by-arthur-fitzwilliam-tait-art-gallery-oil-painting-reproductions.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b style="font-size: small;">"Prairie Shooting - Find Him" by Arthur Fitzwilliam Tait (1819-1905)</b></div><p><br /></p><p>For the Easterner who gets but fleeting glances of her dogs stitching aspen brakes, alder jungles, field edges or dense thickets, just being able to see the dogs at work is a welcome novelty. At first, it feels like haystack needle futility- to the novice, the grasslands overpower with sameness. But after a time, there are features - deep coulees, ridges and rises that beckon us to keep putting one foot in front of the other, tacking into the wind under that big prairie sky.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYh6iCZIlQ5PRqF-p1bOfwpNzN9nOOvfUt6n27TkfONolq7Bbq94EcQpy7eM0_B12QfTKI5KEWzACAZpMMo6fZtAlVAAYiPKXmmqREdjMgGFtBmQzuXHlnXVwtNTnMSQQgP3JvqM-0e4Ms2Am4qCtpNfF3pEM7KJiMlFtaHyCeSm-sEAqnDWG0oQED/s800/DSC077467.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="181" data-original-width="800" height="134" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYh6iCZIlQ5PRqF-p1bOfwpNzN9nOOvfUt6n27TkfONolq7Bbq94EcQpy7eM0_B12QfTKI5KEWzACAZpMMo6fZtAlVAAYiPKXmmqREdjMgGFtBmQzuXHlnXVwtNTnMSQQgP3JvqM-0e4Ms2Am4qCtpNfF3pEM7KJiMlFtaHyCeSm-sEAqnDWG0oQED/w597-h134/DSC077467.jpg" width="597" /></a></div><p>That wind. The grass swirls and heaves in staggered waves. Even stopped, waiting for the dogs to come around for a drink of water, there is a sense of being gathered up, of movement without making one more boot print, at times, a vertigo we remember from the last time in a boat on open water. </p><p>But move we must. We go in humility through low hills and draws as foreign to us as moonscape, consoled by the notion that every step taken in good game country is one step closer to birds. </p><p>Sometimes, the dogs' point will be sudden, a gut punch, a skidding freeze. Other times, points break like fever dreams. The dogs' heads drop and tails crack into a narrowing search that oozes into a stalk, then a tall stop, the dogs almost lifted by scent. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsoTb6LQfNuqLwDRAY9u52M0DX8buqdmk7bZgWKREjiHrygasM3VH10AnOut6knRA57S64HT0m6RCifi8htVqskjm2RhFpoxwTuTRulzSzf2vGmxflutCizNWUIGzQM0k-WFSxf1rZZGbBtKHlOT9Tesngo6P8e_3V40VW-OKGSRFicomY-PBbhdsM/s800/P10005323.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsoTb6LQfNuqLwDRAY9u52M0DX8buqdmk7bZgWKREjiHrygasM3VH10AnOut6knRA57S64HT0m6RCifi8htVqskjm2RhFpoxwTuTRulzSzf2vGmxflutCizNWUIGzQM0k-WFSxf1rZZGbBtKHlOT9Tesngo6P8e_3V40VW-OKGSRFicomY-PBbhdsM/s320/P10005323.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>As we swing toward the stand, we fish for the camera first, then two brass-bright shells that slip into the gun without our even looking down. Often, the first birds get up before we have a chance to flush, but we keep moving in. No matter how many grouse chortle and cackle up into the air, we are always certain there is a lay bird or two, uncertain and still under a setter's spell.</p><p>The big country swallows even a 12 gauge's report. If we've become separated from a companion by dog work and game contact, sometimes a bird will tumble in a shower of barred feathers before the thud of a gun shot can reach us.</p><p>In the early season, we make ourselves check, check, check to ID chickens vs. out-of-season young pheasants loafing with their native cousins. When the pheasant law comes in, a saucy rooster interloper under a point, albeit in the wrong place at the right time, can count as a bonus.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"> </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMvKhZtzanuI7yPWy0OOKnJTHYOHy6FgtVbF8i0O40PN9QukXOxbtzCnOhS83TFSScNzCWVYYttGMA2fSbfs_WwliPu3V7-9mmqg-F7fNvRqMaAOWdJq3KHcx2xZICFkgluuxVB27q-REXQNheDp38PB0vR2AL799y_xsAXJZrpVsztolO1IQAMm8M/s900/Storm%20tail%20flagDSC05378_edited-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="900" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMvKhZtzanuI7yPWy0OOKnJTHYOHy6FgtVbF8i0O40PN9QukXOxbtzCnOhS83TFSScNzCWVYYttGMA2fSbfs_WwliPu3V7-9mmqg-F7fNvRqMaAOWdJq3KHcx2xZICFkgluuxVB27q-REXQNheDp38PB0vR2AL799y_xsAXJZrpVsztolO1IQAMm8M/s320/Storm%20tail%20flagDSC05378_edited-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>The best retrieves come from pointing dogs excited by the chore. Sometimes the dog's grip on the fetch will put a prairie grouse wing over its eyes. The dog will zig zag back to the gun then, navigating to hand out the corner of dark eyes crinkled over a mouth full of game.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5an3E-9d346Bun5eqA-NYk9T0vhLQF-xuFiprIMtknlCwy5DZb2qz12W0Y0V7DAxoa9pHaDVRRVbGP4r2gNJi0ca8F1OnRsaB9gFxLZ1pqKCvCMKiwAwMCXNPVrXx2RNQkukDpydgAbS1eqxhbMC7er1dVHzBUzTmcDs_o6NbzpOwLPvNcX1WlWMw/s790/Sally%20retrieve.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="470" data-original-width="790" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5an3E-9d346Bun5eqA-NYk9T0vhLQF-xuFiprIMtknlCwy5DZb2qz12W0Y0V7DAxoa9pHaDVRRVbGP4r2gNJi0ca8F1OnRsaB9gFxLZ1pqKCvCMKiwAwMCXNPVrXx2RNQkukDpydgAbS1eqxhbMC7er1dVHzBUzTmcDs_o6NbzpOwLPvNcX1WlWMw/s320/Sally%20retrieve.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>Tucked into a hunting vest pocket, the bird feels warm, an assurance as the dogs moil around, waiting their turn for more water. We must take time for a swig or two ourselves, before the arid grasslands pull us back into currents of wind and game and time.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNIV_LHaTvQfahRVeBvhyvi-UF9YDRyW-DVvHkNS26UHOdDKwslKj-fqVFrdPQQIugXYCPD5z_BnrEOkMbz_VPrXUx0imMosIaug46-dYg-s-gOJepzYIejgrdbSmRLYNmzRTD5XCyhMHZuD93q2oLZ9iw0raJjAoWyQ9DskhJGHxi1ySfo_-ojoNb/s4000/P1010500.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNIV_LHaTvQfahRVeBvhyvi-UF9YDRyW-DVvHkNS26UHOdDKwslKj-fqVFrdPQQIugXYCPD5z_BnrEOkMbz_VPrXUx0imMosIaug46-dYg-s-gOJepzYIejgrdbSmRLYNmzRTD5XCyhMHZuD93q2oLZ9iw0raJjAoWyQ9DskhJGHxi1ySfo_-ojoNb/s320/P1010500.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>Near Scott's Bluff Nebraska, one can still walk in the 150-year-old wheel ruts of west-bound prairie schooners, the ferries of an occupation army of dreamers come to break the sod and crowd out native people, native game. General Philip Sheridan, bent on subduing the tribes, supplied ammunition for the buffalo hide hunters and welcomed the immigrant flood so that "the prairies can be covered with speckled cattle and the festive cowboy who follows the hunter as the second forerunner of an advanced civilization."</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyDEy1xx0V57fcmm2zENPjCO6WX5toTIEswVSSkdwYc-M6NqO-uHgMqygE-6IZ5skvS3LWd41S3HVgX_odr0EK-lwpK7s6fHxOTWpNii3yHeovT4hdG0JUgnNhE5-R-GzGXM29r1QG2aX3mhHC641nX_Qd_puy8kZCQQlPP9GUytjg8D_XUxPoLo8IfQ/s300/wagon-trails-dim-oil-canvas-22950940.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="237" data-original-width="300" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyDEy1xx0V57fcmm2zENPjCO6WX5toTIEswVSSkdwYc-M6NqO-uHgMqygE-6IZ5skvS3LWd41S3HVgX_odr0EK-lwpK7s6fHxOTWpNii3yHeovT4hdG0JUgnNhE5-R-GzGXM29r1QG2aX3mhHC641nX_Qd_puy8kZCQQlPP9GUytjg8D_XUxPoLo8IfQ/s1600/wagon-trails-dim-oil-canvas-22950940.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><div style="text-align: center;"><b>"Wagon Train" by Charles M. Russell</b></div></span><p>We birdhunters walk these grasslands with dog and gun not as forerunners, but heirs, stewards if you will, to the remnant flocks of prairie grouse that the plow and market hunter, herdsman and shepherd, miner, driller, and developer have grudgingly left. We're not looking for food for the pot so much as food for our sporting souls. </p><p>To that end, William Awkwright could have been writing about Great Plains grouse hunters in his landmark study <i>The Pointer and his Predecessors </i>(1902).<i> </i>Awkright followed his beloved Blackfield pointing dogs across the Scottish moors and believed "(T)he chief glory of the sport is to shoot over a brace of raking pointers, matched for speed and style, sweeping over the rough places like swallows, and passing each other as if they were fine ladies not introduced."</p><p>We follow, our passage swallowed by grass and sky and Time.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhySqWwvZUVviGXUtfqtWKX1f7sVHQcfehsbxHFjPbdqzCkdDOq1sIpdYkk_3I4wXYBDupp1I4bc3A2KxqRC5XuCiIbf_95WO3sApbFs435SFvDSHoTPWUvCERDCm1ZrCqT7S9I2gSjoj1UeV5T0ySiydfvuLfM6-lfiyhcXG2EHfy983LPKO-hehg6uA/s1000/pointers%20in%20a%20landscape%20thomas%20blinks.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="775" data-original-width="1000" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhySqWwvZUVviGXUtfqtWKX1f7sVHQcfehsbxHFjPbdqzCkdDOq1sIpdYkk_3I4wXYBDupp1I4bc3A2KxqRC5XuCiIbf_95WO3sApbFs435SFvDSHoTPWUvCERDCm1ZrCqT7S9I2gSjoj1UeV5T0ySiydfvuLfM6-lfiyhcXG2EHfy983LPKO-hehg6uA/s320/pointers%20in%20a%20landscape%20thomas%20blinks.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: x-small;">"Pointers in a Landscape" by Thomas Blinks (1860-1912)</span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p><br /></p>Randy Lawrencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01915125036121915292noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5902231158764165922.post-87861937756708988882022-07-19T07:58:00.003-04:002022-07-19T09:01:38.833-04:00What's In A Name?<p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> by Randy Lawrence</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Juliet Capulet had it all wrong. Actually, she had a bunch of stuff turned 'round, but this one thing in particular. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">In Act 2, Scene 2 of <i>Romeo and Juliet</i>, William Shakespeare has her asking Romeo, "What's in a name?" </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">She answers for him (Juliet has always struck me as REALLY annoying): "That which we call a rose/By any other name would smell as sweet."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Names don't matter, she is reassuring him, decrying the Capulet/Montague blood feud keeping the hormonally heated lovebirds apart. Of course all of that goes haywire until (spoiler alert) the stage is littered with dead bodies at play's end.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">When I was teaching, we read "<i>Romeo and Juliet" </i>as a comedy. All of those folks are too dopey to be taken seriously enough for drama. But the name thing bothers me because, dear Juliet, names DO matter!</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu2G7ejMuoLmJeJjZuCLmjo5NhOZVm5DJZXcOY0lIcIViQyGXeyxbrBmKUsKWbHRpTNzKRLzEHduV2oBVKTOfpxB7njQxqpuC8OkPxnfUbtCz6eaEvTAYBumz1bF-grO396AF-DMJQY2tXg_lgzc1ebs5tksT5C8tT_f10BBQCRYYRYCcMDGm4IWHm/s2180/Pocket%20sitting%204half%20months%20cut%20short.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2056" data-original-width="2180" height="302" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu2G7ejMuoLmJeJjZuCLmjo5NhOZVm5DJZXcOY0lIcIViQyGXeyxbrBmKUsKWbHRpTNzKRLzEHduV2oBVKTOfpxB7njQxqpuC8OkPxnfUbtCz6eaEvTAYBumz1bF-grO396AF-DMJQY2tXg_lgzc1ebs5tksT5C8tT_f10BBQCRYYRYCcMDGm4IWHm/s320/Pocket%20sitting%204half%20months%20cut%20short.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Take my friend Pocket, for example. Pocket is a firecracker of a Firelight setter puppy soon to enter her first hunting season. Her name is "Pocket" because of her diminutive size at birth and because Lynn Dee simply couldn't bear to add another female human name to her pack.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">"We are starting to sound like a chapter out of '<i>Little Women',"</i> she complained.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">After much discussion and name bandying, Pocket became Pocket after "Trinket" was judged to be too evocative of some tourist trap tchotchke. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Thus, Pocket.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh66BnKlpTbLno7Ug7u5OGTyFbZ8unhPXmyv4ZLyy4NUlMe-cy0mYs8Vr5y8u7iviuJQnD1o1EIhpMHX6RHwFH0GJoD_2zEYiIK-SYYthWqBHYLQgfszQ9lYJvaWdTALSxjH__Q4kNaJ0Pn1PFmrai9Yh0SaRfvlg7vb3zc2ELshZRLUToFjLBaC8HP/s885/293973127_1185756568664317_1733761906706413700_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="885" data-original-width="674" height="277" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh66BnKlpTbLno7Ug7u5OGTyFbZ8unhPXmyv4ZLyy4NUlMe-cy0mYs8Vr5y8u7iviuJQnD1o1EIhpMHX6RHwFH0GJoD_2zEYiIK-SYYthWqBHYLQgfszQ9lYJvaWdTALSxjH__Q4kNaJ0Pn1PFmrai9Yh0SaRfvlg7vb3zc2ELshZRLUToFjLBaC8HP/w211-h277/293973127_1185756568664317_1733761906706413700_n.jpg" width="211" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Lynn Dee asked me at the time if I liked the name. I lied and said I did, all the while thinking, "Pocket? Are you serious here right now? </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">"You're naming this beautiful little dog after the thing I always forget to empty before doing laundry, where spare change, horse treats, fence staples, gas pump receipts, the wingnut off a dog crate, and breath mints are mushed and melded by washer and dryer into grotesque proof of geriatric oblivion?"</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">But several months later, I've come around (on the puppy, not laundry).</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Today, I love Pocket's upbeat, confident charisma, her fascination with the pigeons she stalks when she visits her friend Bryan, the way she has settled into the Firelight pack hierarchy. Photos of her around Firelight HQ show a certain demeanor we labeled in less enlightened times as "tomboy": rough and tumble, adventurous, smart, sensible, and unsinkable.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvIxVWzp0tjElZgI7GVlTclgXk7EM5k0o22QChaPNiUn_7GU7OKqyDUvzTmo81ZCxMXjaNRXlQDfr1hzgGudHE30tVopizKuUxmS5MipY_cwJ2p5va36F4QW3JdoDfP4OUSC39vvGxOzImUP2NOD7aJ5HTcG0rYl5LoN1meK8SlBIujuo-hhuIIRo_/s1166/293594576_613584356850729_5269927942879962162_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1166" data-original-width="1164" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvIxVWzp0tjElZgI7GVlTclgXk7EM5k0o22QChaPNiUn_7GU7OKqyDUvzTmo81ZCxMXjaNRXlQDfr1hzgGudHE30tVopizKuUxmS5MipY_cwJ2p5va36F4QW3JdoDfP4OUSC39vvGxOzImUP2NOD7aJ5HTcG0rYl5LoN1meK8SlBIujuo-hhuIIRo_/w285-h286/293594576_613584356850729_5269927942879962162_n.jpg" width="285" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR9BoA08W7VEEFmKpSv7vz-kPL3AZFYPEZWqKfAGQrgF0UicsdQCyVrBCTDi04eckagI1UYaNkBEuyWOEhGwcLBLzGNrc2Q7aoZjWmKQsadaFeWGnJB29OuE2PEXOxcmWpQW7wAJ1S3KMj-c6LSsKRheuO-VqD5JHgOwnatltUT4Gb2HkeH8Gq-V09/s1560/294203166_788377708997240_490633267994158183_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1560" data-original-width="1170" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR9BoA08W7VEEFmKpSv7vz-kPL3AZFYPEZWqKfAGQrgF0UicsdQCyVrBCTDi04eckagI1UYaNkBEuyWOEhGwcLBLzGNrc2Q7aoZjWmKQsadaFeWGnJB29OuE2PEXOxcmWpQW7wAJ1S3KMj-c6LSsKRheuO-VqD5JHgOwnatltUT4Gb2HkeH8Gq-V09/s320/294203166_788377708997240_490633267994158183_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">I have come to love her unconventional name, too. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Lynn Dee had never heard the old grouse trial jargon about a dog that's always hunting "in the pocket." But I think of that when I think of Pocket's mother Annie's fast, useful range, and what I imagine Pocket's hunt will be like.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I love the name "Pocket" because it doesn't sound like the names of any of her packmates or mine or other dogs in the Firelight totem. I love it because it rhymes with "rocket" and "sprocket" and "Johnny Crockett" and "hock it" and other bits of tripe that can contribute to silliness when she and I are out of earshot of others this fall. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I even love it because "In The Pocket" is my favorite James Taylor album.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Mostly I love the name "Pocket" because it's as fresh as she is, as in both "original" and "cheeky."</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtf9nbpD-vv9GLxXZYZSQrSoCOB5ZbXpKthvr4u4MmvNq3sqhbio0gNFi9X4uPzcmIpu0Ga-k97bRwhZEsICh7WvCATOnr-j7rleXL2c9yb5fTUgsuD2Gj4L6dG3lUNw4hnGXJKp1BL4yyXqvCqNt5isWiOo_dvDinnZizHGe6av6jVo-KSAgkpcVv/s1170/293860044_1373468179844430_6580925708151069971_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="896" data-original-width="1170" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtf9nbpD-vv9GLxXZYZSQrSoCOB5ZbXpKthvr4u4MmvNq3sqhbio0gNFi9X4uPzcmIpu0Ga-k97bRwhZEsICh7WvCATOnr-j7rleXL2c9yb5fTUgsuD2Gj4L6dG3lUNw4hnGXJKp1BL4yyXqvCqNt5isWiOo_dvDinnZizHGe6av6jVo-KSAgkpcVv/w286-h219/293860044_1373468179844430_6580925708151069971_n.jpg" width="286" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">In their little picture book entitled "Bless The Dogs," the Monks of New Skete write, "Part of the joy in getting a dog is naming it. In Eden, Adam was given the responsibility of naming the animals, and we have inherited his task."