Toughness

By Lynn Dee Galey

Toughness. An underrated quality in a bird dog. Much of it comes from grit and drive. A lot of it comes from good feet and good, moderate conformation.  All of it is identified only through experience, over and over again. 

Toughness wasn’t really much on the board for me years ago when I was a New England grouse hunter. Hunts were shorter and on soft, moist forest floor. 

But moving to the plains and hunting there 70+ days a year reshaped my focus with my dogs. I watched which dogs had the stamina to hunt every day, harder and longer than others, yet avoid injury. Which dogs would use their teeth to rip Montana cactus balls from their feet vs the dogs who would stop and limp in for help. Which dogs could run on rough rocky ground without boots and which dogs would get footsore. 

I am blessed with wonderful owners for my dogs, many of whom push themselves and their dogs hard from Sept -January.  Dogs who push through the thick, tall, bone dry Kansas grass for pheasant. Dogs who run alongside the owner on mountain bike to hunt chukar slopes all day before biking back to camp. Dogs who learn about desert quail and the endless array of plants and footing there that can end a hunt. Dogs who plow through deep snow to point snow roosted ruffs for their snowshoed owner. Dogs who learn to slip beneath barb wire fences all day long with just a small withers scab.

Those owners and their dogs strongly influence my breeding decisions. Because for owners who passionately hunt many more days than the average hunter, yet have only one or two dogs, a dog who gets tired or injured easily would ruin their season. Hard to measure until truly tested, yet so important.  

Twice as Nice

by Lynn Dee Galey

The other day my friend Warren got one of those Facebook “Memories From This Day” messages with a photo. He sent it to me and we were instantly taken back to that day about a dozen years ago.

We quietly raised our guns to the ready position as we saw Tweed ahead pointing and relocating. She carefully slipped over the hill ahead of us in the field and out of sight. “Be ready, I warned, this spot looks like prairie chickens.” As we crested the hill a flock of 6-8 chickens flushed ahead of the dogs and us, just out of range, with the puppy in hot pursuit. The prairie teaches gunners about stragglers and sure enough, 30 steps closer 2 birds flushed and swung in front of Warren who was off to my left. Calmly, probably way too much so for his first time ever even seeing prairie chickens, each trigger was pulled and each dropped a bird. Woohoo!  

We agreed that both birds had dropped dead and Warren’s senior dog, Boone, was already on his way to retrieve the one that had fallen further out. Warren said he was going to go find where his puppy had disappeared to if I would handle the retrieves. First bird now in hand I saw that both dogs were now searching the closer spot where we had seen the second bird drop. Both were strong retrievers, no worries.

But when Warren returned with his grinning, panting puppy we still had not found the other bird. It had been one of those shots where the bird drops like a stone, not far off and well marked yet we could not find it. Fanning out in widening circles we and the dogs searched for well over half an hour. Losing a bird is always dismaying but to lose a prairie chicken taken on a double the first time someone has hunted them felt downright tragic.  

The afternoon was getting late and with a long walk back to the truck ahead of us we finally admitted defeat, barely able to enjoy the single chicken in Warren’s bag. We decided to cut a straight line back across fields, not even hunting our way back. We crossed two barb wire fences and fields and half way across the next 100+ acre field I realized that I didn’t know where Tweed was. Looking around I saw my orange girl far up in the field, working away from us. We watched for a minute and I’ll be darned; we saw her pounce and pick something up. A minute later she handed me Warren’s second prairie chicken, still very much alive.
 Prairie chickens are wily birds and that bird had run hundreds of yards from where it dropped but Tweed had picked up a thread of scent and pursued until success.

Needless to say our spirits were raised, Tweed was praised and we stopped to take this photo.

That Important First Year

 by Lynn Dee Galey

Blending my profession and my lifetime with birddogs, I believe that puppies are like children regarding the plasticity of the brain, skill development, and social skills. For example, studies show that in children, learning skills such as language and music before the age of 5 results in a higher level of proficiency later.  For a birddog puppy, the first 12 months are the window of opportunity of their lifetime and lay the foundation for what’s to come.

Get your puppy into the woods or out onto the prairie and spend as much time out there as possible. Backyard obedience or trots around the neighborhood are important for all puppies but the classroom for a birddog is in bird habitat. Don’t limit it to hunting season;  learning happens year-round, every time they are out. At 2-4 months they are still small and running on trails is fine but by 5-6 months they should be starting to get into brush and explore.

These early adventures are also when you and pup expand your relationship into a hunting partnership. It is part of my dog’s job to keep track of where I am just like keeping track of them is part of mine. Teamwork to me is quiet.  It means the dog reads your body language so that even as they range out they notice you turning to look at a patch of cover and they swing into it without a word spoken. When you call the dog in to take a water break for both of you, they should learn it means hang here with me and relax for a bit.

Puppies are sponges and soak up the lessons learned in actual habitat. Smells, textures, sounds, wind, and variety in vegetation are recorded on the blank slate so that they become background and won’t interfere with the later more specific experiences of locating and handling bird scent.  

Bird contacts are the top layer of skill development. Skill in finding and handling birds is cumulative: every bird smelled, seen, and heard teaches a lesson. We want pup to contact as many wild birds as possible to begin to build the knowledge base. I have found that this bird contact piece between 6-10 months of age cannot be overlooked for a dog to reach its potential. It takes commitment on the part of the owner to provide the opportunities but is a piece of the puzzle that is a must.

Wild bird contact is where instinct interfaces with experience and pup begins to show us what they’ve got. In the long term, the ability to read cover, use the wind, nose power and the intelligence to apply it all to find birds does the sorting out of which dogs are good, best or just happy to be along.

 

The first 12 months pass quickly.  Don't miss out.

The Orvis Fly Rod

By Lynn Dee Galey

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

5505

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

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

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

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

Pocket Tales: May 31. Empty Nest

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

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

Pocket Tales 5/30: Timing and down to 3

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

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