In 1993 we got our first field bred pup who we named Trixie. She came
out of Whisperwing dogs, a trialing kennel that had been in south west
Michigan, but no longer is. The small white and liver pup was a quick
learner as we worked her through the summer and into the fall that first
year. The following winter, Steve was eager to show off his new pup, so
he took her out rabbit hunting with his buddy, Jack.
They chose a spot along a wooded creek bottom covered with thick brush -
mostly willows and lots of wild raspberry brambles - where they knew
from past experience that the rabbit hunting would be pretty good. Up
until then both Steve and Jack had been "hound men" - running coon dogs,
beagles, and hare hounds - and neither had hunted over a field bred
Springer before.
Without hesitation Trix took to the brambles like a fish to water and it
wasn't very long before she began kicking up rabbits. The plan was to
just "bump" a rabbit so she would have to track down a wounded animal in
the snow. There was probably 8-10 inches of the cold, white stuff on the
ground and it had a bit of a crust on top.
Trixie jumped a bunny in Steve's direction and he got two or three
pellets into the back hips of the cottontail. It took off like a blast!
He sent Trixie after it. Although the guys couldn't see what was going
on, they could hear them crashing through the thicket and then a lot of
squealing! After two or three minutes, Jack began to worry that they
should go and find her, after all she was just a pup, but Steve wanted
to give her a chance to show her stuff. Finally in what seemed like a
long time but was probably only a couple of minutes later, here comes
the pup with the still squealing rabbit in her mouth! Her small head was
wildly bobbing about from the unwilling passenger's desperate thrashing
as she negotiated her path through the heavy brush eager to make the
retrieve! Needless to say, both hunters were quite impressed with her
stellar performance.
Though the remainder of the morning Jack and Steve each got two
rabbits, all of which she retrieved perfectly.
The guys finally decided to go get some fresh, hot coffee at Jack's
house nearby before going back out for some more hunting later. So they
headed for the truck. Inside the cab, Steve noticed that Trixie was
bleeding. Upon a closer examination, he found the end of a big thorn
stuck in her front shoulder and hidden under her thick coat. They tried
to remove it, but it broke off and they could still feel a large piece
of it stuck under the skin. So it was off to town to the vet clinic.
The vet knocked her out and surgically removed the 3 inch chunk of
thorn, which was wedged between her skin and muscle. The bill was for
$75. Rather expensive rabbit stew!!!
Steve and Jack realized that Trixie had got stuck by the hawthorn while on
that first rabbit's trail as they had made the effort to avoid that area
of the woods during the hunt. But despite what must have been a painful
wound, she had continued hunting with gusto for at least an hour, and
quite possibly longer, without as much as a whimper. Now that's a dog
with heart!
For years Al, the old farmer, was treated to an occasional glimpse of the trophy ringneck
strutting his stuff. As the seasons passed, he had come to know the old bird’s crow and recognize
it as though it were a greeting from an old friend.
Many had come from near and far, bringing bird dogs of every description, confident that they
would be the one to bag this wily old bird. All had failed. None had even come close to flushing him.
But they would sometimes hear him cackle... or was that laughter?... as he craftily made his escape.
This pheasant was legendary.
Al gave up the plow long ago as his health began to fade. His once neatly groomed cornfields had now
become unkempt and overgrown - returning the borrowed land to nature - wild and thick... and high. The
old man knew he had few hunts left.
My Dad, a barber in the nearby Michigan village, was impressed with our hunting dogs. And like any
good barber would, he spread the word. Some customers probably thought he took liberties with his tales
and embellished them to suit his fancy. But not so. We had 100% field bred English Springer Spaniels -
a rarity in that neck of the woods. Most folks there had never seen or heard of dogs like ours. They were
only familiar with show-type springers. In a small, farming community, word gets around. It wasn’t long
before Al heard we had good dogs, and extended the invitation.