</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">"A name not only defines," the monks insist, "it expresses the hopes we bring to the relationship."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">What's in a name, fair Juliet?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Everything.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEjQDypL7Db9uk8PNhg9vEZfiG0oFuZ6dOT_y4D-NAgACGjrJnRIPC0yQejy9Q67UGKaHhABRSfIRBRXfr78fVKj15B2zig4o5QSXIqbqAMsDO8Ohu6VEK3Cd5uI4a7vraSCetG1tfZNrhsoryy9Hppt9BBZwwEOklbLPw3pxP5Pnwrj87LCRZBvEa/s275/Pocket%20drawing.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="206" data-original-width="275" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEjQDypL7Db9uk8PNhg9vEZfiG0oFuZ6dOT_y4D-NAgACGjrJnRIPC0yQejy9Q67UGKaHhABRSfIRBRXfr78fVKj15B2zig4o5QSXIqbqAMsDO8Ohu6VEK3Cd5uI4a7vraSCetG1tfZNrhsoryy9Hppt9BBZwwEOklbLPw3pxP5Pnwrj87LCRZBvEa/w345-h258/Pocket%20drawing.jpg" width="345" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><p></p>Randy Lawrencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01915125036121915292noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5902231158764165922.post-30265527770300126292022-07-03T14:02:00.001-04:002022-07-03T14:02:55.450-04:00Life As A Work of Art: An Osthaus Tale<p>by Randy Lawrence</p><p>When our bobwhite quail staged a mini-comeback in the mid 1990's, my friend Tom's family owned the most prosperous hometown bank in southeastern Ohio. Tom's dad and grandfather had always had English setters, good ones. They'd even done some horseback field trialing up on the Kildeer Plains back in the day. </p><p>All that was before the great blizzards ravaged Ohio's bobwhite quail and pheasants. Tom's people, being hard-bitten, bottom line guys, thought coal country grouse hunting was far too much hard hiking for not nearly enough shooting. The setters got old, pacing in their posh runs. When the last of those dogs died, the kennels stayed empty. </p><p>But Tom's family still moved in gun dog circles, including the fellow who owned the hardware store. He had campaigned one great dog to two National Bird Dog Championships in the late '80's. At breakfast in the town diner, he had backed the local scuttlebutt about there being a few quail around. That's when Tom gave me a call.</p><p>His dad's birthday was approaching. For the occasion, Tom had lined up permission with several local farmers and wondered if my dogs and I would be willing to join them for the Saturday morning hunt his dad thought they "might could" spare from making money. </p><p> I remember the one covey find. It was on the second farm we hunted, a delicious rolling tangle of overgrown pasture, one small woodlot, and a swath of scraggly field corn that had yet to be picked. Tom's dad had laid out our line of march, and we swung into the light November breeze.</p><p>The day had long gone off the rails. At the tailgate before the first hunt, Tom's dad learned that my dogs lived with me in my home, sparking a lecture on soft house dogs who "can't smell their own butt." In the field, I spent most of the morning staring down the careless gun barrels of both companions. That's why when Riley finally went solid and setter Dusk slid to a hot back, I stayed with the dogs, waving father and son on to flush. </p><p>A good bevy of birds buzzed out of a multiflora rose spread, and there was a lot of shooting. Tom emptied both barrels of his over under before the quail had barely cleared the brush, while his father pumped a svelte Model 42 like he was working it for a late mortgage payment.</p><p>Tom's dad thumbed more shells into the .410's magazine. He said he had a line on some singles, but was convinced he'd dropped at least one bird. To his disgust, Riley and Dusk snuffled and scoured until they were just as convinced that he had not. I sided with my dogs and urged them on.</p><p>Within minutes, a single got up in front of a Dusk point before I could hustle Tom into position. We kept pushing, and Riley went missing. I finally found the nearly all black pointer crouched into a "Right...THERE" pose on the edge of the woods. </p><p>I waited for Tom's dad to step up wide to our left before I walked a fast arc to the right, trying to come back in toward the pointer's nose. On about the sixth heartbeat, a brace of bobwhites clamored up and away through another pump gun fusillade. </p><p>We circled back to the truck, where Tom gently checked his father from shoving his loaded shotgun into a soft case for the ride back to town. By then, I'd had quite enough and politely tried to beg off lunch, but Tom said he’d ordered lunch brought in, and that we would eat up in the bank boardroom. There was something there he and his dad wanted to show me.</p><p>"Tom tells me you're a gun guy," his dad said. "You're gonna love this."</p><p>The room was upstairs, an opulent contrast to the spare, Mayberry-style bank setting - a beautifully appointed room centered with a gorgeous walnut table that matched dark wainscoting, all crafted from trees harvested on Tom's grandfather's farm. What they had wanted to show me was the 1887 Colt lever action shotgun hanging on one wall, the barrel hacksawed short in its role as security weapon for the bank's early days. Tom's dad was taking the gun down for a more personal show-and-tell when my eyes drifted to one of a dozen or so vintage bird dog prints lining the boardroom walls.</p><p>I had to step closer to be sure, but there it was. A simply framed, original DuPont Gunpowder Company print of Lady's Count Gladstone from a painting by Edmund Henry Osthaus. The National Field Trial Champion of 1900 is rocked back against scent coming in over her shoulder, the signature "Osthaus Tail" plumed at just above 45 degrees.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiGRF4W9OxX2AWTMtgVdE4HS4K9ifJE3aYEFrpSKHRdS036-Xm9BuaS7ERdODCtogyGoN-N7PA0JBswnSfwLMCKJ1zlI-kX1Gw4H-qG02-4SOkiqVVXkMUgXrohnZL8JObZemg_5TtRUMLngOeQ32XvoEzZrRxXqaMKUrWaHydCjmGMnMuki38ND6lyw/s1024/9227724671_5e55905594_b.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="627" data-original-width="1024" height="196" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiGRF4W9OxX2AWTMtgVdE4HS4K9ifJE3aYEFrpSKHRdS036-Xm9BuaS7ERdODCtogyGoN-N7PA0JBswnSfwLMCKJ1zlI-kX1Gw4H-qG02-4SOkiqVVXkMUgXrohnZL8JObZemg_5TtRUMLngOeQ32XvoEzZrRxXqaMKUrWaHydCjmGMnMuki38ND6lyw/s320/9227724671_5e55905594_b.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>Hanging next to her was two-time National Champion Sioux. Count Gladstone, winner of the inaugural national title, was down the way. There was the print of Prince Whitestone and another of Joe Cumming, heirs to the great Llewellin invasion of the late 19th century. The sole pointer portrait in the lot was of Manitoba Rap, the dog who broke the setter stranglehold on the Ames Plantation in 1909. His haunches coiled like an African lion's, muscle and sinew rippling right off the print.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNIUnWW9809Xbw664Z8HfHcm9cKDS--OVV2L026e6S0iVjOv5-fazyP8ZAjRLvgGQysShciU5Ojtq9ezMZTyneaqPpz3PT3YBEzCaHwyIbPgQ6QKFMtwZ0VS6ERfZPu1qZ7zx3_pefIHgahK6sJ84qS_yaZwo19JNJdwyi_sEyXcbLtuPLn5gMO83a4w/s1024/6154591288_c9c2f8bdf6_b.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="631" data-original-width="1024" height="197" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNIUnWW9809Xbw664Z8HfHcm9cKDS--OVV2L026e6S0iVjOv5-fazyP8ZAjRLvgGQysShciU5Ojtq9ezMZTyneaqPpz3PT3YBEzCaHwyIbPgQ6QKFMtwZ0VS6ERfZPu1qZ7zx3_pefIHgahK6sJ84qS_yaZwo19JNJdwyi_sEyXcbLtuPLn5gMO83a4w/s320/6154591288_c9c2f8bdf6_b.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b style="font-size: small; text-align: left;">Sioux - National Champion 1901 and 1902</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnW6jiJkXlkxWvVr2E0KpXVjSE0miiVXaRYVLibKHCj2CRBeCaYAmZOUpBOijcht94PKQXV6zjVE9yAz3i6Ch4HagptgcV7jMpXRSLf6f9loorUd-GkJqOeOqwvD2uDsbuYimIVrdnpaIILnOl7vVTC_B9dnnTzIRvbA5oD2KGE7LhWrxDfy0tl4T1SA/s290/COUNT%20GLADSTONE.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="174" data-original-width="290" height="174" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnW6jiJkXlkxWvVr2E0KpXVjSE0miiVXaRYVLibKHCj2CRBeCaYAmZOUpBOijcht94PKQXV6zjVE9yAz3i6Ch4HagptgcV7jMpXRSLf6f9loorUd-GkJqOeOqwvD2uDsbuYimIVrdnpaIILnOl7vVTC_B9dnnTzIRvbA5oD2KGE7LhWrxDfy0tl4T1SA/s1600/COUNT%20GLADSTONE.jpeg" width="290" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b style="font-size: small; text-align: left;">Count Gladstone IV - National Champion 1896</b><span style="text-align: left;"> </span></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></blockquote><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA1u6l11-xSHcFpqvMuXUawno3C933iz-j2flKrXPkY_-YgiFZdEgypH4aE09brtj5DknEXvYY4N08J7tXLmWzr-aBgf1pMwXUGHKRX_9dbSde6lhsH1qhZDWtFt-uMcDua0_jIuOO5hcM08gtzVDx7Vx5Ml2-4YAnSxyIzmgKVzhhGjgxDcXRu57_Ag/s1000/du-pont-dupont-shoot-powder-hunting_1_f06b44fa0a2eaf02084c4f25f6a0b979.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="1000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA1u6l11-xSHcFpqvMuXUawno3C933iz-j2flKrXPkY_-YgiFZdEgypH4aE09brtj5DknEXvYY4N08J7tXLmWzr-aBgf1pMwXUGHKRX_9dbSde6lhsH1qhZDWtFt-uMcDua0_jIuOO5hcM08gtzVDx7Vx5Ml2-4YAnSxyIzmgKVzhhGjgxDcXRu57_Ag/s320/du-pont-dupont-shoot-powder-hunting_1_f06b44fa0a2eaf02084c4f25f6a0b979.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>Prince Whitestone - National Champion 1907</b></span></div><p>I am not sure if the collection hanging upstairs in that backwater bank comprised a complete set of National Champions painted by Osthaus between 1896 and 1910. Tom's dad knew little about what he called "the bird dog pictures," other than his own father had framed the DuPont ads over time and that they were "supposed to be worth something." He had that old Colt repeater over his shoulder, following me as I made my way 'round the room, drinking in one beautiful piece after another. When lunch was wheeled in, I reluctantly sat down to eat.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPC86lf1dKA5TkNd1evA4tx3Uh687BuuPjDoqBIvy_0s3MF2yFYyAv6E0jVuxKT7HsUSYcSBFl4DHxPhkrBLBztT4nNAOiWkLG6VCh81Z_OcAlFIZiwtNVxPS_28DBuzKo0BrKAJhvdUJ6-NCXRFUV-1nrr_ONi_X6UiIbB-2ZIXtmnDk2uW2XU9dXHQ/s1200/Joe%20Cumming.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1200" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPC86lf1dKA5TkNd1evA4tx3Uh687BuuPjDoqBIvy_0s3MF2yFYyAv6E0jVuxKT7HsUSYcSBFl4DHxPhkrBLBztT4nNAOiWkLG6VCh81Z_OcAlFIZiwtNVxPS_28DBuzKo0BrKAJhvdUJ6-NCXRFUV-1nrr_ONi_X6UiIbB-2ZIXtmnDk2uW2XU9dXHQ/s320/Joe%20Cumming.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>Joe Cumming - National Champion 1899</b></span></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkd42FdeHgYEbIlle-L_jMh59x2XB4LnFfR0qzKocGR-sNiIx-IR37cmsMXE1ViCVBZk1_2NfhUdQ-Co2E0f29fLtAve2YnZlNdDCGGDoDWlpkt9U5GsMYObCaw-f6I62u4WMAsZEZs10M0niEMrUw_CLhnNzTB88xed1h3xHcGT_68ZzMh02mvfPIgw/s800/ManitobaRap.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="590" data-original-width="800" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkd42FdeHgYEbIlle-L_jMh59x2XB4LnFfR0qzKocGR-sNiIx-IR37cmsMXE1ViCVBZk1_2NfhUdQ-Co2E0f29fLtAve2YnZlNdDCGGDoDWlpkt9U5GsMYObCaw-f6I62u4WMAsZEZs10M0niEMrUw_CLhnNzTB88xed1h3xHcGT_68ZzMh02mvfPIgw/s320/ManitobaRap.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>Manitoba Rap - National Champion 1909</b></span></div><br /><div>I spent the next several weeks reading everything I could find on Edmund Henry Osthaus: German immigrant - teacher, painter, field trial devotee, consummate gun dog man and bird hunter - whose art bankrolled his pursuit of sport, not to mention earned invitations to the finest wild bird shooting over the most acclaimed bird dogs the early 20th century had to offer. His work hung in the salons of folks with names like Vanderbilt, J.P. Morgan, Pierre Lorillard, and of course, Hobart Ames who made his money in Boston and lived out his bird dog passions in Grand Junction, Tennessee. </div><div><br /></div><div>Osthaus was a charter member of the National Field Trial Association in 1896 and actually judged the National Championship stake in 1898. For many years, he escaped Toledo, Ohio, winters for his own shooting grounds in Florida.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizhWmOburlV5KQGBQ3lhS1lXwXsjzB4M6mH9gvHbPr0F75v2MA7b5ZdTMTVcfwD0_dRsMWYr5CNMIltLDn91al11UPT8L-kdezwk37K6TuFI-FSXdKA9KY_1zKIYhiY_Zb2gKxOr9yaIjn6a_Zaqav8INkrr8Ya3mTUOJtj2Z5q3P62w9wuHudDV-1tQ/s272/image0013.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="272" data-original-width="200" height="272" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizhWmOburlV5KQGBQ3lhS1lXwXsjzB4M6mH9gvHbPr0F75v2MA7b5ZdTMTVcfwD0_dRsMWYr5CNMIltLDn91al11UPT8L-kdezwk37K6TuFI-FSXdKA9KY_1zKIYhiY_Zb2gKxOr9yaIjn6a_Zaqav8INkrr8Ya3mTUOJtj2Z5q3P62w9wuHudDV-1tQ/s1600/image0013.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-size: x-small;">Edmund Henry Osthaus</span></b></span></div></div><div><br /></div><div>One detail of Osthaus's life has haunted me ever since that forgettable quail hunt chanced into a most unforgettable art exhibit. Osthaus had proudly served as Vice-President of the Continental Field Trial Club until 1917, donating a portrait of the group's annual champion as a coveted prize. But that year, as American doughboys marched off to the Kaiser's War, there was an ugly stateside backlash to all things German. Edmund Osthaus, a naturalized United States citizen, was asked by club members to resign and leave the club.</div><div><br /></div><div><div>In his 1990 book "<i>George Bird Evans Introduces,"</i> the author shares bits from correspondence with the artist's son Franz. Franz Osthaus writes that the cruelty of his father's ouster from the Continental Club marked "...a rugged period in our lives and it left an indelible impression on me."</div><div><br /></div><div>But the man who had made his life a work of art quietly kept his faith. According to Franz in a letter to George and Kay Evans, the older Osthaus spent his last years "enjoying an ideal arrangement, painting every morning and shooting quail every afternoon with dear friends and over the dogs he loved...I recall gathering after dinner at the shooting lodge fireplace, with the dogs toasting too, and the endless conversations about field trials, particular dogs and their performance, people, and places."</div><div><br /></div><div>Franz remembers that his father "shot a Daly and a Remington, both twelve-gauge doubles, and he felt that two shots at a rising covey was definitely enough."</div><div><br /></div><div>Oh, and one more thing. "My father," Franz Osthaus writes, "refused to shoot with anyone who used a pump gun."</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht-UorQXP4U_aL1tScKt2yfgwUbC7rjkhHRMVlImhnsB9I9aN-_dOdJwa7IzR4aYn9LB0fwXEhLonCOSXFcZ9LDBw6F-py85Wlgqb2zzJz8YBwnwE1MSE929iBS-LLyV-e7-pAnbONq1D42x6K-AgCNh_mbGrJ0WQ4kW40zs_TZrJdbgA3hbckl_MSPw/s387/kidwithgun.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="387" data-original-width="225" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht-UorQXP4U_aL1tScKt2yfgwUbC7rjkhHRMVlImhnsB9I9aN-_dOdJwa7IzR4aYn9LB0fwXEhLonCOSXFcZ9LDBw6F-py85Wlgqb2zzJz8YBwnwE1MSE929iBS-LLyV-e7-pAnbONq1D42x6K-AgCNh_mbGrJ0WQ4kW40zs_TZrJdbgA3hbckl_MSPw/s320/kidwithgun.jpg" width="186" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><b><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" />"Generations Have Used DuPont Powder" by Edmund Osthaus. According to George Evans, the model for the boy in the print was Osthaus's son Franz.</b></span></div></blockquote><div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div></div></div><div><div><br /></div><div><b>PS: </b> My current favorite Osthaus, one that I fancy, without provenance, to be a "self portrait," is the piece below. It is a signed oil that sold at auction in May of 2021. Osthaus would be horrified at the title assigned to the work by the gallery ("Hunter With Spaniels"), but the dancing setter and pointer, larking while the gunner lights his pipe, could not care less. They are going hunting with Their Guy.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjugeGrNKQsmHrXhDLmtNbOGvRQDccFgEhtBlnKs7Fh079vVUBXFThyL8tJnpPikHK8AfSO3jPtQOZvwntBhsd4LsZwmsOZ1Zq7wZdQF9kKMR5Gsa-HNG735JHLTnWNiAfQ3CrC_GPrzOFC6JLsAepAKPwcesaVuxC8RdPTjUPSSs58U0nAbLAHFBVjNw/s1532/H0061-L252606284.