Be It Resolved!

 by Randy Lawrence

(Scaled Quail on the Mexican Border)

On the eve of New Year's Eve, I laid out several resolutions for 2022.  Be it resolved that beginning January 1, I shall abstain from K-Pop music, running marathons, field trialing Wirehaired Dachshunds  or Small Muensterlander Pointers.  I am also going to stop being so darned judgmental - even of those who field trial Wirehaired Dachshunds or Small Muensterlander Pointers.

However...

Having said that about being, as an eye-rolling friend recently put it, "so freakin' judgey" (What kind of person whips out a make-believe word like "judgey"? ), I must confess that I will likely never stop believing that I can take the measure of someone's very soul by the way he or she handles a shotgun, a gamebird in possession, and a bird dog. 

(General Sherman, American Water Spaniel, works a hot corner in the dove patch)

Gun manners begin and end with safety.  Those practices are iron clad, and those careless with firearms cannot join our hunts.  But along with safe gun etiquette should come other manners: Shooting only birds the dogs have handled correctly.  Never shooting directly over a dog's head.  Of being sensible about the gun barrel in relation to dogs underfoot, about safety while walking in on a point.  Having a crystal clear sense of what constitutes a "sporting chance," passing up hero shots that are more likely to wound than kill. Having an equally clear sense of "enough" in tallying a game bag.  Making sure empty shot shell hulls ejected to the ground are always retrieved - ours and those left by more shiftless others.  Being the first to say "Your bird!" when a companion happens to fire at the same instant and the shot's author is in some doubt.

A bird in hand is a treasure.  A gift.  Respect for same means making every attempt to recover a downed bird.   Respectfully spreading out game that could otherwise just be tossed in a pile in the September heat when doves are pouring in over the stand.  Quickly and humanely dispatching a bird ferried in with its head up.  Paying attention when stowing game at a hunt's end, making sure it's in the best possible shape for the larder upon arrival back home.

And whether it is a Firelight Setter or a fussbudget Wirehaired Dachshund pressed into the role of bird dog, watch how the handler makes connections with the dog at the vehicle, going into the woods, during and after the hunt.  Connections that require but a light, deft hand.  Connections that teach, that sustain, that honor the dog as a partner. 

Those constantly whistling and hollering at their dog during a hunt are probably one-and-done as hunting partners for many of us.  Does that person not trust her or his dog, at first to learn the business of its genetic inheritance, then later the business of experience and training?  Does that person give her dog the benefit of the doubt in curious circumstances without blinking issues which need attention?  Is the handler paying attention to the weather and the terrain to have an idea of what her dog might be experiencing in terms of scenting conditions or footing? 

Does the handler carry enough water along when conditions warrant?  Does he pay attention to changes of gait that might indicate anything from snow balls between the toes to a cut pad or torn nail?  Does the dog's partner wipe the dog down at hunt's end, make at least a quick check beyond the obvious for stickers, burrs, deer ticks, etc., and make secure, dry, and draft free travel accommodations?

I confess that the person whom I judge the most against these standards is myself.  My family has never gotten over the careless gun handling that claimed the life of my dad's older brother;  I can never erase the memory of the time a dear friend asked to look at my bird gun back at our motel room, drew that sleek double out of its slip, then, from gun safety habit, broke it open.  Twenty years later, I can still see the gleam of brass from across the room, the sick flip of my stomach over the gun I had left loaded, and then mindlessly cased as I broke up a dog ruckus (made possible by heedless handling) at the truck tailgate.

I remember one of my bird dog mentors coming up from behind and softly saying, "Did you drop these?", offering the pair of purple 16-gauge hulls I'd ejected in disgust after an embarrassing miss on the edge of a South Dakota fence row.

I think back on all the companions who were meticulous in their gun manners, thoughtful in their sporting ethic, considerate of their dogs.  The ones who by their every action honored every bird brought to hand.  The ones who brought extra dog water to share.  Who offered a spare towel to wipe down my wet dog.  Who showed by example how to allow for conditions, how to support a dog on the move, on point, and finishing a retrieve.  Whose love for the sport and whose generosity toward me helped me live down, live through, and move beyond the hallmarks of a clueless maladroit.

(Photo by Nancy Johnson)

All of the above adjudicated me redeemable, and perhaps that's a more worthy resolution for 2022 - to be more discerning than judgey about when, how, and to whom we extend that same courtesy of sharing a Better Way to enjoy this sport that gives us back so much.

As for running shoes on my doorstep, the boy band BTS on my music playlist, or a Small Muensterlander riding shotgun in the 'Yota?   I shall hold firm.  May 2022 keep you and yours healthy, happy, and finding better ways to get right with that good bird dog.