The Kindred Heart of Huntersby Brad Kerr
Many years ago I bought a Brittany Spaniel pup. The selection was an easy one; he came right to me, was beautiful, and to satisfy the “underdog” attraction I have, he was the runt of the litter. I named my pup “Higgins,” and as it turned out, he was one huntin’ fool!
When the first of November rolled around, he was 6 months old for his first live hunt point of a rooster pheasant. Too dumbfounded to do anything other than watch, my companions never shouldered their guns. I dropped the bird with my first shot, and Higgins shot off after the fallen bird. I didn’t get a clean kill; the rooster was still alive, and fighting mad. It was close for a while. The rooster on top, then Higgie on top. Fur and feathers flew! I ran up and rescued them both. Needless to say, Hig never developed into a retriever.
Oh, he’d run ahead and find dropped birds, but he wasn’t too keen on picking them up. That bird went to the taxidermist.
Years went by. The sky was mostly gray, with only the occasional streak of sunlight coming through the low ceiling of clouds, and the Brittany and I were still hopeful of a rooster. A spot just ahead, where a pond was low enough to have a nice soggy bottom, was a corner of an old cedar fence row; a tangle of splintered posts, barbed wire, and overgrown weed stalks that had dodged the herbicide sprayings. “That’s about as far as I can go, and still make it back home without you dragging me, boy,” I told my orange and white spaniel. He wagged a stubby tail in agreement.
As we closed in, Higgins suddenly dropped his snout to the ground and started zig-zagging in erratic circles. I knew what this meant, so I ran as quickly as Sorels in mud will allow. We converged, heaving like the couple of tired hunters that we were, when Higgins slid to a point right where a patch of weeds was neatly hollowed out into a 4-inch diameter tunnel. Now what? The barbed wire was going to prevent us from stepping in. So I circled halfway around the fortress only to find a cedar post teetering across the twisted wire. I slipped off the safety, and gave that old post a couple of violent kicks. The commotion grew intense, as I watched first one, then two more hens come blasting out of the top of those weed stalks. Then all went quiet.
I stepped back around to see Higgins still frozen to the ground, and a rooster peeking out of the tunnel. Suddenly Higgins jammed his head into the hole, and the rooster shot straight up into the sky, giving me a perfect shot. The walk home was satisfying, with the weight of a long-tailed rooster in my game bag, and my best friend walking beside me.
More years went by. On the last day of what was to be our last season hunting together, we stayed out a little later than was practical. The sun was well down, leaving an orange and aqua sunset that deepened into an almost eerie glow. We were strolling along, heading in a general way toward the lights of our house. Higgins was working rather slowly, as he did in his later years, never venturing out as far as he had when younger and more hard-headed.
Suddenly, he got birdy . . . hotter and hotter. . . Despite the darkening sky, I vividly saw it. Or did I? I trailed slowly behind, and he froze up. Looking at a cover photo of Field & Stream, I calmly stepped forward. Up the rooster jumped; a huge bird with a flowing tail, squawking obscenities at us, flying into the fading colors of the western sky. I fired once, twice . . . But the bird flew on. We watched until he completely disappeared. The third shot was mostly anticlimactic; it emptied the gun. We were through.
Higgins saw it, so did I. But I have to wonder, as I did all the way back to the gate that let us into our back yard. Was that bird really there, or just an image to last us both? Create a surreal memory for dog and hunter, of bird and adventure, pursuit and chess match? It did indeed really happen. Real as opposed to just wanting the day to finish this way. Because I’m so glad it did. Killing that last wild bird of our hunting career would have been rather tragic, I think. It wasn’t necessary. The pheasant lived on, and we went our separate ways. We bred Higgins only once, and also kept one pup. A female whom we named Molly. They had each other’s company for about 10 years.
During one of our European trips, word came from our neighbor who cared for them in our absence. “Higgins is dead,” she told us on our last phone call home before returning. “Molly is crushed, and is howling most of the time.” I could think of little else on the entire flight home. Higgins enjoyed great success in chasing and pointing birds, going home smelling of the hunt. Gun powder, wet dog, sweaty vest, oiled 12-gauge, sage brush and switchgrass.
We arrived very late in the evening, and stumbled in with our luggage before collapsing for the night. The next morning, I glanced out at the dog run and house in quite a melancholy state. “What!?!?” I ran out and opened the gate. “Higgins!” Family and friends never did know one Brittany from the other. And while Molly’s death wasn’t any easier to take, for Higgins to still be here was, selfishly enough, of great relief to me! My old buddy was still alive!
As you might guess, we really pampered that old gray-faced bird dog. I knew his days were numbered, too. But I was with him, and he knew it. A few months into autumn, he really slowed down, and his breathing was laborious. A trip to our vet revealed what we feared: he was going into cardio-respiratory failure. We had him humanely put down. Not any easier, but still a reprieve of sorts. I did get to spend some time pampering him, loving him, and enjoying memories. When before, I thought he was gone without my being able to say good-bye.
Henry Willett wrote: I miss the wagging little tail; I miss the plaintive, pleading wail; I miss the wistful, loving glance; I miss the circling welcome-dance. “Good-bye, ol’ buddy . . . “