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1532" data-original-width="1000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjugeGrNKQsmHrXhDLmtNbOGvRQDccFgEhtBlnKs7Fh079vVUBXFThyL8tJnpPikHK8AfSO3jPtQOZvwntBhsd4LsZwmsOZ1Zq7wZdQF9kKMR5Gsa-HNG735JHLTnWNiAfQ3CrC_GPrzOFC6JLsAepAKPwcesaVuxC8RdPTjUPSSs58U0nAbLAHFBVjNw/s320/H0061-L252606284.jpg" width="209" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Randy Lawrencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01915125036121915292noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5902231158764165922.post-51316490035946489752022-05-14T10:07:00.001-04:002022-05-14T10:21:39.527-04:00Slo-Balls, Rollers, And Breeding Better Setters<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi6OhrRfTs5VzhN7dmpDkWeqXQcd1zUcxMt8HdZtB7zrhy_9hHcBQw-4pejF_FOC_cChSjd0Ja4uSOK2aOblZo60s_F2jSWf-5VzAkmuLoA2DiwRMj2IfRexc4wXELssmIsmExZfZObfXA4aMBdfeVcVWTzuTlZb7VHQ64VgLzvto0c1MVRJzO_bIAniQ=s640" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi6OhrRfTs5VzhN7dmpDkWeqXQcd1zUcxMt8HdZtB7zrhy_9hHcBQw-4pejF_FOC_cChSjd0Ja4uSOK2aOblZo60s_F2jSWf-5VzAkmuLoA2DiwRMj2IfRexc4wXELssmIsmExZfZObfXA4aMBdfeVcVWTzuTlZb7VHQ64VgLzvto0c1MVRJzO_bIAniQ=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /> By Randy Lawrence<p></p><p>They are relics from another time, another kind of dog, other ways of thinking, training, and hunting, four artifacts streaked white from the swallow nests generations of birds have built from the low ceiling. </p><p>For more than thirty years, they have hung, unused, on the top board outside the horse stalls, mute testimony to the long journey this old farm has witnessed.</p><p>Back in the 1970's, this farm was consecrated to training and hunting dogs from horseback. There were wild quail here then, as well as birds raised in seclusion, live trapped, and released in a designated "dog training" area. This canteen watered the first truly great dog to ever hunt here, a dog from Sam Light's breeding named Willie. When we hunted away from the creek that snaked through the Flagdale Road bottom, Willie would come in, put his front paws high along the fenders of my friend Bob Thompson's saddle, and drink enough to hit that next big lick along a long field edge.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhJ4L5qhfB54KLsb45KEiWQSMXfRJ-Qk8eSplEUgz3YkmtXacMoZTtd2F8bOMBs4Iu8BiMhIbQH_9hszH5aw1NjipIL6AXbwVklkOyFNbNMiSqw-zY5AwJukNcQiihga1tUvSikkWbb9Lo6qV2BOtsAFlh0u-Tl9giBEdha4qMFCW2bsHXU5HTWteRUSQ=s488" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="488" data-original-width="358" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhJ4L5qhfB54KLsb45KEiWQSMXfRJ-Qk8eSplEUgz3YkmtXacMoZTtd2F8bOMBs4Iu8BiMhIbQH_9hszH5aw1NjipIL6AXbwVklkOyFNbNMiSqw-zY5AwJukNcQiihga1tUvSikkWbb9Lo6qV2BOtsAFlh0u-Tl9giBEdha4qMFCW2bsHXU5HTWteRUSQ=s320" width="235" /></a></div><br /><p>The heavy hunks of iron, the bell shaped one a converted canoe anchor, rode in Bob's saddlebags. When a dog went on point, Bob dismounted, pulled the weight out of his saddle bag and clipped one rein to that metal loop. The shooting ponies Bob rode were conditioned to "ground tie," but the anchor was a reminder should a horse take a notion to meander off while his rider was walking up quail the dog had pinned.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgmIJrdTmb7OiAxlIx9gVNWpDAHKon0lfTcgxkhd642jmcoPN3L58gg8al-vW8AL2eNGtbdvf7JW2KlKpgxMxbKYOc4O91_cE7DQOfN3Kb4HcJasCefZYljvArgxIQKgnE7eEv8kaE5c8DcrSY_J1G0G8wczHA35uuntmY2iDMcNDtrZGP6LudQXrEctA=s430" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="430" data-original-width="366" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgmIJrdTmb7OiAxlIx9gVNWpDAHKon0lfTcgxkhd642jmcoPN3L58gg8al-vW8AL2eNGtbdvf7JW2KlKpgxMxbKYOc4O91_cE7DQOfN3Kb4HcJasCefZYljvArgxIQKgnE7eEv8kaE5c8DcrSY_J1G0G8wczHA35uuntmY2iDMcNDtrZGP6LudQXrEctA=s320" width="272" /></a></div><br /><p>The big bracelets of hard wooden balls are "action devices” rollers meant to irritate a horse's pasterns so that he picks his front feet up higher. The slightly exaggerated leg lift, coupled with driving the horse into the long-shanked bit, can enhance the desired four-beat gait that walking horse aficionados covet. Rollers are frowned on everywhere, outlawed in some places, consigned to a dark era before more thoughtful breeders focused on bloodstock whose smooth-riding gait comes naturally.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiVMGRHddN__qqZ94A2J7jdShmR-yEZU4xR2bqQR_20IUUB19lAb3PqlH9OPCJISQc4G0dcwG_fw87xtZf6DHcej7L3kJfO6GTZaMFQnrts8mWYeg7_PzHfllJie-OqCuvtnG-ngS9cTvb5_3VWeGubtSRkIVnMz6kJXZisxyHhgKkmhzVTYuXKNx3woA=s476" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="476" data-original-width="310" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiVMGRHddN__qqZ94A2J7jdShmR-yEZU4xR2bqQR_20IUUB19lAb3PqlH9OPCJISQc4G0dcwG_fw87xtZf6DHcej7L3kJfO6GTZaMFQnrts8mWYeg7_PzHfllJie-OqCuvtnG-ngS9cTvb5_3VWeGubtSRkIVnMz6kJXZisxyHhgKkmhzVTYuXKNx3woA=s320" width="208" /></a></div><br /><p>The fourth "museum piece" hanging on that weathered board is a lead snap tied to 8" of nylon cord, each threaded through a heavy rubber ball. Marketed back in the day as "Slo Balls," this other sort of "action device" were fastened to the D-ring of a dog's collar so that the balls dangled between the animal's front feet. As the dog ran, the balls rapped and bounced and battered the forelegs, ostensibly to distract and intimidate a dog for whom the far horizons were simply too much temptation.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiDjs5CGHp39Psf78u2imV3RZyju9yIiQ507JR_bi0dM45AmTQGZq8RY-f1-LeH2l0Ak_P6ld_lOYjgV6WwNPyNd4wEPAo6ginn_cpKvfkSiC1arwJRR91ogFclgkjZ-a5UWLDkEOljyjZN3FG55cu9QuLCfDduDCRNBpt0qbxV5NQVjhAAjYm1x8os9g=s613" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="613" data-original-width="271" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiDjs5CGHp39Psf78u2imV3RZyju9yIiQ507JR_bi0dM45AmTQGZq8RY-f1-LeH2l0Ak_P6ld_lOYjgV6WwNPyNd4wEPAo6ginn_cpKvfkSiC1arwJRR91ogFclgkjZ-a5UWLDkEOljyjZN3FG55cu9QuLCfDduDCRNBpt0qbxV5NQVjhAAjYm1x8os9g=s320" width="141" /></a></div><p>I suppose they were left over from the "pro broke," horseback field trial dogs that hunted here when Bob first owned the farm, before he began to breed and train his own, before he selected for dogs that would take a fencerow to the end, but would check back and work in partnership with the handler.</p><p>I never saw the "Slo Balls" on a dog, thank God, just as I never saw those heinous rollers tied above the hooves of one of our shooting ponies. But those tools of a different trade still hang in my barn, grim reminders of a time when my friend Bob and his peers thought we should force animals to our will and tastes.</p><p>Instead of discriminating breeding practices to shape a better pointer or setter, one genetically shaped as a companion working dog for whom The Right Stuff came naturally, hard, heedless men and women from another time, another sensibility, jerked, tripped, shocked, pinch collared whipped, and bullied dogs and horses into some semblance of what they were never bred to be in the first place. More than one of the vintage training books from Bob's library shelves offer detailed instructions of how to "warm up" a disobedient dog with a "well-placed load of chilled #9's."</p><p>The ugly cruelty of "breaking dogs" never took root on this farm. As the years and the dogs and the quail changed the soul of how things were done here, this place became a haven of "frictionless learning." We devoted more time and thought to putting dogs and horse partners in positions to succeed, a philosophy built around the mantra of Delmar Smith, one of Bob's very few heroes in gun dog training: point of contact, association, repetition... and marking time on the dog's schedule, not our own. The inevitable gaffes by man and beast were turned into chances to learn, never excuses for losing composure and meting out punishment.</p><p>My friend Bob died three years before any Firelights came to live on his farm that I now call home. But Lynn Dee's English setters, bred for discerning people who want to get with, and hunt through, their canine companions are, out of the box, everything Bob Thompson came to admire: beautiful dogs that could step straight from the Rosseau or Frost or Wyeth prints he hung on his farmhouse walls; dogs that can fly in open country, then motor down to meticulously scour the thick 'n' thorny; bird dogs that point with intensity and classic style, retrieve naturally, handle deftly...and share hearth and home between hunts with an ease and devotion that can take a little of the edge off Real Life Stuff. </p><p>What more could we ask from dogs bred for covert and gun?</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPAHOtesR_Ornx0V6H9WgxLCWbD4iggNmN6Tq3_CehVBobfmIxLhVecaTxQrk56-KSqWQWkCPNROV923lVNX0NguPY4qvSIJXRXTSkvKYs8vlNyr4U8OgCC3iVxD_v9IJNN5wimjFP4WbLmTf31_bzPupzUkyjjRn6QEpzfcMJQ51yC-FkcYYYPQo2/s1409/Patch%20ptng%20cropped.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1289" data-original-width="1409" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPAHOtesR_Ornx0V6H9WgxLCWbD4iggNmN6Tq3_CehVBobfmIxLhVecaTxQrk56-KSqWQWkCPNROV923lVNX0NguPY4qvSIJXRXTSkvKYs8vlNyr4U8OgCC3iVxD_v9IJNN5wimjFP4WbLmTf31_bzPupzUkyjjRn6QEpzfcMJQ51yC-FkcYYYPQo2/s320/Patch%20ptng%20cropped.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Randy Lawrencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01915125036121915292noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5902231158764165922.post-54330770358794566182022-05-10T07:27:00.001-04:002022-05-10T08:08:00.713-04:00J.F. Kernan and My Friend, The Gent<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">By Randy Lawrence</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyP18a1hsFPmW7x5eQtyk_BGrOIsgSpb85zCVxKtdJgBX_OV6ooFErroB1-oL48MKubCN0b1A7HvG1oK1QYvTP6NM2kK6LrsMjZo66m_-oOdG_1bDRWg49qLo57VXadlStcppfA-IU_vFnKn8YGUifTBV4HWT2XHIkW5rhndy2KgD_37dZ2dgM4SXQSg/s522/hunter-and-spaniel%20(1)%20JF%20Kernan.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="522" data-original-width="400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyP18a1hsFPmW7x5eQtyk_BGrOIsgSpb85zCVxKtdJgBX_OV6ooFErroB1-oL48MKubCN0b1A7HvG1oK1QYvTP6NM2kK6LrsMjZo66m_-oOdG_1bDRWg49qLo57VXadlStcppfA-IU_vFnKn8YGUifTBV4HWT2XHIkW5rhndy2KgD_37dZ2dgM4SXQSg/s320/hunter-and-spaniel%20(1)%20JF%20Kernan.jpg" width="245" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /> He may be the most recognized artist/illustrator whose name you do not know. But if you love an upland tableau painted for the devotee of the companion English setter gun dog, J.F. Kernan's easel is a portal to sweet reverie.<div><br /><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_IDv4z39dH57zGaHEMeHLDhtGo6qixmNWV7v_KlvxqRh9b87QW7CHgeH6uoTrbHwGiqEckN9rN2kcCngOtoeeSbEPYVJXyusNceY3L4v9qctP-ZN3JyHptYL-donLuDrQ8e_2IRkAFCi67u3JSOvRAobMa1EPM6KmOvKltHN46CSzg1l-d3UcKmJGqQ/s685/JF%20Kernan%20Saturday%20Evening%20Post%20leaving%20the%20litter.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="685" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_IDv4z39dH57zGaHEMeHLDhtGo6qixmNWV7v_KlvxqRh9b87QW7CHgeH6uoTrbHwGiqEckN9rN2kcCngOtoeeSbEPYVJXyusNceY3L4v9qctP-ZN3JyHptYL-donLuDrQ8e_2IRkAFCi67u3JSOvRAobMa1EPM6KmOvKltHN46CSzg1l-d3UcKmJGqQ/s320/JF%20Kernan%20Saturday%20Evening%20Post%20leaving%20the%20litter.jpg" width="234" /></a></div><br /><div><br /><div><br /></div><div>In his heyday between the two World Wars, Joseph Francis Kernan (1878-1958) made art that glowed from the covers and pages of virtually every popular American publication, not to mention hundreds of advertisements, calendars and other promotions. His 1932 oil on canvas, <i>College Football,</i> painted for the cover of the <i>Saturday Evening Post </i>that same year, is considered by some to be the inspiration behind the most iconic trophy in college sports, the Heisman, sculpted by Frank Eliscu two years later. </div><div><br /></div><div> In 2021, the original painting entitled <i>College Football</i> along with a tear sheet from <i>The Post's </i>cover, would fall under the auctioneer's hammer at $75,000. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_wsm0yRRCztX3SM6iepWsj9zqjU7dm362_xgHNZeIQ2Qk7IdOQNz0gn3tSt12JDuPYqDXecuX1V7_yV1CHqrtH0xDvQw18y_VGLgvYTkn8JZcv88DEMcJ2GyfTrB425FfbL3QxviFk14U1wgbFh_EmUFcQbYMLyKFgtCc47WYnQfxyuOEnMQwLyKRJA/s1534/776152.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1534" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_wsm0yRRCztX3SM6iepWsj9zqjU7dm362_xgHNZeIQ2Qk7IdOQNz0gn3tSt12JDuPYqDXecuX1V7_yV1CHqrtH0xDvQw18y_VGLgvYTkn8JZcv88DEMcJ2GyfTrB425FfbL3QxviFk14U1wgbFh_EmUFcQbYMLyKFgtCc47WYnQfxyuOEnMQwLyKRJA/s320/776152.jpg" width="250" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixOalLvmQCzJi9hDwauilsMA-k2YKH_BOcTovxAuAf4lOx98O8iHs4ThOtylw5iafcUhh_AioRiWTh02ZF-k4zThBnfTPLUzU6Vkfag4EBESd_U0YOjGRbToqlbot2FzXEYmkYVAOsO5TyPMr8uqxqZL0HPlWLjQGujZ9tc54y0uB-mlFyPzjqRv4SSA/s1599/776152_view%2004_03.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1599" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixOalLvmQCzJi9hDwauilsMA-k2YKH_BOcTovxAuAf4lOx98O8iHs4ThOtylw5iafcUhh_AioRiWTh02ZF-k4zThBnfTPLUzU6Vkfag4EBESd_U0YOjGRbToqlbot2FzXEYmkYVAOsO5TyPMr8uqxqZL0HPlWLjQGujZ9tc54y0uB-mlFyPzjqRv4SSA/s320/776152_view%2004_03.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div> </div><div><br /></div><div>Less than a year later, another oil painting made for a <i>Saturday Evening Post</i> cover entitled "Tying On A Fly" would be auctioned from a private collection at $126,000. Despite industry insiders slapping him with the damned-with-faint-praise nickname, "the poor man's Norman Rockwell," owning an original piece of J.F. Kernan's art has become anything but a poor man's game.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwHRKY6PnOGBz1OVqeyku4v5FK1RxPf61vG6FOrbr5AAlHZDc2HAfG1peLXWfzEiczmKmYX-Ts45wn5NxEI5AIGDfC0ULgTSVyMRvngmqdRggpka5BqgGh4e5YhbCjMDY0558uZMzkC-ZoREuJ3CDKjJSCWCf6vcIh6XwZ8gLrreABkq4K7ElgDYbAOA/s281/tying-on-a-fly-may-25-1929_u-L-Q1HYK9Q0.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="281" data-original-width="211" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwHRKY6PnOGBz1OVqeyku4v5FK1RxPf61vG6FOrbr5AAlHZDc2HAfG1peLXWfzEiczmKmYX-Ts45wn5NxEI5AIGDfC0ULgTSVyMRvngmqdRggpka5BqgGh4e5YhbCjMDY0558uZMzkC-ZoREuJ3CDKjJSCWCf6vcIh6XwZ8gLrreABkq4K7ElgDYbAOA/s1600/tying-on-a-fly-may-25-1929_u-L-Q1HYK9Q0.jpg" width="211" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvR5Myy9o0oLBwRaLMBkvac85NMvZ2R0dCXz1tncgRjuBvNhC3m9ENq71vZli_In_PPdQsQZGsXHMU4vGVMCOo-gvaRQup1ECIeWSEF89n-EkgzjImzFJGaTEKSRIkC2MYqTBUB2GFrfQhuRAHepc-VAYDcgp6hBQ3TCpHD_9pQEuZvCxsOzQerR5gTw/s538/aa92a81d8394ab894362ae949d4f0227.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="538" data-original-width="400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvR5Myy9o0oLBwRaLMBkvac85NMvZ2R0dCXz1tncgRjuBvNhC3m9ENq71vZli_In_PPdQsQZGsXHMU4vGVMCOo-gvaRQup1ECIeWSEF89n-EkgzjImzFJGaTEKSRIkC2MYqTBUB2GFrfQhuRAHepc-VAYDcgp6hBQ3TCpHD_9pQEuZvCxsOzQerR5gTw/s320/aa92a81d8394ab894362ae949d4f0227.jpg" width="238" /></a></div><br /><div>Born in Brookline, Massachusetts, J.F. Kernan reportedly was an uncommon team sports athlete who loved the outdoors. He paid his art school tuition by playing professional baseball, stayed on at Boston's Pape School of Art for two years, teaching, then headed for New York City to further his illustrator's career. </div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdc4CmiccuT1HtmVqr0TdKkzdiw5m54FiBpky9a7IDDLmkUDOg4IkgbOIxugVbtEDKAXUO2RUX2Rt3TSU0ez2atmz-009nBlPNSpG34qpZcZictN5k4Xf2hwvF_lHi5dYDlOonnXkppx1t62kiJLyXiMrBQE0JYUP0yOo7NmfW_qBZLaeGtCc4XzQx6w/s531/batter.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="531" data-original-width="400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdc4CmiccuT1HtmVqr0TdKkzdiw5m54FiBpky9a7IDDLmkUDOg4IkgbOIxugVbtEDKAXUO2RUX2Rt3TSU0ez2atmz-009nBlPNSpG34qpZcZictN5k4Xf2hwvF_lHi5dYDlOonnXkppx1t62kiJLyXiMrBQE0JYUP0yOo7NmfW_qBZLaeGtCc4XzQx6w/s320/batter.jpg" width="241" /></a>***(see at bottom)</div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>One quotation comes up again and again in online research on Kernan, his explanation for his particular story-telling angle. Kernan said his beat was "the human side of outdoor sports, hunting, fishing, and dogs." Happily for me, when Kernan painted a dog, that dog was most likely to be an English setter.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtp0hXFkCAA8x7aqQSptGnuzKLrEPQ5sIbckw6RcoNpjTlEberlE4SLjdd2_6xu2rTZNLq6FsOGgdyjhwUBUeuDJ8eJzqJwlDcvIFvOu7FgBQ36orhj1XCWwjQZ0oc8SZ5zTXMFdhPVLrk7qTbyv6dsQ80Ow3qChcs8b-L2Flrb93NH9SwEIGA6CoBpw/s450/country%20gentleman%20cover%20JF%20Kernan.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="338" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtp0hXFkCAA8x7aqQSptGnuzKLrEPQ5sIbckw6RcoNpjTlEberlE4SLjdd2_6xu2rTZNLq6FsOGgdyjhwUBUeuDJ8eJzqJwlDcvIFvOu7FgBQ36orhj1XCWwjQZ0oc8SZ5zTXMFdhPVLrk7qTbyv6dsQ80Ow3qChcs8b-L2Flrb93NH9SwEIGA6CoBpw/s320/country%20gentleman%20cover%20JF%20Kernan.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Critics tout Kernan's sense of humor in his work. He wasn't above playing to convention, the standard gag featured on the covers of sporting magazines everywhere being the hunter surprised by his quarry.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLghu_Su4XC1A2TxK-PyAZqB2Pu2boIo-PBhoX9VGjTqZOV99yTIY6qtz9sym2alF29tfvr0s2OhHqr5avcIx55xX9oN7XJA6gXvfZMp1UZ0AUzuT3raQVt2Qj_ohD7y0sqBKdY_XagiHKfYVlkdTvH_L0krHqwp0OWAvobzAwttHuX7xENEtzojkf4A/s1600/1940-Outdoor-Life-October-J-F-Kernan.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1236" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLghu_Su4XC1A2TxK-PyAZqB2Pu2boIo-PBhoX9VGjTqZOV99yTIY6qtz9sym2alF29tfvr0s2OhHqr5avcIx55xX9oN7XJA6gXvfZMp1UZ0AUzuT3raQVt2Qj_ohD7y0sqBKdY_XagiHKfYVlkdTvH_L0krHqwp0OWAvobzAwttHuX7xENEtzojkf4A/s320/1940-Outdoor-Life-October-J-F-Kernan.jpg" width="247" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiajO3BjjtB0HKZVWQ4KEb-o9lgDnLQre0KoyUK5HkSh59zO4WWD5u9HgU41u_wG6DrlBwKc3RdJ51tew97xWy_F4MoO_3xZPAe-5emoj9TnAF4RVjY98pyseo_UTQXSBzfKPZwad0GXtZr3bihKzhPFKCKYWOY3A76PSOuQU-t80mIl3DJF6PYs-FEyw/s1600/1942-Outdoor-Life-October-J-F-Kernan.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1228" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiajO3BjjtB0HKZVWQ4KEb-o9lgDnLQre0KoyUK5HkSh59zO4WWD5u9HgU41u_wG6DrlBwKc3RdJ51tew97xWy_F4MoO_3xZPAe-5emoj9TnAF4RVjY98pyseo_UTQXSBzfKPZwad0GXtZr3bihKzhPFKCKYWOY3A76PSOuQU-t80mIl3DJF6PYs-FEyw/s320/1942-Outdoor-Life-October-J-F-Kernan.jpg" width="246" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_B4dcGsF_eo1pS_jFDXTMHnFEeIwTfcb5j0INOv_j4q88BslTFyfFEB_6GJYnQdBsBpk5ZBXrOqokNhYyqzzr6HTEZjP9MZpobOmpQKLpPSg7KMh8uJw_u25qNOwAJmnMnFkQvTxwN6-safwp2wib0YmRlKK1ryRqODBpeViGel2-MvxCWv4z9Q9poA/s1285/bobwhite%20quail%20flushing%20through%20fence%20JF%20kernan.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1285" data-original-width="1000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_B4dcGsF_eo1pS_jFDXTMHnFEeIwTfcb5j0INOv_j4q88BslTFyfFEB_6GJYnQdBsBpk5ZBXrOqokNhYyqzzr6HTEZjP9MZpobOmpQKLpPSg7KMh8uJw_u25qNOwAJmnMnFkQvTxwN6-safwp2wib0YmRlKK1ryRqODBpeViGel2-MvxCWv4z9Q9poA/s320/bobwhite%20quail%20flushing%20through%20fence%20JF%20kernan.jpg" width="249" /></a></div><br /><div><br /><p></p><p>Kernan was the pro's pro of commercial illustrators, forever playing to the crowd. In selling magazines, beer, tires, or calendar art (like the first one below, published by the venerable Goes Lithographing Company, and entitled "Seven New Playmates"), what could have broader appeal than a litter of English setter puppies?</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6XHST2ILZRc_YmXdN9hDmKqnfBTlhieJdxs5X0MLjYdgrzptepHcF4QnVoER2nha_tyrVxztx6GNvngf1OwmxJfR7FH9D-269eFNBCbRYg2FhjSb1hid315TBRmOVQDlYl5kiLIFOkUv1S9BQ9rCA5kRZnjp3_fp596yMkoflJugDwinhDA6yX_mwvw/s768/seven%20new%20playmates%20kernan.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="570" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6XHST2ILZRc_YmXdN9hDmKqnfBTlhieJdxs5X0MLjYdgrzptepHcF4QnVoER2nha_tyrVxztx6GNvngf1OwmxJfR7FH9D-269eFNBCbRYg2FhjSb1hid315TBRmOVQDlYl5kiLIFOkUv1S9BQ9rCA5kRZnjp3_fp596yMkoflJugDwinhDA6yX_mwvw/s320/seven%20new%20playmates%20kernan.jpg" width="238" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKezud0QRvtc4eBm9R8qo4pbzPDpeXP2fv_TT_E58ZuW0CJkmnHaheMtQr5JFVanFoQdluAKhR9TfbZnbXBRKtmKPVvUZ-Z_CSWeWHaStcmiGZbnkCnraXP_A8F2g5rjTwHa2sb1Sq5014m3LrCvG36Bkxg9yVn00JZrh9zhVj5VhAh8DEQ6dwAwa91Q/s814/5698860.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="814" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKezud0QRvtc4eBm9R8qo4pbzPDpeXP2fv_TT_E58ZuW0CJkmnHaheMtQr5JFVanFoQdluAKhR9TfbZnbXBRKtmKPVvUZ-Z_CSWeWHaStcmiGZbnkCnraXP_A8F2g5rjTwHa2sb1Sq5014m3LrCvG36Bkxg9yVn00JZrh9zhVj5VhAh8DEQ6dwAwa91Q/s320/5698860.jpg" width="236" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ2X76kWE85CMoVq0NjfyjDkjDhMMELXBMKUQZfyTOQBVO5_pcnRUoRwm9ozr77fbftARsX3m_moSydPMCzLpqfT9rnrsWnwyY55RWmKb55Ji8jpiWZItRPGR_XVJc9D4TclOVSzYwP4TVIyWJ9kHRb_Bfr6181t3UunGVDSI4luBbLUUAHkEsfuBWPA/s760/JF%20Kernan%20litter%20of%20puppies.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="760" data-original-width="570" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ2X76kWE85CMoVq0NjfyjDkjDhMMELXBMKUQZfyTOQBVO5_pcnRUoRwm9ozr77fbftARsX3m_moSydPMCzLpqfT9rnrsWnwyY55RWmKb55Ji8jpiWZItRPGR_XVJc9D4TclOVSzYwP4TVIyWJ9kHRb_Bfr6181t3UunGVDSI4luBbLUUAHkEsfuBWPA/s320/JF%20Kernan%20litter%20of%20puppies.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">A recurring motif in Kernan's puppy portraits can be seen in the second <i>Saturday Evening Post</i> cover of this blog post, as one or more of the parents is lead away from the litter, supposedly headed for a day afield.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii4W23azj0b4o25HtAQ2niMiHz593MakCl7xbAnsvXkLmxIY13dOwOei7VgK5CkCgFKqBmr_CxMiKafaMcfmRYJ23t5o7cHrDHumY_AgNBbIpDYwxCsfpCE32bQML1-cKl_QKPVa7Tyb7_pHDrCarPNjqJvpq8r0NezzdJrGjM6mWmR8sNgdnnV-z2yQ/s259/grainbelt%20beer%20JF%20Kernan.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="259" data-original-width="194" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii4W23azj0b4o25HtAQ2niMiHz593MakCl7xbAnsvXkLmxIY13dOwOei7VgK5CkCgFKqBmr_CxMiKafaMcfmRYJ23t5o7cHrDHumY_AgNBbIpDYwxCsfpCE32bQML1-cKl_QKPVa7Tyb7_pHDrCarPNjqJvpq8r0NezzdJrGjM6mWmR8sNgdnnV-z2yQ/s1600/grainbelt%20beer%20JF%20Kernan.jpeg" width="194" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioOjZff0UbA0n-zz-9U98_AoKhPTiPLQePWbzEPyxE4naYNTz-n_mk2kQVW2WWqQIyDzyl8P5i3K5t5A7eX_LVaFvWzsUVkB221ZRXmmtL3EM4rsJaYk6miMLQ7DXokg8WOCpVF5j7rY20zzp6CTjFE0X6MD4dPg-LZgYG2yxnNOuin-LO29TzH-3RyA/s400/taking%20the%20mother%20hunting%20dad%20with%20auto%20five%20shotgun.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="347" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioOjZff0UbA0n-zz-9U98_AoKhPTiPLQePWbzEPyxE4naYNTz-n_mk2kQVW2WWqQIyDzyl8P5i3K5t5A7eX_LVaFvWzsUVkB221ZRXmmtL3EM4rsJaYk6miMLQ7DXokg8WOCpVF5j7rY20zzp6CTjFE0X6MD4dPg-LZgYG2yxnNOuin-LO29TzH-3RyA/s320/taking%20the%20mother%20hunting%20dad%20with%20auto%20five%20shotgun.jpg" width="278" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>In Kernan's world (and mine), all English setter breeders worth painting are hunters. They enjoy spending time with the litter, constantly weighing merits of the youngsters against the day when Pup goes into the game fields and shows that she's a chip off the ol' block...and a natural for hawking Grain Belt beer!</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXwxNpUGFuNFq1vYhlrHedTrfdCiopVYEL6wNIlzimI86O-2YNoi0YMMl9f82nfD3py3m7CzucLTt-SZUaYOeyYF5nCKPkbCSb8RKRRJEGKiMMFtdhwkAUD24jIRFR7odWQLdl9BSUwqdFsKQWzPvdaatDdY-eA9Gf1EgqLp6i0ChqxM9zKLMUDqErxA/s500/litter%20of%20puppies%20Kernan.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="373" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXwxNpUGFuNFq1vYhlrHedTrfdCiopVYEL6wNIlzimI86O-2YNoi0YMMl9f82nfD3py3m7CzucLTt-SZUaYOeyYF5nCKPkbCSb8RKRRJEGKiMMFtdhwkAUD24jIRFR7odWQLdl9BSUwqdFsKQWzPvdaatDdY-eA9Gf1EgqLp6i0ChqxM9zKLMUDqErxA/s320/litter%20of%20puppies%20Kernan.jpeg" width="239" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGefw4y1aoa5IQd-inewPBGtBL25exfWA5uAqrAtmcz5g4Z4cp2MiFGGZQ4Uypb7TWnqRmEKP4P-xeTp5LZlAD-CZgybDfsUjZwVW08IiUPuOdOs5nbNNw5wQRK37l7ZTc4-S2q22oIUY2f2QqgkWmawSTPtQdPyaWJHh7aNqWabEl8OLtXE1uZe0xCQ/s600/weighing%20a%20pair%20of%20puppies%20beer%20ad%20kernan.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="481" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGefw4y1aoa5IQd-inewPBGtBL25exfWA5uAqrAtmcz5g4Z4cp2MiFGGZQ4Uypb7TWnqRmEKP4P-xeTp5LZlAD-CZgybDfsUjZwVW08IiUPuOdOs5nbNNw5wQRK37l7ZTc4-S2q22oIUY2f2QqgkWmawSTPtQdPyaWJHh7aNqWabEl8OLtXE1uZe0xCQ/s320/weighing%20a%20pair%20of%20puppies%20beer%20ad%20kernan.jpeg" width="257" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5xkXs79_6USmLO0dGOonJ22pgr1gtAdf_gY6NahV8yAL1Sr9lxWZul_LxKmTBn9gEWJFeABIWmJ_ymK4bV5tffm0P3ToLFUGeyzedAihoLGGpAJQxLtcApLOJPwC6IlAlK3skJzNwsZh4ZeFSUdh-7Ea5GOhC6Hbuj_GXLb_chJV9-HGTcw_Xz22Sxw/s252/JF%20Kernan%20puppy%20retrieving%20pheasant.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="252" data-original-width="200" height="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5xkXs79_6USmLO0dGOonJ22pgr1gtAdf_gY6NahV8yAL1Sr9lxWZul_LxKmTBn9gEWJFeABIWmJ_ymK4bV5tffm0P3ToLFUGeyzedAihoLGGpAJQxLtcApLOJPwC6IlAlK3skJzNwsZh4ZeFSUdh-7Ea5GOhC6Hbuj_GXLb_chJV9-HGTcw_Xz22Sxw/s1600/JF%20Kernan%20puppy%20retrieving%20pheasant.jpeg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">There may not be a hoarier upland cliche than The Dilemma of the Posted Covert, a quandary for Dog and Gun that Kernan believes can sometimes be solved with a good will offering.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvYzMorZl3Gy0B8IceD47V7wqqTdowyYTe8CHZ3tZcE0KUJqFn9DdypNAbyGgN8u5CJA1iqO7OSAtvOqgNrvivr2eWw-5u-IJLSIp_LZfFlP8HRnGgUPyPZMF3-hW2uVUKz-s2wYRZdOjq77ICbkXhn7-Tn3ztvirawkxsmVaTuk_6H8HSlvLG4W_5KA/s692/posted%20hunting%20sign.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="568" data-original-width="692" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvYzMorZl3Gy0B8IceD47V7wqqTdowyYTe8CHZ3tZcE0KUJqFn9DdypNAbyGgN8u5CJA1iqO7OSAtvOqgNrvivr2eWw-5u-IJLSIp_LZfFlP8HRnGgUPyPZMF3-hW2uVUKz-s2wYRZdOjq77ICbkXhn7-Tn3ztvirawkxsmVaTuk_6H8HSlvLG4W_5KA/s320/posted%20hunting%20sign.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnwNxgnwkgFswLadJjLC4V-dREoY9g46CswC-MmWtiyE8cd4cPQnuAD2vgBTL4X2fU4DyWRcqLtknu7JB5LpKyFbxRECPZ2ds6dw7WOW3dgoZXhr_g3t4ZCS6OIvXIYnMVkSC1r2avQCP4Yd4NCWf-1atvXU4MaEAIlRT49dY3EMWDBB1wZ3ffwaETQg/s1543/It's-a-Bargain-final%20JF%20Kernan%20posted%20land.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1543" data-original-width="1246" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnwNxgnwkgFswLadJjLC4V-dREoY9g46CswC-MmWtiyE8cd4cPQnuAD2vgBTL4X2fU4DyWRcqLtknu7JB5LpKyFbxRECPZ2ds6dw7WOW3dgoZXhr_g3t4ZCS6OIvXIYnMVkSC1r2avQCP4Yd4NCWf-1atvXU4MaEAIlRT49dY3EMWDBB1wZ3ffwaETQg/s320/It's-a-Bargain-final%20JF%20Kernan%20posted%20land.jpg" width="258" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>The proferred cigar painting above became a cover for <i>Capper's Farmer </i>which,<i> </i>since 1893, has been printing "Practical Advice For The Homemade Life" in Canada and the US. <i>Capper's Farmer</i> is still in publication (https://www.cappersfarmer.com/ ).</div><div><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibed3dHrFoFK4PK22HZZ29zu_bewnccVDbdD-94VRp__8i0RAgIWhizwYaCSh2r1GVaq6cxcaEUV8ZsJN_5ar4GhhsFxnudR-4lg65n47-PDe5sgeffsit13GsA4LdlCiZ4iID-NXqLBgTXlP7vk3_GYvErNRc0MMp1D1QMZI1bRhyod9bdDKLgqedeA/s400/f-kernan-hunting-english-setter_1_bd13056d49c2ab48b7769e9ed2eb2e32.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="312" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibed3dHrFoFK4PK22HZZ29zu_bewnccVDbdD-94VRp__8i0RAgIWhizwYaCSh2r1GVaq6cxcaEUV8ZsJN_5ar4GhhsFxnudR-4lg65n47-PDe5sgeffsit13GsA4LdlCiZ4iID-NXqLBgTXlP7vk3_GYvErNRc0MMp1D1QMZI1bRhyod9bdDKLgqedeA/s320/f-kernan-hunting-english-setter_1_bd13056d49c2ab48b7769e9ed2eb2e32.jpg" width="250" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: left;">Certainly one of the hallmarks of Kernan's portrayal of English setters is his depiction of them <i>in </i>our lives, and not just during hunting season. For example, those who may occasionally or even habitually commit fishing, will appreciate the English setter visualizing a smokey streamside brag about "the big one that got away."</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpoxX7YuElQ61reQp2zy1NzWguaZM-dHbpeWU1YKUcKFWLyYMatN7eD7skYT9xedtocNGxNHnDz-7HVwN7mfkBzaetmTOYz4PFaryrwNMnonyRHwkVtfeCzF1ajVAmoZGp8gyneem4ENrSeLbXXc8d2sqGtYZB_sAsQREgimCGi0Vv0hly7cb4mIofKA/s600/falstaff%20beer%20ad%20tall%20tales%20Kernan.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpoxX7YuElQ61reQp2zy1NzWguaZM-dHbpeWU1YKUcKFWLyYMatN7eD7skYT9xedtocNGxNHnDz-7HVwN7mfkBzaetmTOYz4PFaryrwNMnonyRHwkVtfeCzF1ajVAmoZGp8gyneem4ENrSeLbXXc8d2sqGtYZB_sAsQREgimCGi0Vv0hly7cb4mIofKA/s320/falstaff%20beer%20ad%20tall%20tales%20Kernan.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: left;">Maybe more than anything, though, what makes Kernan's work endearing to a gun dog aficionado is the affection apparent in each scene. His men (and I could find no women painted into Kernan's upland world) love their dogs, and vice versa.</p><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF1hbJGyD57yK3I97_fk7KcEc46ARg9gJfHs07cY1EumlHtodC4S7hCQ5CTYWSP6iEKZCkM_otsRYDpi08wa6TngZliG1BxEIYQvBBJmFZFh6io6JrRdHHxSGC3l7dcL416RmNUlIz7gimeJ6EsG2Qdsye3gYDmUXeiWYY8GDPKzMRoXSPr1sBy969Jg/s252/hunter%20and%20two%20dogs%20JF%20Kernan.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="252" data-original-width="200" height="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF1hbJGyD57yK3I97_fk7KcEc46ARg9gJfHs07cY1EumlHtodC4S7hCQ5CTYWSP6iEKZCkM_otsRYDpi08wa6TngZliG1BxEIYQvBBJmFZFh6io6JrRdHHxSGC3l7dcL416RmNUlIz7gimeJ6EsG2Qdsye3gYDmUXeiWYY8GDPKzMRoXSPr1sBy969Jg/s1600/hunter%20and%20two%20dogs%20JF%20Kernan.jpeg" width="200" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPX8-rHiM74w2ATVgJi9e1vyi2AoIVlrVfer204R1BxYEO6IQ6CjVu4mtBTf2yiGcQ2UFlhqonmlI4aASBIS9yUdTKYVlWBxcRP7CeC8uGSTiTLo00Eech4diZE5tqu2ZudXYbjCS1szcI70pSASt95MKfCRI_n6rxdPplgB5zo4BM237ySkW9Pi9u_w/s654/OUTDOOR-LIFE-vintage-magazine-October-1944-Knife-Issue.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="654" data-original-width="654" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPX8-rHiM74w2ATVgJi9e1vyi2AoIVlrVfer204R1BxYEO6IQ6CjVu4mtBTf2yiGcQ2UFlhqonmlI4aASBIS9yUdTKYVlWBxcRP7CeC8uGSTiTLo00Eech4diZE5tqu2ZudXYbjCS1szcI70pSASt95MKfCRI_n6rxdPplgB5zo4BM237ySkW9Pi9u_w/s320/OUTDOOR-LIFE-vintage-magazine-October-1944-Knife-Issue.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Kernan's portfolio includes several stock examples of the "lacing up the boots in front of the psyched and pleading gun dog" genre. This was the only one that depicted a pointer. Because it is of the old style, heavily marked, head-full-of-brains-not-wind pointer, I felt deputized to sneak it into a setter blog.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF1-FnB4M68ylKIu8GA-jF9I8gvZ1m3QtqXnqN3iS3O7swvwDlmXnOjJxoh3XrbGmEqk4ODjlLpVrKX9WgSn_2NYR1siaUgy-kkhe-niitNYWYTTKituGDvqiRZqivvsufLyeI2Moz6GZSDOIL7ejLb92YUGkKy2AU29cVMGxXK5UsKUyL5HLSvHiC8A/s2592/Kernan_3567_a_master%20boots%20and%20bird%20dog.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2592" data-original-width="2022" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF1-FnB4M68ylKIu8GA-jF9I8gvZ1m3QtqXnqN3iS3O7swvwDlmXnOjJxoh3XrbGmEqk4ODjlLpVrKX9WgSn_2NYR1siaUgy-kkhe-niitNYWYTTKituGDvqiRZqivvsufLyeI2Moz6GZSDOIL7ejLb92YUGkKy2AU29cVMGxXK5UsKUyL5HLSvHiC8A/s320/Kernan_3567_a_master%20boots%20and%20bird%20dog.jpeg" width="250" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Part of the humor in Kernan's illustrations rests in the dogs' expressions. In this <i>Outdoor Life</i> cover, the "Now what?" look on that setter's face says it all.</div></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3eWIuI1t3rgt4K5cICEpTnCUoSYKTpkrKk34wD5lW9xiqGOUjXhWSMGJBZrOb-HsTNMObs9ogs3gvoIyVimZyqbD3bUxCk9Ftp0srEWt2rS84eq-ZDL1Gp-EeupTdhw_lZ-_43NX38AcwbXpP1To0KBH9_6iWLSQ046E8RrXBlH0ofhMLs63exngYuQ/s1600/1939-Outdoor-Life-January-JF-Kernan-Give.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1182" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3eWIuI1t3rgt4K5cICEpTnCUoSYKTpkrKk34wD5lW9xiqGOUjXhWSMGJBZrOb-HsTNMObs9ogs3gvoIyVimZyqbD3bUxCk9Ftp0srEWt2rS84eq-ZDL1Gp-EeupTdhw_lZ-_43NX38AcwbXpP1To0KBH9_6iWLSQ046E8RrXBlH0ofhMLs63exngYuQ/s320/1939-Outdoor-Life-January-JF-Kernan-Give.jpg" width="236" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">My favorite model for Kernan is the white mustachioed, dapper fellow who appears in numerous paintings. I've dubbed him "The Gent," and he exudes everything that is my imaginary New England grouse gunner from another time, a guy who could've been a charter member of Corey Ford's Lower Forty Hunting, Shooting, and Inside Straight Club. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheCiFQTdD8etydvjmhI0O7JaBi4rm49Hk3MOYns3zZg2oHsQrXGQw4xMSVidBEez53pWQ1ZAGkrqimRN0p_7RjtIOCeVv_guAf3yF9l27dFPyPTama1-vy4pQ8H5RyoG4Dls5GvjFZs16QONmuPdg5ofuHYew6SkZzua3DhJKo0Jpr2rlpnPwhrrG4BQ/s996/800-kernan2017cropped.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="996" data-original-width="800" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheCiFQTdD8etydvjmhI0O7JaBi4rm49Hk3MOYns3zZg2oHsQrXGQw4xMSVidBEez53pWQ1ZAGkrqimRN0p_7RjtIOCeVv_guAf3yF9l27dFPyPTama1-vy4pQ8H5RyoG4Dls5GvjFZs16QONmuPdg5ofuHYew6SkZzua3DhJKo0Jpr2rlpnPwhrrG4BQ/s320/800-kernan2017cropped.jpg" width="257" /></a></div><p style="text-align: left;">The Gent is dapper in his double-knotted Bean boots, battered fedora, and the necktie he always wore into his coverts. I suspect his hunting coat reeks of pipe tobacco, his breath tart from the nip of hard cider taken for medicinal purposes back at his shooting brake, his team of horses drowsing in the October sun, the leg o' mutton case for his Ithaca or Parker double tucked under the buggy seat.</p><p style="text-align: left;">He's an easy character for my own made-up tales around Kernan's art. The painting below is my current favorite. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeTlLgLvEVBy65HR4uZc-0WDpwFfvUUH9RYZbF1ToRbpdX-d0CcYvCfbgDpDVLDA0O0rObDdkYgtHW0MLVbY_4yyr4Cm_n3DAEZFdB6JHyLMuiQ-qh8kcTWBkoqn5ZvktMePFOOTd0V3dO5XW4EYWvdLW5uuCEcTpaMOUVq3WlV2F02tRnRREh3SugwQ/s770/grouse%20in%20hand%20kernan.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="770" height="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeTlLgLvEVBy65HR4uZc-0WDpwFfvUUH9RYZbF1ToRbpdX-d0CcYvCfbgDpDVLDA0O0rObDdkYgtHW0MLVbY_4yyr4Cm_n3DAEZFdB6JHyLMuiQ-qh8kcTWBkoqn5ZvktMePFOOTd0V3dO5XW4EYWvdLW5uuCEcTpaMOUVq3WlV2F02tRnRREh3SugwQ/s320/grouse%20in%20hand%20kernan.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Maybe that's his grandson, home on leave from the service. The young man has killed a ruffed grouse over The Gent's setter; as the old man admires the bird, he's thinking of other grouse on other days when <i>he </i>was the young man, palming a soft-mouthed retrieve from the grand sire of the dog hunting with them here. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">He handles that bird, admires that bird, in a way that says every ruffed grouse in hand is a wonder, a great good gift that, for him, can come only one way - from his coverts, his worn double shotgun, and an English setter bred to work and look and behave just so.</div><p style="text-align: left;">Sure it's maudlin. But that's the popular illustrator's hole card, to depict us they way we fancy ourselves, the way we wish we were. I am far closer to the Gent than to the ramrod-straight, ruddy faced younger fellow and maybe that's the bottom line of my love of Kernan's art: a yearning for a simpler time of sportsmanlike mores, of grouse and woodcock-rich coverts bare of bootprints and carelessly discarded shell casings, of fast, keen, feather-tailed English setters working for the Gun without bells, beepers or Elon Muskian GPS antennae. </p><p style="text-align: left;">More than anything else, Kernan's art speaks to me in its depiction of devotion to and from the dog. The fact that he painted setters reminiscent of the Firelight dogs I love most only seals the deal. I may never be more than a Gent wannabe, but, like my imagined version of him, I by gadfrey know what I like.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwlIPAeyx88WPnM1gS36BU1Pnc08HR4bGBjh-vL7sdaViOYOTHPkFMeSyFogU6u_jBm2w-8RYCmxzjOGhoH8Mt5rwPSCWPh88bwb67zzoIb_zDAVhmomWOrU9eLUucGW8ax6t4qGNQff9tggMFvFgCFfRzj6pAHXl9Ueyz9pIBCTTQpVRExL92fDqPlA/s450/Joseph%20Kernan%20sitting%20by%20Firelight.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="280" data-original-width="450" height="199" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwlIPAeyx88WPnM1gS36BU1Pnc08HR4bGBjh-vL7sdaViOYOTHPkFMeSyFogU6u_jBm2w-8RYCmxzjOGhoH8Mt5rwPSCWPh88bwb67zzoIb_zDAVhmomWOrU9eLUucGW8ax6t4qGNQff9tggMFvFgCFfRzj6pAHXl9Ueyz9pIBCTTQpVRExL92fDqPlA/s320/Joseph%20Kernan%20sitting%20by%20Firelight.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div>*** I so badly wanted the Corey Ford piece touted on Kernan's baseball player magazine cover<i> </i>to be an upland hunting story. Instead it was a long piece of sappy (even for Corey) romantic fiction. Sigh. More promising was an article entitled "Dogs In A Big Way," featuring a full page head study of two English setters by the ubiquitous Lynn Bogue Hunt. Sadly, the article was about a wire-haired terrier fancier's trials and tribulations in the show ring, grooming shed, and in a trans-Atlantic search for a suitable replacement for the animal repeatedly referred to as "the dog Dick." Arg. </div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, here's the full page Hunt painting from <i>The Saturday Evening Post, </i>5/28/1932. I had never seen it before researching this blog: </div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrSKq2YWa08RMgFDVvpMbY1Kc2HIJrPaQIV6-TbKWa7oH84l6-x5j7DXwtN25M6SOiSYJ0JOgUZFhMT374suUmfirF2FPCR2qiraMPTIorWyA0PNstN37lSlusGhIDNHcPLmae3_x2k07aTtyhRrsQyY4qXjmXJvT0attUTlrKHuF90H2cqSpNzuD70w/s1656/277832373_2072261209612906_48255266342144442_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1656" data-original-width="1242" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrSKq2YWa08RMgFDVvpMbY1Kc2HIJrPaQIV6-TbKWa7oH84l6-x5j7DXwtN25M6SOiSYJ0JOgUZFhMT374suUmfirF2FPCR2qiraMPTIorWyA0PNstN37lSlusGhIDNHcPLmae3_x2k07aTtyhRrsQyY4qXjmXJvT0attUTlrKHuF90H2cqSpNzuD70w/s320/277832373_2072261209612906_48255266342144442_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /> </div></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><br /></div></div></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Randy Lawrencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01915125036121915292noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5902231158764165922.post-68891434828315790002022-04-20T11:56:00.000-04:002022-04-20T11:56:38.548-04:00No Longer Kennel Pent<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgMVHW8EOGPsWowrmGdp95D6F0NByBc-2QKncxZEpICNH1J9ZlxXNTtZG--biFSUcJxMzdom24ct8fT4E8l2-I8g-k-jCw2ltCOIvIYfg-NpTvRBeiJzWigpjCyKTH5gESYmuPpe1pjhYg4xCS-WcM97fOEwk03Frkl18L2FzXINsxvvGExuIl2tkxi5Q=s960" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgMVHW8EOGPsWowrmGdp95D6F0NByBc-2QKncxZEpICNH1J9ZlxXNTtZG--biFSUcJxMzdom24ct8fT4E8l2-I8g-k-jCw2ltCOIvIYfg-NpTvRBeiJzWigpjCyKTH5gESYmuPpe1pjhYg4xCS-WcM97fOEwk03Frkl18L2FzXINsxvvGExuIl2tkxi5Q=s320" width="320" /></a></div>By Randy Lawrence<p></p><p><br /> I have four chain link kennels at the farm, the old Mason kind dating back to the 1970's. I have exercise yards, too. "Thunderdome" encircles the kennel building and runs; "Beyond Thunderdome" encloses my back yard off the utility room door. </p><p>When I cannot be with my dogs or cannot take them with me safely, they spend time there. When I am home, they are with me, either "free-ranging" or crated on the (extremely) rare occasion we have dog-nervous guests or tradespeople forever helping me cobble together this old farmhouse. That's how we roll.</p><p>The kennels on the hill were built by the former owner of this property. Bob generally had but one dog in the house at a time in the years that he was hunting four or five. He liked the focused one on one time, and each dog took a turn, day and night. But each dog had a kennel as well. </p><p>When the topic was broached, my friend would sternly say, "This is my house. My dogs visit. That is their house. I visit them there." That was the sense of order he believed in, and his setters, pointers, and Labradors were happy, well-adjusted, mannerly hunting, house, travel, and kennel dogs. No destruction or riotous nonsense in the house, no manic, nuisance barking in the kennels, calm and relaxed in the crates when we traveled.</p><p>As he got older and his crew slipped to fewer and fewer members, kennel time dwindled as well, until toward the end, the one or two dogs who shared his life spent not a minute in their assigned kennel runs. When his full-time shadow, a pointer named Cotton, became very ill, Bob was, too, and I handled that awful final vet visit. When I returned to the farm, Bob was rocking in his chair by the window. I sat in the black captain's chair nearby, both of us monstrously aware of the empty dog bed on the floor between us.</p><p>Without looking at me, he said, "Tonight will be the first time I will sleep in a house without a dog since I came home from the war." That was WWII...69 years before.</p><p>Within a week, he was asking me to research Labrador retrievers from imported British lines. After poring over pictures and pedigrees and long phone calls with breeders, I was dispatched to eastern Nebraska with an envelope full of cash. I made a rump-numbing, round-trip swing with pauses only for gas on the way out, puppy clean-out stops on the way back. That's how Quail Valley Boots Randolph came home to Ohio, the light of the last four years of Bob's life. Boots never saw the inside of his kennel while Bob was here.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjfrNe16rTfMCE21TxSs7J6vOvbhZfo9BMnIwViyX-AyTgzaLkJZQNxIo2626tbG5BppGVEwk4hKu748GegLuMve61kWbVEcI91mzvMY_cPTdaCo9qCCGI5okDK_zTXwz3VfPMFQe-4axTdjDqXgQ4l_mTaVoSKZ3Oeeywmi0b_Wp2heJnUazKJ_zRgCg=s640" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="622" data-original-width="640" height="311" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjfrNe16rTfMCE21TxSs7J6vOvbhZfo9BMnIwViyX-AyTgzaLkJZQNxIo2626tbG5BppGVEwk4hKu748GegLuMve61kWbVEcI91mzvMY_cPTdaCo9qCCGI5okDK_zTXwz3VfPMFQe-4axTdjDqXgQ4l_mTaVoSKZ3Oeeywmi0b_Wp2heJnUazKJ_zRgCg=s320" width="320" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p>A long time ago, an inveterate dog jockey of my acquaintance brought an English setter to me, asking for help. The guy was kind of a lurker on the fringes of the best grouse dog kennels in Michigan and a tony gun club in central Ohio, scooping up dogs that were free or available at a bargain rate because of some issue or another. When he brought Ghillie, his assessment of the anxious little white dog with a tan ear was, "He was simply too long in kennel pent." He left him as a boarder, promising to pay for his care and some basic training...and called a month later pleading poverty and trouble at home.</p><p>So Ghillie stayed. The man was right. Once he realized that time behind chain length was but a siesta, not a sentence, he relaxed, signed on to our team, and began flashing what his heavy-hitter pedigree said he was - a hard-going, biddable grouse hunting partner. </p><p>I have only two pieces of taxidermy from forty years of bird hunting. One is an Ohio grouse taken off a rocky strip mine contour, pinned for a very long time by a little white dog with one tan ear.</p><p>The bird dogs at Lynn Dee's home meld into a seamless routine of living that is a mix of dog bed, human bed, comfy couch, and occasional crate or kennel. In the coming weeks, Lynn Dee's pack will assimilate the newest family member, the swaggering spark plug of a puppy Pocket, kept from Dreamboat Annie's second litter. </p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjQk_n1O7H0aqgaVbJ67NAVFJYV9Tn90oUOTon6rM_mbs6oQLuuJjzr3Z3p0jMGpjn5ieRIA8vp1tZ1e0twGM8clHugWWmjrwC9tSi1A2GAdnlL0OsJW8azlUEHEDY253A_5208HdgLZBMslIwAl-FYBsj8QBwCqFTRoxk5yUv4xHOHnR5_FZtooqK78g=s1529" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1529" data-original-width="1371" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjQk_n1O7H0aqgaVbJ67NAVFJYV9Tn90oUOTon6rM_mbs6oQLuuJjzr3Z3p0jMGpjn5ieRIA8vp1tZ1e0twGM8clHugWWmjrwC9tSi1A2GAdnlL0OsJW8azlUEHEDY253A_5208HdgLZBMslIwAl-FYBsj8QBwCqFTRoxk5yUv4xHOHnR5_FZtooqK78g=s320" width="287" /></a></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p>Storm and Sally will insist Pocket minds her p's and q's, Flint and Kate will pretend she's not there, Seth will think she's interesting and want to play, and Annie will be glad she's not solely her responsibility any more.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjBx_g7inD09CiLajjIjnG7AKbIjG1XU7hPBuLk76Ks7w7pYo4BrHSS9n6gOSLUsTwtm3t-t6wzJEHEU_C5DoStjvd7-qlqTMKwUQYt8wAw2gJyJBapDzoGKwpgQFvl7BZet1g8KU3svlC9H-g1GEehpndptpC-QistFYwvHzQJVW5ezWXAv7SHRaK46w=s1242" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1224" data-original-width="1242" height="315" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjBx_g7inD09CiLajjIjnG7AKbIjG1XU7hPBuLk76Ks7w7pYo4BrHSS9n6gOSLUsTwtm3t-t6wzJEHEU_C5DoStjvd7-qlqTMKwUQYt8wAw2gJyJBapDzoGKwpgQFvl7BZet1g8KU3svlC9H-g1GEehpndptpC-QistFYwvHzQJVW5ezWXAv7SHRaK46w=s320" width="320" /></a></div><p>But find her place, she will. After all, Firelights are bred for the fireside, marking time between autumn woods and fields.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-Wxe58cyRgJFzzcHGGsGsZw7XiXr-0cW7iY2457HaCJ_rmOVgRamnirUoatX2hFlbDeq1utmJ2NuYRNAaxDfE9IaXNbr30FL90Sl-xBKV3iAYcsu9uiv6WVZ5BRsmWACnPFzyGtXcBZNMs5tMFzyqMrhx4V-9LO5RrWfVU1gtgNuKf4J9boB-Wjt5/s1005/Pocket%2013%20weeks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="828" data-original-width="1005" height="264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-Wxe58cyRgJFzzcHGGsGsZw7XiXr-0cW7iY2457HaCJ_rmOVgRamnirUoatX2hFlbDeq1utmJ2NuYRNAaxDfE9IaXNbr30FL90Sl-xBKV3iAYcsu9uiv6WVZ5BRsmWACnPFzyGtXcBZNMs5tMFzyqMrhx4V-9LO5RrWfVU1gtgNuKf4J9boB-Wjt5/s320/Pocket%2013%20weeks.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Randy Lawrencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01915125036121915292noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5902231158764165922.post-21780934449706215442022-03-19T09:24:00.000-04:002022-03-19T09:24:38.374-04:00Worth A Thousand Words<p> by Randy Lawrence</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEia85nuBsAkzl6LXDbagW6Z3KEDY95ofRXESyJAK4hL9V7nawm5zkf0lgL3-JRubqbhQh6w5z61AmZL3Vsi8VBs1gu-lVkvtTdZxv7CBsSXAVdaUPQ6X6O4QZd7vGPTnZNxBNMRBie8LYkUb2jE-CzKZtx-HN5wQTArWjZPbvrjKz10ihWxsLexeEsZww=s1080" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="687" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEia85nuBsAkzl6LXDbagW6Z3KEDY95ofRXESyJAK4hL9V7nawm5zkf0lgL3-JRubqbhQh6w5z61AmZL3Vsi8VBs1gu-lVkvtTdZxv7CBsSXAVdaUPQ6X6O4QZd7vGPTnZNxBNMRBie8LYkUb2jE-CzKZtx-HN5wQTArWjZPbvrjKz10ihWxsLexeEsZww=s320" width="204" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><b><i>("Not This Trip, Old Pal" - Arthur Davenport Fuller)</i></b></span></div><p>In the game bird barrens of southeastern Ohio, the occasional Elhew pointer that runs with my setters always gets a second look from the locals. If I had a dollar for every time I've heard over the past 36 years, "That's one fine looking Walker hound,"...well... we could vacation more often where there are more often birds to hunt.</p><p>The setters? "That's a birddog, ain't it?" </p><p>American sporting artists from the advent of the breech-loading shotgun to the final quarter of the 20th century, understood that. When they set out to illustrate an ad with a bird hunting theme for everything from cigarettes to beer to gunpowder to war bonds, the dogs they drew were setters - brawny black and tan Gordons, heavily feathered Irish reds, and always, always, always - English setters. Folks who didn't know a grouse from a guinea hen knew that setters were bird dogs.</p><p>If you were a young New Hampshire man, born right after a most uncivil Civil War, and fishing and bird shooting were your passions, your folks might send you to Harvard, they might sigh and indulge your forever doodling by shipping you to the Fenway School of Illustration in Boston, then the Chicago Academy of Fine Arts...but in the end, they did the public a great favor, providing one Arthur Davenport Fuller an excuse to make a reputation and a solid living out of drawing the outdoors. His may not have ever been a household name, but his artwork was in households around the globe, with his illustrations appearing in <i>Collier's</i>, <i>The Saturday Evening Post</i>, and <i>Field and Stream</i>.</p><p>Those too old to be drafted into the First World War, talented men like Arthur Fuller, could do their part making posters to encourage those marching off to the trenches of Europe. The good-byes said would, for a sporting gent or lady, have to include one’s best hunting partner, as Fuller painted in the lithograph that begins this blog post.</p><p style="text-align: left;">If there were good-byes, then for the fortunate servicemen and women who made it back home, there would be the most joyous of homecomings, including maybe a litter of pups bred while Master or Mistress was fighting for freedom.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhcKcWKOi-IJbnyGxoZlpduqI-5yyRwBqVfhKWrP4oby4YHKC1n4C1j9wSXYI_o-rDfhrcqjNIarUR9u_OHXL93djjmL1xfQrfryokgqNrqMV-QMJcR8XPDgo88uMVIQLKifasim9qZGCz2T59nyGHQgrsLwVZRIHQaq1XIXPFwWd3WVp788PEgq-HEwg=s338" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="338" data-original-width="217" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhcKcWKOi-IJbnyGxoZlpduqI-5yyRwBqVfhKWrP4oby4YHKC1n4C1j9wSXYI_o-rDfhrcqjNIarUR9u_OHXL93djjmL1xfQrfryokgqNrqMV-QMJcR8XPDgo88uMVIQLKifasim9qZGCz2T59nyGHQgrsLwVZRIHQaq1XIXPFwWd3WVp788PEgq-HEwg=s320" width="205" /></a></div><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><b><i>(Surprise Party": Arthur Davenport Fuller)</i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: left;">Once home, there would be tales to tell, even somewhat macabre trophies "bagged in France" to share with the girl and the English setter left behind. The lithograph below was one of the many Fuller pieces that Hercules Powder used singularly or with calendars.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhmDCKgSLRnaFPRZBYWreblDEvLXzWbk9y1cpE0TOT1ysIYzPDMIko_wLVFENb_NlKl0820He9pWOJjRn9x01jbOtC_ZY6JaGjkmQrU4r3Dm0vv-WtwPYE80-zm6c-TiHoK78OYyUhyoZVRU_BNr060AKdFWTifW4lm0A6G2gN_exCRj3JqlRDVlLHh8A=s1200" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="806" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhmDCKgSLRnaFPRZBYWreblDEvLXzWbk9y1cpE0TOT1ysIYzPDMIko_wLVFENb_NlKl0820He9pWOJjRn9x01jbOtC_ZY6JaGjkmQrU4r3Dm0vv-WtwPYE80-zm6c-TiHoK78OYyUhyoZVRU_BNr060AKdFWTifW4lm0A6G2gN_exCRj3JqlRDVlLHh8A=s320" width="215" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: left;">An illustrator's stock in trade is the cliche, and Fuller's '50's and '60's era hunters came complete with pipe, a ball cap, Stormy Kromer, or fedora, the necktie or a shirt buttoned to the neck...and of course an English setter. For the luckiest ones, maybe it was a brace...with an Irish cousin thrown in for good measure.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjImQsI9W9ivCcSKU8-8ZPQWM1GgLFuGXTgOVLPQ8gKp-te7zFiN1dlFLwwRZRxxTe0_BXtzWCm1t8DseftlvY2jGOwKKGwTKBGfUTERPiKT50lVUnWvI-Plu8O-gW1mBD7ds6IExT5XdJ8_QLmox8yeaMdjkjPz9o5gS1Xh8TknMJtTOnsElxDbfGrcw=s450" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="315" data-original-width="450" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjImQsI9W9ivCcSKU8-8ZPQWM1GgLFuGXTgOVLPQ8gKp-te7zFiN1dlFLwwRZRxxTe0_BXtzWCm1t8DseftlvY2jGOwKKGwTKBGfUTERPiKT50lVUnWvI-Plu8O-gW1mBD7ds6IExT5XdJ8_QLmox8yeaMdjkjPz9o5gS1Xh8TknMJtTOnsElxDbfGrcw=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhknd698k8czo_nNGtomGS_4JX3Uud0SvP2WVr_RaK_i-8sZntWOuREvMt8gXNpkNobn4qtC2yEjDe1TKIOUE4MZwz0nxwX5YdgG26XqK8caE8uYBW2HgPEQl0C81Yph0HFtGxvL4yJRDLqSyrpT2SqUyn6ocZalHxwtWV8faBDcADnjWod1YWSzaFt2A=s338" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="338" data-original-width="252" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhknd698k8czo_nNGtomGS_4JX3Uud0SvP2WVr_RaK_i-8sZntWOuREvMt8gXNpkNobn4qtC2yEjDe1TKIOUE4MZwz0nxwX5YdgG26XqK8caE8uYBW2HgPEQl0C81Yph0HFtGxvL4yJRDLqSyrpT2SqUyn6ocZalHxwtWV8faBDcADnjWod1YWSzaFt2A=s320" width="239" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;">(<b><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">"Let's Go!"</span></i></b>)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Another Fuller commission for Hercules gunpowder and blasting caps was surely meant for cringe-worthy humor, but makes all who have nightmares of a gun shy gun dog more than a little squeamish.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg2HAHug2jc96C0UY1ZO3xSwC_6mcDV_HxtdhRSODANlzJJfy0t7tzY8PQO-WuanpoaLs-BWMsZ8uJ6j7f59RYVY-n04y828Kp0pxXLdAlJV_xLOoP5y0aTBl7bj4mk-aagSNrYELBPYYkosj74NKLoEYZIqPSO69Eelb9bJJfp376N3JRKMcNbQfLr4w=s1200" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="900" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg2HAHug2jc96C0UY1ZO3xSwC_6mcDV_HxtdhRSODANlzJJfy0t7tzY8PQO-WuanpoaLs-BWMsZ8uJ6j7f59RYVY-n04y828Kp0pxXLdAlJV_xLOoP5y0aTBl7bj4mk-aagSNrYELBPYYkosj74NKLoEYZIqPSO69Eelb9bJJfp376N3JRKMcNbQfLr4w=s320" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">For Fuller and his readers at <i>Field and Stream</i>, woodcock were odd little tricksters, the wingshooter's knuckleball, spiraling up out of the woods floor to make fools of even the most seasoned gunners.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEieB81cab8J-yggGn27LuXaySciBL_5MIH_c5CjKSa89kHXfAHcNtagXoykCzDQuX159O0n9lU9-md6a1iQbk3ehZJGPgjaT92Ov7Ytp8D7jjqZBqXOpaORU4Ki1FBHgMWLS_u8_Wso0znq946ZnH31zFRkxKTAxHdrRdLYsM_FBaYPT4RIj9dqH6hPuw=s880" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="880" data-original-width="880" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEieB81cab8J-yggGn27LuXaySciBL_5MIH_c5CjKSa89kHXfAHcNtagXoykCzDQuX159O0n9lU9-md6a1iQbk3ehZJGPgjaT92Ov7Ytp8D7jjqZBqXOpaORU4Ki1FBHgMWLS_u8_Wso0znq946ZnH31zFRkxKTAxHdrRdLYsM_FBaYPT4RIj9dqH6hPuw=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjzPmWPRmuF1ARUGazeKFCAHj50EECxlVz_1yOkLx2KzH5i6vtjT6a9_MN46ogUAG0b53wd7LaTWBZEDehp-mtdWDG9FnxuIgb2KEZkwR7zP0IZHeMAEeFVfik1Aezssch2wMlicpuSnOG4ES3u8uzFh-FgFjjTpiibSUFqj9NV_CzDjAZeKjMR1jyOpA=s428" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="428" data-original-width="308" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjzPmWPRmuF1ARUGazeKFCAHj50EECxlVz_1yOkLx2KzH5i6vtjT6a9_MN46ogUAG0b53wd7LaTWBZEDehp-mtdWDG9FnxuIgb2KEZkwR7zP0IZHeMAEeFVfik1Aezssch2wMlicpuSnOG4ES3u8uzFh-FgFjjTpiibSUFqj9NV_CzDjAZeKjMR1jyOpA=s320" width="230" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Just as the English setter has been popularly synonymous for "bird dog", "pheasant" was America's Gamebird for much of the 20th century. Fuller’s rooster boosters were generally Springer Spaniels, but in this instance, he couldn't help himself, putting an Irishman and a Scotsman on the case for this ringneck on the rise.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgnRaUFvac6uVnnATS87tHEvAeEJ5Wa5GC-RSZc4P6rg16Qp9iyM-FXqNUCzA2wS0QLaabmUtpqQ9H0ZclxfjcIjGB_D0tyEewG8eypPRM5TDD5ZQXH1jaImseQD04QHYP9DBhtnOwc8VGt2WI38vC97IxB9ozCiyqihOY5AIqCK8Nk4aG3g9Rp1D6WDg=s258" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="258" data-original-width="195" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgnRaUFvac6uVnnATS87tHEvAeEJ5Wa5GC-RSZc4P6rg16Qp9iyM-FXqNUCzA2wS0QLaabmUtpqQ9H0ZclxfjcIjGB_D0tyEewG8eypPRM5TDD5ZQXH1jaImseQD04QHYP9DBhtnOwc8VGt2WI38vC97IxB9ozCiyqihOY5AIqCK8Nk4aG3g9Rp1D6WDg" width="195" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>For variety, having a Gordon and an Irish setter brace makes perfect sense. For some of us, so does a "Gotcha!" portrait with a covey of pointers tramping standing corn on the wrong side of a "No Trespassing" sign!</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi7lnhyEEVDf80b0U0O9EOyhKRRhBWldOGlg8YLNSP2MJ-VaBdjXAw4skkwAe2aJ55CuBNuD4FvsXIy5E2KCngGCdIDjbQUTE9ob1_i7TyyjBiYbTLWwaU_-7YDiK-6Z1UjG5kOs4GG7ISu2S-wcUGtRxZGFW7CodQKy6tR5_yhis9obcLbnjhv-gpMBg=s600" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="436" data-original-width="600" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi7lnhyEEVDf80b0U0O9EOyhKRRhBWldOGlg8YLNSP2MJ-VaBdjXAw4skkwAe2aJ55CuBNuD4FvsXIy5E2KCngGCdIDjbQUTE9ob1_i7TyyjBiYbTLWwaU_-7YDiK-6Z1UjG5kOs4GG7ISu2S-wcUGtRxZGFW7CodQKy6tR5_yhis9obcLbnjhv-gpMBg=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>Regardless, for Arthur Davenport Fuller, the sporting life was the life for him. As illustrator/story teller, that sporting life could only be made more beautiful hunting behind a setter, the People’s notion of “bird dog."</div><div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p></div>Randy Lawrencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01915125036121915292noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5902231158764165922.post-57192803162199046522022-02-28T14:11:00.031-05:002022-03-16T19:32:19.564-04:00Winter's Tails<p> By Randy Lawrence</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjRaw8KTZzPzycloGnVBv8yn1BBieuG1JZ_APIEQXichaQl9PU_ic8yEDibPMYIw2AzAZ2-74hpDu2FGJ2eoDxUKmaGsiunONk_TGR6NhU1K-VdAM-dj6Bj_xrtlr34wAy0lk_ga95J71bL5dq7RFElHKGJpX8j-MMdsbWMNJT2IccU580dvixibML-gw=s206" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="206" data-original-width="154" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjRaw8KTZzPzycloGnVBv8yn1BBieuG1JZ_APIEQXichaQl9PU_ic8yEDibPMYIw2AzAZ2-74hpDu2FGJ2eoDxUKmaGsiunONk_TGR6NhU1K-VdAM-dj6Bj_xrtlr34wAy0lk_ga95J71bL5dq7RFElHKGJpX8j-MMdsbWMNJT2IccU580dvixibML-gw" width="154" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>Whelping a winter's litter, like many things in life, is a great idea...</p><p>...in theory.</p><p>Puppies weaned in March have plenty of time to get their legs under them and a few manners laid over them before being gently introduced to thoughtfully arranged field work come autumn. In a sense, it's stealing a march from <i>tempus </i>which, for those of us who measure our own lives, in part, by those of our dogs, <i>fugits </i>far too rapidly.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhhIptH_10454YwRjSzA4Oa4FkY8OYBGAImkZfnfnwbPugw8EO7vn7BNN76Zl8jVuzHgaw6lT1kYvwuH0jIBNJPL4ld3POTM5UQWD-8vdlfgnntxeFX6Xhzjz8NA4o2z0_h1NIHJwlSsujYRyJWBelBezRvs7rCtqPGgjgcXpL0tqXA6kQ0EXuOrBgeZA=s203" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="203" data-original-width="173" height="203" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhhIptH_10454YwRjSzA4Oa4FkY8OYBGAImkZfnfnwbPugw8EO7vn7BNN76Zl8jVuzHgaw6lT1kYvwuH0jIBNJPL4ld3POTM5UQWD-8vdlfgnntxeFX6Xhzjz8NA4o2z0_h1NIHJwlSsujYRyJWBelBezRvs7rCtqPGgjgcXpL0tqXA6kQ0EXuOrBgeZA" width="173" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>But there's a price to be paid, especially in the freezer section of Michigan, where, last night, the temperatures sagged to -20 degrees. Where Lynn Dee lives, winter whelping is an indoor sport and ongoing adventure and not for the faint of heart or fussy of olfaction.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhaUs3tYQgT5OXqrsYitdUy5_8Pj3WJRDfoFx3ZYmkYr965ZDN3l0ahGqMSXE1NWR5fb-2XDduiPTj-Is2TzGJVfqfx9OHxuXFqlKUwYvmCi3xQQ56P5NEd9lrhmWiQLGVRv8-X1FQD3zrWNBRjg3_dhXx4Lfv8DqCUca28OJIgJtQzbbC0JkSsEqwh=s1487" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1410" data-original-width="1487" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhaUs3tYQgT5OXqrsYitdUy5_8Pj3WJRDfoFx3ZYmkYr965ZDN3l0ahGqMSXE1NWR5fb-2XDduiPTj-Is2TzGJVfqfx9OHxuXFqlKUwYvmCi3xQQ56P5NEd9lrhmWiQLGVRv8-X1FQD3zrWNBRjg3_dhXx4Lfv8DqCUca28OJIgJtQzbbC0JkSsEqwh=w243-h230" width="243" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>Lynn Dee's home is ingenuously arranged around her dogs. At no time is that more apparent than during puppy rearing. Still, tending the whelping arena is not a stand-alone activity. Lynn Dee has a half dozen adult dogs sharing her digs, each of whom is convinced that he or she is every #%*&@ bit as special as Annie and her pups. Just last week, a breeding female emeritus who shall remain nameless (but whose initials are "Firelight Kate") signaled that she'd had enough of being a bystander to all the focused hullabaloo. Her response was to decorate the Other Dogs' Lounge with the contents of her own dog bed...just to remind Lynn Dee that SHE was not far removed from Center Stage.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgeqSDH4YAnDQoNsSDGwHaitMxa5t2bFrIaY8PYHLhGZEaqQN_MT4rjbbEFvxdYeGBBEkygBOr91z878BT6Mf4K_5F2IcHUp5RFfrEJ3YiCyZ1fYbdnqMinZNC0XtDT7yYlKaatBkrJGYAAV67gqcY7nixZKkPowxpHkCdxg0D32ZnSFbjAvXuKZX5T6g=s206" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="206" data-original-width="155" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgeqSDH4YAnDQoNsSDGwHaitMxa5t2bFrIaY8PYHLhGZEaqQN_MT4rjbbEFvxdYeGBBEkygBOr91z878BT6Mf4K_5F2IcHUp5RFfrEJ3YiCyZ1fYbdnqMinZNC0XtDT7yYlKaatBkrJGYAAV67gqcY7nixZKkPowxpHkCdxg0D32ZnSFbjAvXuKZX5T6g" width="155" /></a></div><p>Beyond juggling the egos of other Firelights, who've been reminded every day of their lives of how special each one is, a winter brood requires extra everything: extra heat, extra litter box materials, extra clean-up. Not just once in a while, but pretty much around the clock. After all, there is a balance between intake and outgo. Puppies poop. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiSjEaVcnyYwbkY9o-BFMprWSfocpLrFsDsSs7ZUHsQ5ypwjSUsw87TSWKDhfPWRvUbeaYI-4EYzytdQutLuWfoUDZ7aXauROWy2DgamObjcfzfJfJTHzgaMs5CCR_lwLz0E6kXiWvyZqDrvS-xxJ8nH6qkMSRbZsWEPKhrxZrXlvZ2ulh_TP_SKVAQDg=s206" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="206" data-original-width="155" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiSjEaVcnyYwbkY9o-BFMprWSfocpLrFsDsSs7ZUHsQ5ypwjSUsw87TSWKDhfPWRvUbeaYI-4EYzytdQutLuWfoUDZ7aXauROWy2DgamObjcfzfJfJTHzgaMs5CCR_lwLz0E6kXiWvyZqDrvS-xxJ8nH6qkMSRbZsWEPKhrxZrXlvZ2ulh_TP_SKVAQDg" width="155" /></a></div><p> </p><p>Even the most conscientious breeder who seldom pauses the pickup has to sleep sometime. Lynn Dee confessed to me today that puppy-tainted air makes it hard to enjoy the cup of morning tea needed to gird her loins for biohazard clean-up so is thankful that she can simply close their door for that respite. The utility room washing machine with loads of puppy bedding seems to churn around the clock…</p><p>…that is until the fitting over one of the water pipes cracks and starts calling Noah to commence ark building late one night.</p><p>By a turn of good fortune, Lynn Dee was still up, tending to things. She heard water running where and how water is not supposed to run, ran in to find flood waters gathering, then had the presence of mind to hit the conveniently located breaker switch to the water pump, then grabbed towels to dam up the utility room to prevent a whole-house-and-puppy-room tsunami.</p><p>Disaster averted…but had Lynn Dee already been to bed where she would not have heard that ominous splish-splash…</p><p>Next morning, luck continued to smile on Firelight fortunes in the form of a plumber who just happened to be coming up that way for the annual Sno*Drift Rally performance car race. He said he could do the repair later that day. Meanwhile, Lynn Dee surveyed an innocent bystander to cracked pipe crimes, her aged washer, and decided it was long past time for an upgrade. A quick trip to town, and a new machine was on the way. Before one could say “Soiled Puppy Bedding Meets The Local Laundromat,” cleanliness, godliness, and order was restored to Firelight HQ.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhj0SCS2c5va6fq0G4aleodIR--zKalhTqLNfgFhtwoJMifzusDcBxyecvp1fQZAuOXmQtsz_5fE1-mL_GVgrdiqQr96BWYuTrgD_rT_MU4NTjbnUzaQZr9Dqpv_NsWmXTls7IjpQpVD3ib-L7M7A0uuHfXuSuV-1tpSLb6jDzsDSx3KsRAw_JPfLbZlA=s470" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="470" data-original-width="319" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhj0SCS2c5va6fq0G4aleodIR--zKalhTqLNfgFhtwoJMifzusDcBxyecvp1fQZAuOXmQtsz_5fE1-mL_GVgrdiqQr96BWYuTrgD_rT_MU4NTjbnUzaQZr9Dqpv_NsWmXTls7IjpQpVD3ib-L7M7A0uuHfXuSuV-1tpSLb6jDzsDSx3KsRAw_JPfLbZlA=s320" width="217" /></a></div><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: x-small;">("Down The Slide": Edmund Henry Osthaus)</span></b></p><p>But that's just one bit of anecdotal evidence that shows why a winter litter requires more from the breeder. Understand, too, that indoor accommodations must be continually expanded to provide secure, spacious footing for a veritable 32-legged crime wave. There is a soft vinyl floor covering protecting the carpet in the puppy room; every time the Puppy Corral is re-configured, or the vinyl simply “walks” away from the wall given riotous puppy romping, the flooring has to be moved along with the converted whelping bin, the litter boxes, the Blue Battle Bowl (more on that later)…</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEijyyxtsznbue6nVIev4RjSnxTRHqr6-j8GZxeJxbcqRWWbNvijXvqe7ju-8Xcg2X13zVKJbCLaxYSpXXKs-9Iums9bp8Lu2TOma3d8yiK0E4EwU1rDbrROdRJ1X9_kTCGLNvP1xe3mjNmOykQ98l0xH_kd7-BT8pNWn5FnqfhXMCP-FIIJBo6ai3oynw=s2034" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2034" data-original-width="1242" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEijyyxtsznbue6nVIev4RjSnxTRHqr6-j8GZxeJxbcqRWWbNvijXvqe7ju-8Xcg2X13zVKJbCLaxYSpXXKs-9Iums9bp8Lu2TOma3d8yiK0E4EwU1rDbrROdRJ1X9_kTCGLNvP1xe3mjNmOykQ98l0xH_kd7-BT8pNWn5FnqfhXMCP-FIIJBo6ai3oynw=s320" width="195" /></a></div><br /><p>To do all that requires someplace to stash puppies. “I found that side door crates make wonderful temporary puppy crates,” Lynn Dee says. “I lay bedding on the side/bottom for them and with the door open on top, they can’t escape as I take them in and out.”</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiCJ1ptdZzZpOCgEi4fNByvJOD8-9vwBBd14xbE6zOURa5kLcwlMX1_Asyqtoyp7yMFeaGcfoONVGCDQRdghkLp2ZXqTZrf5w_roiLxEI6uuyHqX6mKJ3LFLVTsVXbxNDjt3nrFuOY5GMPTrja_YIkyFY_Bnm0SUsRoBFSS4Q69GDjoz0ySqC3EzNLf8g=s1656" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1656" data-original-width="1242" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiCJ1ptdZzZpOCgEi4fNByvJOD8-9vwBBd14xbE6zOURa5kLcwlMX1_Asyqtoyp7yMFeaGcfoONVGCDQRdghkLp2ZXqTZrf5w_roiLxEI6uuyHqX6mKJ3LFLVTsVXbxNDjt3nrFuOY5GMPTrja_YIkyFY_Bnm0SUsRoBFSS4Q69GDjoz0ySqC3EzNLf8g=s320" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p>When all is back in place, the games can begin all over again.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhU_sHPbInPUBRp004iNyflVk5AflnmyL3fSObrNpDoaITyBaMe56IE4uv9oT3-nrEfnaDCmpnGvJM6oSOUtdWTafezoaDksULX4RcFbf_59k2YdvogCTrxJXWzxPwVh-yqn7ckf3RD3FnNq5fKGn6u7rNPq2mWvwckGatxHQtXwee33xaTci-RmalfRQ=s1656" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1656" data-original-width="1242" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhU_sHPbInPUBRp004iNyflVk5AflnmyL3fSObrNpDoaITyBaMe56IE4uv9oT3-nrEfnaDCmpnGvJM6oSOUtdWTafezoaDksULX4RcFbf_59k2YdvogCTrxJXWzxPwVh-yqn7ckf3RD3FnNq5fKGn6u7rNPq2mWvwckGatxHQtXwee33xaTci-RmalfRQ=s320" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p>With each passing week, Lynn Dee adds creative ways to keep puppies stimulated with purpose-built playpen gear. This week, sections of plastic chain dangle toys of all sorts into the puppy arena. The Battle Royale For The Blue Bowl has been an exciting addition to puppy play. The heavy duty bowl rocks and rolls as different individuals commandeer it for as long as possible.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/IlDL-QsM5iw" width="320" youtube-src-id="IlDL-QsM5iw"></iframe></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>During quiet times (and there are some), Lynn Dee is constantly lifting puppies out of their den for one on one time, constantly socializing them with her voice, soothing background music and her schedule. Nothing about this nurturing environment is left to chance in molding healthy, confident gun dog prospects. Even in the dregs of winter, at Firelight HQ, autumn is always calling.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiKA0WYLkC4dk_Xmauv_UDb1Yz-ay43yU66dP4vtP252EdocIGHAW0Xpr4E6fCN6tT55RG7hk97gxEsHaaAh1-qt1gB4u93FWCCAceLomj5kDVm-vuYB0mXih1Fnzxp_7LTM6r0qxlaoijHmz6d_dxt45K1OduK5y16r6B89LvSlgjzcmjnECht9zr8EA=s280" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="202" data-original-width="280" height="202" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiKA0WYLkC4dk_Xmauv_UDb1Yz-ay43yU66dP4vtP252EdocIGHAW0Xpr4E6fCN6tT55RG7hk97gxEsHaaAh1-qt1gB4u93FWCCAceLomj5kDVm-vuYB0mXih1Fnzxp_7LTM6r0qxlaoijHmz6d_dxt45K1OduK5y16r6B89LvSlgjzcmjnECht9zr8EA" width="280" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>("Priscilla" by Edmund Henry Osthaus)</b></span></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Randy Lawrencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01915125036121915292noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5902231158764165922.post-7687805735981563922022-02-24T16:51:00.001-05:002022-02-24T17:12:05.976-05:00Between Pyrite and Firelight<p> by Randy Lawrence</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhKqN7wFzT4Y4ye87JeyOpcVMBbNug8op0GFNkve-zYOQjCe1rmmoRiLDrE8mPMUGouRlpnH36VkfABhP6aahQWQkW0DrdBhDy9DPKu_lYHRyaCEwhdaZMEAGIxE6KFEmXMS3wBOs-IVOTEpVubdwG_kb351DE4usj5f9QzdkUPFpZE_XvA6IMLTtx5AQ=s403" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="403" data-original-width="359" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhKqN7wFzT4Y4ye87JeyOpcVMBbNug8op0GFNkve-zYOQjCe1rmmoRiLDrE8mPMUGouRlpnH36VkfABhP6aahQWQkW0DrdBhDy9DPKu_lYHRyaCEwhdaZMEAGIxE6KFEmXMS3wBOs-IVOTEpVubdwG_kb351DE4usj5f9QzdkUPFpZE_XvA6IMLTtx5AQ=s320" width="285" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;"><b><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(Firelight Encore Deacon)</span></i></b></p><p>Lynn Dee calls it the most delicate part of being a breeder: helping buyers get matched with the best possible puppy prospect for their hunting and home lives. To that end, she spends considerable time and energy and angst and technological windmill tilting doing videos of each available puppy to afford those on the waiting list a more informed perspective.</p><p>Once the materials were posted on Youtube, I was invited to have a look. The first and lasting impression was what a beautiful batch of bird doglings Annie, Nash, and Lynn Dee had produced. <span> But when Lynn Dee asked for feedback, I had to say that I would have liked more commentary about her observations of each puppy's personality as they have gone from neonatal nubs to pointing dog prospects.</span></p><p><span>As politely and as patiently as she could speak after a maddening day of posing pups and battling backwoods internet connections, she reminded me that to do so was to suggest that as well meaning as such intel might be, to crib from mutual fund moguls, "past performance may not be indicative of future results." </span></p><p><span>Obviously, this flies in the face of the Social Media Puppy Pickers who come to the breeder's home armed with everything from tennis balls and behavioral checklists to tarot cards and Magic Eight Balls.</span></p><p><span>A long ago, seasoned birddogger friend once sat in the shade, sipping his favorite "brown water," while I puffed and preened over a weanling pointer puppy going solid on a grouse fan flicked to and fro over the lawn at the end of fly rod and line.</span></p><p><span>"You know what that proves?," he opined. "You got grouse feathers on one end of that stick and a fool on the other."</span></p><p><span>I was red-faced and justifiably deflated in the moment. Since then, I have never gone to the wing-and-string (in public) ever again.</span></p><p><span>Sigh.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjSm6mbDx2kXI8SIsHTQ03pwIIIdbv7bhKqrn9ywx-uM0n5AVQdzaXWnzJTQ5TtwgO3hhOH5sFUNhmtPpzScaK9LLNH7YXYFjc5qJhPgxBoeTf9EBek3WGpgJ_TYkIZtib0_aUFUbDuQ8Em-R8Zg8zPb88q9azfPokdP9XDhY-d1RU6gTFPB3gdGYcNug=s320" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="202" data-original-width="320" height="202" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjSm6mbDx2kXI8SIsHTQ03pwIIIdbv7bhKqrn9ywx-uM0n5AVQdzaXWnzJTQ5TtwgO3hhOH5sFUNhmtPpzScaK9LLNH7YXYFjc5qJhPgxBoeTf9EBek3WGpgJ_TYkIZtib0_aUFUbDuQ8Em-R8Zg8zPb88q9azfPokdP9XDhY-d1RU6gTFPB3gdGYcNug" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span>But knowing better isn't always doing better. In texted conversation l</span>ast night I bristled at the notion that one of the smartest, most intuitive breeders I have ever known couldn't divine something, anything from the endless hours of close attendance at the whelping box rail. Instead, her good videos of puppies in the hand and puppies at play were painstakingly narrated with pointing out color and markings. Even relative size within the litter was mostly absent from the production.</p><p><span>That's because Lynn Dee refuses to feed the bovine parallel to puppy poo to her buyers. For example, consider predicting potential size. She knows that the smallest male puppy in any litter might one day turn out to be a 55-lb. bruiser. The big and brash brawler who muscled the nursing line, the feed pan, and play toys, just because she was a bit bigger, may develop into the most easy-going and deferential of companions.</span></p><p><span>Likewise, Lynn Dee the former counseling psychologist, has done her research. Science has proven over and over that predicting disposition, trainability, tenacity, drive, etc. from puppy playpen markers is panning for piles of pyrite. As legendary malapropagandist Yogi Berra was wont to say, "You can look it up!"</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjba8wmk4QEVr28j_P6gz74klosbI5t2LgUGxOUTmPzVRm6sT3_nSrHI_4-0DmDTI-8z0YNe9To4pXPDnG_92eMphvR2uVvZWme-HhDp9VN7b0JI6wmrf6BZgUvnyuHodbhRtocOW_277igtUARvH1wA2hLckriV8YSDdhBDLasep81JX9NCXrrf-F3AQ=s256" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="206" data-original-width="256" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjba8wmk4QEVr28j_P6gz74klosbI5t2LgUGxOUTmPzVRm6sT3_nSrHI_4-0DmDTI-8z0YNe9To4pXPDnG_92eMphvR2uVvZWme-HhDp9VN7b0JI6wmrf6BZgUvnyuHodbhRtocOW_277igtUARvH1wA2hLckriV8YSDdhBDLasep81JX9NCXrrf-F3AQ" width="256" /></a></div><br /><span><br /></span><p></p><p><span>No organized cadre of breeders has more vested in early identification of top candidates for further extensive and expensive training than the guide dog folks. And yet in study after study of generations of large test groups of puppies reared under identical conditions the results come back the same, over and over: assessment tests of very young puppies have very low predictive value for temperament or performance as adults!</span></p><p><span>That's because, according to biologist Carol Beuchat, "the tests...use(d) on a puppy aren't appropriate for an adult and vice versa." That means that whelping box play behaviors can only be what Dr. Beuchat calls "proxy traits," ones we hope will be predictive about an entirely different adult dog performance value...." but in studied practice, very seldom are.</span></p><p>So if what we perceive as disposition traits in puppies generally have such low reliability in predicting performance, isn't puppy picking a canine crapshoot that should discourage any thoughtful buyer?</p><p>Of course not. That's where the kind of selective breeding Lynn Dee has been doing now for eight generations of Firelight English setters kicks in. As a serious, committed breeder who has hunted widely on different species of wild game birds, Lynn Dee is objectively doing exactly what top guide dog and war dog programs do: stacking the genetic deck with what scientists call "estimated breeding values": behavioral and physical traits they value most in the field and in the home (Beuchat, 2015).</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi8kZUB3Haz62U6SknPJZ4QxWQf9sTMKc2s2poohKk-tm0p3MrCdAmLWecx4rqp9kzvaRnNHncpYKgsZo3EXycpfZLnkQ5hJkV2ltdoY_mWrq1kiD_mBTUxGSu66hxZNYHU3a7bKbkkxtlHDTyVh73owUdw4NFkuNQ1y7saaf-UpTfBClwlmwmZ2FnzMA=s206" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="206" data-original-width="188" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi8kZUB3Haz62U6SknPJZ4QxWQf9sTMKc2s2poohKk-tm0p3MrCdAmLWecx4rqp9kzvaRnNHncpYKgsZo3EXycpfZLnkQ5hJkV2ltdoY_mWrq1kiD_mBTUxGSu66hxZNYHU3a7bKbkkxtlHDTyVh73owUdw4NFkuNQ1y7saaf-UpTfBClwlmwmZ2FnzMA" width="188" /></a></div><br /><p>Estimated breeding values can't possibly carry much genetic clout in the slap dash practice of "breeding my good 'un to you'rn." Estimated breeding values that stick are not about isolated individuals. Their formation requires decades of hands-on hunting and living with parents, siblings, and progeny and, over and over, carefully putting elite individuals to others like them, then choosing the best and (sometimes reluctantly, even heartbreakingly) passing on the rest. That's breeding a better bird dog proven in the coverts and tied to performance, reputation, integrity - standards that thoughtful, elite breeders are continually trying to refine.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjmd9Pg_nOQ6yudOzz89galHYPJqCbjFhBYZ52DljhrIIAcBmYkR0Oo046U1Ve2p19J1mGCI2O1ef3taJeWZbrQtl2xdCni7a2lT6DoaotHQjynCN_L1Fo32KhJPScFnIbV-OTZzNHlH8g6WhMLetcgDi3iK71SCHSG5KkSryA4YquS_tebgU6T39llxg=s569" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="403" data-original-width="569" height="227" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjmd9Pg_nOQ6yudOzz89galHYPJqCbjFhBYZ52DljhrIIAcBmYkR0Oo046U1Ve2p19J1mGCI2O1ef3taJeWZbrQtl2xdCni7a2lT6DoaotHQjynCN_L1Fo32KhJPScFnIbV-OTZzNHlH8g6WhMLetcgDi3iK71SCHSG5KkSryA4YquS_tebgU6T39llxg=s320" width="320" /></a></div><p>That's why, year in, year out, litter by litter, the most successful puppy pickers don't choose a puppy. They choose a breeder. More specifically, in a very real sense, they put in their candidacy for a puppy with a breeder who consistently turns out dogs that range and perform to their tastes in hunting, that are wired for how they want to live with their bird dog. Only with that background in mind do smart buyers consider the breeding pair. The ideal would be to see them in person in the field. Barring that, we can rely on video, on references, or descriptions by folks whose acumen we trust.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg_Tzhg6WnUdjitLpe5iWjsE3s6uU7voSpb6BemrR_NPEjsUlB-BrN8RLv5t3YivupXSvPHaiGn5VwkewawPRyHSEB3kzKu1neuyc8OAQmIDFV_wLjxJBQ3XBPCXeyj4O-_g2616Q1TgzxM4co6lVhgOvSj2DlofB-CTmyJue2IdDtcU2M1rwOBZ2Tsnw=s564" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="403" data-original-width="564" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg_Tzhg6WnUdjitLpe5iWjsE3s6uU7voSpb6BemrR_NPEjsUlB-BrN8RLv5t3YivupXSvPHaiGn5VwkewawPRyHSEB3kzKu1neuyc8OAQmIDFV_wLjxJBQ3XBPCXeyj4O-_g2616Q1TgzxM4co6lVhgOvSj2DlofB-CTmyJue2IdDtcU2M1rwOBZ2Tsnw=s320" width="320" /></a></div><p>On the other side of the table, Lynn Dee collects deposits from potential buyers she carefully screens for being the sort of folks with whom she'd be pleased to place a puppy. The general profile of Firelight owners she seeks are experienced hunters who first of all arrange their autumns around wild bird hunting - a LOT of bird hunting. She wants people who live closely with their dogs, who insist on training their own, who use maximum savvy, patience, and woods time rather than what the late, great gun dog writer Bill Tarrant liked to call "coercive" or "friction-less" methods. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgyCL7P08F-Rb-3mrsHv0Iee0Ky_qxjnRBVYWKr8lySeOrh-a3yL0i9kiOe8avRiuiBbrZwjASCqOw89q5T4RRiXZY4pGOUpgSMLQUA34G9-PEG3VjARg1cIUOtMtYiQPdEql8fNiy8_BJJ6lFkwMUeCzlFjem91La8CLEy5U-p1TnITxh1XZ3SJrMF3A=s600" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="401" data-original-width="600" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgyCL7P08F-Rb-3mrsHv0Iee0Ky_qxjnRBVYWKr8lySeOrh-a3yL0i9kiOe8avRiuiBbrZwjASCqOw89q5T4RRiXZY4pGOUpgSMLQUA34G9-PEG3VjARg1cIUOtMtYiQPdEql8fNiy8_BJJ6lFkwMUeCzlFjem91La8CLEy5U-p1TnITxh1XZ3SJrMF3A=s320" width="320" /></a></div><p>Lynn Dee forges relationships with her buyers to stay in contact throughout the dog's life, not only for cordial support, but also to court feedback about how each dog grows into its life's work, always and forever collecting information on those "estimated breeding values" she holds most dear. With Firelight producing, on average, less than two litters a year, that makes choosing her buyers as high stakes as buyers choosing a puppy...which keeps all concerned with their eyes on The Prize: companion gun dogs who hunt with intelligence, tenacity, athleticism, and style in order to produce more birds for the Gun.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhAYft7ICvGVmJGIKSUGiG8hsZxatfleyqRNneh0tX3YJvvewgac7tepuzmXe_-tIlGWIHG384W_NpT-RiOIwE0-XtsDmWfwheHT5BhFj2nhFjsjYzSCOZKceUdCROQR9WqLTTfSJirOEobXBIlxjGzEE5lR1EvxMAa50pVBxifGTGNLfVpf1scjUd8AQ=s272" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="206" data-original-width="272" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhAYft7ICvGVmJGIKSUGiG8hsZxatfleyqRNneh0tX3YJvvewgac7tepuzmXe_-tIlGWIHG384W_NpT-RiOIwE0-XtsDmWfwheHT5BhFj2nhFjsjYzSCOZKceUdCROQR9WqLTTfSJirOEobXBIlxjGzEE5lR1EvxMAa50pVBxifGTGNLfVpf1scjUd8AQ" width="272" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><b><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span>Beuchat, Carol, PhD. 8/26/2015. "Genetics, Behavior, and Puppy Temperament<span> </span>Testing." </span><span>The Institute of Canine Biology. </span><span> </span><span>https://www.instituteofcaninebiology.org/blog/genetics-behavior-and-puppy-temperament-testing</span></span></b></p><p><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></p><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /><p></p>Randy Lawrencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01915125036121915292noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5902231158764165922.post-83300265980785192932022-02-20T19:15:00.002-05:002022-02-25T13:51:27.561-05:00Uptown Wolves<p>By Randy Lawrence</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgHQZ31Aa4hoTnA-g-E0y9I6SDYnxmTs_0S4wMFEc9TwIW19II2XvWmu4-8rT6EAxkTEcQKCyl5VQGESYSIbDeNqQuq-8Jo_tbN_EqEk6FGReaCQOsVHKvgdu2n8dqX9qnDLAP8VQuuJcvS_3_4hlrfEG4b1eKPcldgJfyhlr54ZcD9Vnkfa7Vwl-sw=s206" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="206" data-original-width="155" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgHQZ31Aa4hoTnA-g-E0y9I6SDYnxmTs_0S4wMFEc9TwIW19II2XvWmu4-8rT6EAxkTEcQKCyl5VQGESYSIbDeNqQuq-8Jo_tbN_EqEk6FGReaCQOsVHKvgdu2n8dqX9qnDLAP8VQuuJcvS_3_4hlrfEG4b1eKPcldgJfyhlr54ZcD9Vnkfa7Vwl-sw" width="155" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p>It took some 32,000 years and much wrangling between different branches of the natural sciences, but in the early '90's, the American Society of Mammalogists and Smithsonian Institution used DNA evidence to finally confirm that <i>Canis lupus familiaris</i>, our domestic dog, is indeed a subspecies of <i>Canis lupus </i>or Gray Wolf.</p><p>With all due respect: "Duh..."</p><p>Many of us cut our own canine teeth on nature shows of some sort or another, and much of that footage on wild canids has always been easily recognized in our dogs' behavior. Take Firelight Dreamboat Annie with her litter of puppies.</p><p>Just a week or so, Annie began bringing gifts to her puppies. First, it was a favorite toy. Lynn Dee had to be vigilant to make sure it was not the heavy bone that Annie chose the first time, something that could be dropped to bonk delicate puppy noggins. In the photo above, she's sharing a toy that is a great deal less menacing.</p><p>At night, Annie gets a biscuit snack. Soon she was hauling that into the whelping box, the she wolf bringing prey back to the den to share with her pups. Lynn Dee now has to break the biscuit into bits to make sure Annie eats, rather than ferries it, back to her crew.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj9SYAY70UtChPMBvVL_aOX2DqlTaA6KQ-inHnKd522hnXEZMc9JUC6fN8fP8sGYPHx0BGvVAfGM_H_LIf4BztB66WWlekwTKLS1DhU1jIMYVexFkX2b64u8oCO3W2ic9a1DSZt4JhzF8ZS9SKz_surUP-ihkTUtH6-3N3U78RKrU9tJexUNm0BU2_4cA=s226" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="226" data-original-width="206" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj9SYAY70UtChPMBvVL_aOX2DqlTaA6KQ-inHnKd522hnXEZMc9JUC6fN8fP8sGYPHx0BGvVAfGM_H_LIf4BztB66WWlekwTKLS1DhU1jIMYVexFkX2b64u8oCO3W2ic9a1DSZt4JhzF8ZS9SKz_surUP-ihkTUtH6-3N3U78RKrU9tJexUNm0BU2_4cA" width="206" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><div> A calm, well-adjusted dam shapes her brood as surely as have her wild ancestors for eons. Breeders like Lynn Dee remove all of the external forces that might pressure a litter of wild wolf, coyote, jackal puppies (or poorly maintained domestic ones), freeing the female to keep order among clean, well fed, confident youngsters. </div><div><br /></div><div>In <i>The Jungle Book,</i> Rudyard Kipling writes, "For the strength of the pack is the Wolf, and the strength of the Wolf is the pack." Annie's pack of sturdy individuals takes their cues (and considerable inherited talent) from their bold, self-assured mother. When it is their turn to run the woods or prairies, sifting scent, parsing cover, learning the ways of grouse and pheasant, quail, partridge or woodcock, may they be partnered with savvy human hunters who know how to take advantage of all that Annie put into her puppies. That's a surefire path to a howling success.</div></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg2g39hh3ojF-uyZsVnOvzeJqqQVwnKqh5adzkZ2-M6C-sCmMwNwlggFnFJXr9-XKu0jLsOHUEpt8tC60gZIbqrxJWUNzO3NErSu7pW3jgI20_ku3k93bBEtPGAIl5z_S_HCkYK3fqFHmydTXoHl3fjPDW_1NwUyn039fNf_hBOoxBvDJHW28s2-B5LrQ=s202" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="202" data-original-width="173" height="202" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg2g39hh3ojF-uyZsVnOvzeJqqQVwnKqh5adzkZ2-M6C-sCmMwNwlggFnFJXr9-XKu0jLsOHUEpt8tC60gZIbqrxJWUNzO3NErSu7pW3jgI20_ku3k93bBEtPGAIl5z_S_HCkYK3fqFHmydTXoHl3fjPDW_1NwUyn039fNf_hBOoxBvDJHW28s2-B5LrQ" width="173" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>Randy Lawrencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01915125036121915292noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5902231158764165922.post-49719295696866000592022-02-13T10:21:00.001-05:002022-02-25T14:11:55.603-05:00The Spark of Upland Dreams<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">By Randy Lawrence</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjc1V3g4fJibMBUOfEhbR0YIlOGnmKcLldiO64bMha8cApoZYQZu2WBqYS3ydE_0EGLJsQPcsbAK6qVlS2n2zox4qdb3lgrn9W-UR1LvcqH7sZ8YQomECEspMVdkFj-UKqLXAjUaGoimo4oFfI6UGwVmn4J9-OdS1cy-Bw1_dff4vZ6Bfp9Br_9Lw52CQ=s1560" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1560" data-original-width="1170" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjc1V3g4fJibMBUOfEhbR0YIlOGnmKcLldiO64bMha8cApoZYQZu2WBqYS3ydE_0EGLJsQPcsbAK6qVlS2n2zox4qdb3lgrn9W-UR1LvcqH7sZ8YQomECEspMVdkFj-UKqLXAjUaGoimo4oFfI6UGwVmn4J9-OdS1cy-Bw1_dff4vZ6Bfp9Br_9Lw52CQ=s320" width="240" /></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p>It goes so fast. One minute, they are inert mini manatees, rolling and roiling up and down their mother's side, blindly looking for milk. Then suddenly, their eyes are open, they begin finding their legs, and just like that...Boom! They are puppies.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjyf0WbvJ3SG6-Hl7u9p9zXkzvhhRvXBleq_XM9k_tj58DGywZkz83s67RLsTiyahlvBop8qZjIFqTRxhBaHkY0bXsAEtNpZ9VRociA-IrwuWNAjzxLyjDsd793CWHuBir7WejYv_eb0wgAu1Lrfa4m9Knxlawm0f4PSdqA5weM4gDJpBzNYngGLgh95A=s206" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="206" data-original-width="155" height="336" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjyf0WbvJ3SG6-Hl7u9p9zXkzvhhRvXBleq_XM9k_tj58DGywZkz83s67RLsTiyahlvBop8qZjIFqTRxhBaHkY0bXsAEtNpZ9VRociA-IrwuWNAjzxLyjDsd793CWHuBir7WejYv_eb0wgAu1Lrfa4m9Knxlawm0f4PSdqA5weM4gDJpBzNYngGLgh95A=w253-h336" width="253" /></a></div><br /><p>Surely these are among the most studied puppies anywhere, as Lynn Dee arranges the rest of her pack, the rest of her life, around a watchful tending of this Dashing Nash Bandit/Dreamboat Annie litter of "dreamcatchers."</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjhLML4YCpuJq_aKFO27orEB-ZS6Hs_sUrFOKUZBtZoj5htorL18TC7V6sI2-lglW1BXnG71Sg9CQ5OL-pEXNfxdrSc_Q2vVtUC4n4LzNVBnMJsTD7xFX4qUEBBzmkwny0fqWC3R64gqdTWk8Paz5r-Lg12n9-oYxuWdzc1LVWBGCE4tciTPd2Fm56uJw=s206" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="206" data-original-width="155" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjhLML4YCpuJq_aKFO27orEB-ZS6Hs_sUrFOKUZBtZoj5htorL18TC7V6sI2-lglW1BXnG71Sg9CQ5OL-pEXNfxdrSc_Q2vVtUC4n4LzNVBnMJsTD7xFX4qUEBBzmkwny0fqWC3R64gqdTWk8Paz5r-Lg12n9-oYxuWdzc1LVWBGCE4tciTPd2Fm56uJw" width="155" /></a></div><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: x-small;">Firelight Moondance checking out whelping box commotion.</span></b></p><p>Impressions form of this puppy or that. There are markers Lynn Dee relies on from her experience, evaluating heads and bodies and emerging dispositions. But always there is the part she cannot explain, and that’s the “it” factor.</p><p>It’s part experience, part study, and a whole lotta intuition, projecting personality and performance. The puppies’ genetic background and Lynn Dee’s hands-on, hunting 'n' home history with her dogs are huge factors. Sometimes a certain puppy's demeanor, build, maybe even expression, will earn a private nickname - a “Little Sally” or “Baby Tweed/Storm/Seth/Flint/Doc/Kate”, imagery from dogs who have carved their niche into the Firelight Totem over generations.</p><p>Lynn Dee recalls another litter was between 2-3 weeks when she had one of those "Ah Hah!" moments. "One female looked up at me and in those eyes was Patch," Lynn Dee recalls. "Patch was four generations prior and was the best grouse dog I have ever had the privilege of owning."</p><p>Lynn Dee says, "So when I saw Patch's eyes in that puppy face, I knew she was The One." And she was: that puppy became the wonderful Firelight Kate.</p><p>Lynn Dee will gather intel for her placements, matching what she knows about this litter with what she has learned of the folks waiting for a Firelight of their own. It’s more feel than science, and Lynn Dee will be the first to tell folks that what she or they might see at the whelping rail is just that: what she or they see at the whelping rail. Still, no matter how many times they might visit, even the best and most veteran set of eyeballs could be as discerning as the woman who whelped them, their dam, their granddam, their great-granddam…</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjGpe4FOOuMTc9La5Zps-ScjaO7brWYhkmab26OKAn76ZG5yUb9zk2-2Z0JCLlkEmDUcW-v-VYCnc6LBPiUmbPEyzLlayxL6NYRiTKGrDjOrt_iubuTDqkOSWGTMB-s02WH93xPiNXEFtI1eN7ZoZeT-_nFOG4U5vb-8vyY0yi6wbN2r8SsXp57QY8dMw=s206" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="206" data-original-width="155" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjGpe4FOOuMTc9La5Zps-ScjaO7brWYhkmab26OKAn76ZG5yUb9zk2-2Z0JCLlkEmDUcW-v-VYCnc6LBPiUmbPEyzLlayxL6NYRiTKGrDjOrt_iubuTDqkOSWGTMB-s02WH93xPiNXEFtI1eN7ZoZeT-_nFOG4U5vb-8vyY0yi6wbN2r8SsXp57QY8dMw" width="155" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>Those of us who live and hunt with one - or more - of Lynn Dee’s setters know all this to be central to the Firelight Difference: the smart, committed birdhunter at this whelping box and so many that have come before. These next few weeks will be shining times for Dreamboat Annie’s huddle of new upland dreams, sparked there in the grouse woods of northern Michigan.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Randy Lawrencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01915125036121915292noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5902231158764165922.post-73843065422798697782022-01-21T16:05:00.002-05:002022-01-21T16:05:31.691-05:00A Privileged Life<p> By Randy Lawrence</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjYNU-zOtbfbj15AQtbHiPWWxQJT0XcCMmw5nm1wQVBmijfe32OiQJZJLHsPYuFTZSZUD5e5EDaN3QLstUvXthI_1MCOXkk-4szXZr2li5cQELIm85X68Gs2lR29M7y9yLnLAMSlHEz6KudrukzoPGnUNNVqQYZFY2EDDdWmU7KKoCjpQ8SVzt0FzNL=s1338" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1338" data-original-width="1169" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjYNU-zOtbfbj15AQtbHiPWWxQJT0XcCMmw5nm1wQVBmijfe32OiQJZJLHsPYuFTZSZUD5e5EDaN3QLstUvXthI_1MCOXkk-4szXZr2li5cQELIm85X68Gs2lR29M7y9yLnLAMSlHEz6KudrukzoPGnUNNVqQYZFY2EDDdWmU7KKoCjpQ8SVzt0FzNL=w189-h216" width="189" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>The text came in the early morning. It was a photo of Lynn Dee cradling a week-old puppy on her lap. The caption read, "This right here, is the real privilege of being a breeder." </p><p>"Privilege." Maybe some folks would find that an odd word choice for a veteran like Lynn Dee. Her Firelight English setters entered their eighth generation last year. Even for someone who breeds on a very limited and choice basis, that represents a very long time. And it's still a "privilege" to hold a puppy?</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEidl1WGvvyJSHvwkpumE8sAVuuRy8kFAjRUqZAA5PBRQ-qo7Z5_8NYu4n16f8sauAJtErsHD2CnXOIxSHaab_O8id7uKonS-huR105qCInXVnd79-b1ArnFOdfsUG9B8D-5wSI5Dzh1NZUtLudvJqpP12MHkZSW4OnP1GQ4OZdRF3f4Hkie1TTXv0IZ4w=s206" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="206" data-original-width="180" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEidl1WGvvyJSHvwkpumE8sAVuuRy8kFAjRUqZAA5PBRQ-qo7Z5_8NYu4n16f8sauAJtErsHD2CnXOIxSHaab_O8id7uKonS-huR105qCInXVnd79-b1ArnFOdfsUG9B8D-5wSI5Dzh1NZUtLudvJqpP12MHkZSW4OnP1GQ4OZdRF3f4Hkie1TTXv0IZ4w" width="180" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>For Lynn Dee, it surely is. It's part and parcel of why she's so good at what she does. Eight generations in, and she's still excited to unwrap the possibilities inherent in a new litter of Firelight gun dogs. She considers it a privilege to be a thoughtful steward of this particular strain of English setters and acts accordingly, meaning I've never sensed that she felt entitled - her life as a hunter/dog breeder has been a privilege earned.</p><p>Think about it. Years and countless hours and miles spent proving out a young dog under the gun on wild birds. Research and pedigree study, photos and videos, hours on the phone and in exchanging emails, arranging in-person hunts behind potential sires, trying to find just the right mate for a special dog. </p><p>Miles between Kansas and Idaho and Massachusetts and Michigan and southern Indiana to stage matings. Vet trips. Waiting out the first signs of a dog's pregnancy. Long hours of perilous obstetrics. The angst that goes along with risking an irreplaceable companion gun dog just to bring another Firelight litter into being.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiXlWxYR8btZ74uvXcTiCK89DM0Xr713HUkbbWYYCINLNd54X47cDtm4STWU1iNUQxLIWshmi0I3Fzrjce41dSaNxLyPUEzWDjXu7o47lVzhpQFWl0p5sOdfKhGl07tjnlS9KjQ0SNu6q8wNdzHcuYEybDQTOSxUMf8viJdT7OG_ikjxDe5HQvlqynw=s1308" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1308" data-original-width="1169" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiXlWxYR8btZ74uvXcTiCK89DM0Xr713HUkbbWYYCINLNd54X47cDtm4STWU1iNUQxLIWshmi0I3Fzrjce41dSaNxLyPUEzWDjXu7o47lVzhpQFWl0p5sOdfKhGl07tjnlS9KjQ0SNu6q8wNdzHcuYEybDQTOSxUMf8viJdT7OG_ikjxDe5HQvlqynw=w212-h238" width="212" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">The countless hours in the whelping box, then later the puppy pen, then the big exercise yard, making certain all puppies are healthy and happily socialized before heading to their new homes, all the while gathering intel to make the best possible match with the best possible new owner, as well as get a sense of where this litter fits on the Firelight totem. At some point will come the text, "Heck with it. I am keeping them all," even as she knows that can never actually happen and keep her operation selectively small.</span></div><p>And don't even start toting up the monetary costs. Just know that it's "daunting," to put it gently.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiEauiY1dGcpk_9-N5N6qvQeFfiSZY1365TMMVjnqRb22I3G_9hdOx3-3u_I4VWrxLNnb4YDn_4TL7YW6wb0KxGqxfnMCXdGxRZHRaxol8qlkFq8LsfnOvcTssi8Moyc53caOvYB-xtrGS0qu_0Q8HUKtQHEN6AQSzNONX_H0C7J8qk2k1gagagygx7jg=s206" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="206" data-original-width="155" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiEauiY1dGcpk_9-N5N6qvQeFfiSZY1365TMMVjnqRb22I3G_9hdOx3-3u_I4VWrxLNnb4YDn_4TL7YW6wb0KxGqxfnMCXdGxRZHRaxol8qlkFq8LsfnOvcTssi8Moyc53caOvYB-xtrGS0qu_0Q8HUKtQHEN6AQSzNONX_H0C7J8qk2k1gagagygx7jg" width="155" /></a></div><p>There are the hours screening potential placements - more time on the phone, with more emails, texts, hosting visits, constant puppy consulting references. The diplomacy involved in turning away some candidates, the faith required to accept others. Because Lynn Dee's concerns and commitment do not stop when a Firelight puppy goes to live with it's new family. In her role as lifetime guardian of every puppy she brings into this world, Lynn Dee stays as involved as the covenant she has with her puppy buyers will afford.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhs-6AJMcXgWKIQd_FSMhZ_OPKIf6RPRjrJr7HAxI2oKu97U7QeWgE65KiB3a3JmbIcr5un_DS9XPpsaubj0WqCTIVIWwah6mUrwgrFZgOo9sE43KsIAiiWvOYokzsY31hRseAMkz4eRtrlVLA-sDrXaFWwJ4X0NJkoZA72U1o6EEFKnh9v2wk3-Fyesw=s199" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="199" data-original-width="180" height="199" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhs-6AJMcXgWKIQd_FSMhZ_OPKIf6RPRjrJr7HAxI2oKu97U7QeWgE65KiB3a3JmbIcr5un_DS9XPpsaubj0WqCTIVIWwah6mUrwgrFZgOo9sE43KsIAiiWvOYokzsY31hRseAMkz4eRtrlVLA-sDrXaFWwJ4X0NJkoZA72U1o6EEFKnh9v2wk3-Fyesw" width="180" /></a></div><br /><p>University of Houston professor and best-selling author Brene Brown insists, "What separates privilege from entitlement is gratitude." Lynn Dee Galey would be the first to point out her gratitude for the life she's been able to lead with her Firelight setters, not to mention enduring contact between herself and her owners. They grant her the privilege of sharing the magic of a puppy's first staunch game bird point, that first puppy retrieve of a wild bird handled perfectly, first anything of consequence. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjTTUTiwUd5_mnwwJCA82dEZpYSw1iq3zA38rlCrmCd6VmKeQ6hZU4syE5inp5I7kygyWK05toUchTj5cipD07JBipYOQ4Kjrb0L0OPRwZVPRyZRq1JNE09iQql8P_GVycFeUcSXKATYgIIatPuYGEqxbXFG3rM52eMdy2GNpylkiGpO51F5Pc_NOctrQ=s206" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="206" data-original-width="155" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjTTUTiwUd5_mnwwJCA82dEZpYSw1iq3zA38rlCrmCd6VmKeQ6hZU4syE5inp5I7kygyWK05toUchTj5cipD07JBipYOQ4Kjrb0L0OPRwZVPRyZRq1JNE09iQql8P_GVycFeUcSXKATYgIIatPuYGEqxbXFG3rM52eMdy2GNpylkiGpO51F5Pc_NOctrQ" width="155" /></a></div><p>Of course with that yin privilege comes the yang: sharing the desolation of inevitable circumstances that steal young dogs, old dogs, any Firelight companion, away from us.</p><p>But all of that was far in the past or far into the future last Monday, as Lynn Dee picked up Dreamboat Annie's puppies, one at a time, studying them with her practiced eye, exercising what she considers the privilege of a lifetime of English setter bird dogs.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjkBiuY_4Cg1cBm_kOUC270KqvRDLujNLA_foVjIoblqLqGKTVg3pl7fcE4RpHDc6WcJD2kWC8DvyAdvMwl2jZpyFBDx-OXzTcoLZQTm6Mxd2FwIwWUCIbMJbBEoZLvyLNRZuNzNua0NypCMopAH4g8RyVjMW0wMNl-jKEsTJ0EUpBD7cK_gu2gjPuc2g=s206" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="206" data-original-width="155" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjkBiuY_4Cg1cBm_kOUC270KqvRDLujNLA_foVjIoblqLqGKTVg3pl7fcE4RpHDc6WcJD2kWC8DvyAdvMwl2jZpyFBDx-OXzTcoLZQTm6Mxd2FwIwWUCIbMJbBEoZLvyLNRZuNzNua0NypCMopAH4g8RyVjMW0wMNl-jKEsTJ0EUpBD7cK_gu2gjPuc2g" width="155" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p><br /></p>Randy Lawrencehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01915125036121915292noreply@blogger.com0