Shortly before dawn, Steve arrived at with two of our springers. Trixie, a white and liver dynamo, had
proven herself afield. Since none of our regular hunting buddies had dogs that could keep up with ours, she
was accustomed to covering the ground for as many as five hunters at a time. Despite extra duty, she was
always ready for more - even after our legs had given out! Her son, Rocky, took after his Canadian sire, a
large, leggy spaniel. His coat was all white with the exception of a liver spot on one side, a pirate eye patch,
and ticking. In the field, he carried his head high, almost prancing as he worked his pattern. Stylish. A true
gentleman’s dog. Although this was his first hunting season, he was showing great promise of the hunter he was
destined to become.
The hunting party assembled. Al emerged from his house with his time worn shotgun and wearing a big grin. The
first rays of light began to stretch westward like golden fingers gently rousing nature from its sleep. It
revealed an expanse of dry grass and weeds tipped white with frost. The field was edged with sassafras, aspen, sumac,
and wild raspberry brambles all dressed in vivid shades of orange, scarlet, yellow, and purple. Center stage was a
lone oak, standing sentinel over the past century’s farming activities.
The old man finished his cup of steaming coffee. He knew just where the rooster would be. The strategy of the
hunt was discussed and they agreed that someone needed to block the cagey pheasant’s escape route at the far end of
the field.
"I’m not going down there," Dad protested with a laugh, "not with all these shotguns pointed that direction!"
"Then we’ll have to send a dog." someone proposed.
"Not, my dog."
"Not mine."
"Let’s send Loretta’s dog, Rocky."
And so it was decided!
Years ago Al had owned and trained some fine English Setters. He knew dogs. He explained to Steve what he wanted
and sent him to position Rock. After instructing the dog to stay put, Steve returned to the group and the hunt was on!
Dad brought his dog, Buck, a sibling to Rocky. Gary had his old dog, also named Buck. Steve cast Trixie off and she
began to work her beautiful pattern just ahead of the line of hunters. Watching the trio of spaniels weaving through the
fabric of the field was like poetry in motion. Before long, they got birdy and the old rooster began to run!
Steve signaled Rocky with the whistle to work back towards the group and the squeeze play began! The grass swayed
as Rock cut his pattern - zeroing in on the rooster. With nowhere for the ringneck to go, Rock did what no other dog had
succeeded at before. He looped into the bird and flushed the pheasant back towards the hunters!
Steve never saw a pheasant as large as this one... he shot twice and missed!
Dad, normally an excellent marksman, hadn’t seen a bird like this since before I was born... he unloaded his .12 gauge
... and missed!
Gary, another old timer who used to have the best springer in the area, shot three times... and missed!
Amidst the aroma of gunpowder, the old farmer smiled and watched the old pheasant fly off into the distance... laughing.
We once had a springer with a taste for the arts. Crayon was his
preferred medium in which to work. We always knew when he was having a
creative inspiration by the technicolor fruits of his labor scattered
about the yard!
The dog also had a sadistic streak. Whenever our daughter left her
bedroom door ajar, he would sneak in and snack on the hands and feet of
her Barbie doll collection! Guess we should have turned her doll house
into an amputee hospital and recruited Dr. Ken and an army of GIJoes to
watch over the victims and protect the unmangled. ;-)
Both the crayons and the Barbie doll parts made it out the other end OK.
Sunday night at our weekly group training session, Steve was running
Trixie. As usual, she patterned beautifully and did a nice job flushing
her pigeon. The bird thought he was smart and flew directly back towards
the pickup trucks and so the gunners couldn't get a safe shot. But, Don,
our crackshot, backup gunner happened to be behind the trucks and he did
down the bird. It fell into some thick goldenrod and grass - probably
about shoulder high (on me).
Trixie marked the fall, then took a bee-line for it, full tilt. From her
position at the mark to where the bird fell was at least 60 yards. Those
of us near the trucks saw the "Trixster" sail through the air as she
effortlessly leaped over the tongue of a trailer hitched to a truck. She
dove into the heavy cover... and about 20 yards further... right smack
into an old wood fencepost. We saw the top of it absorb the impact from
the collision.
Steve and Don ran over there, but Trixie had continued her quest for the
bird. The fencepost had old barbed wire coiled around it - with gobs of
white hair and blood splattered about. They called her off the bird and
Justin went to find his first aid kit. I got a sick feeling in my
stomache and wondered if we'd be able to track down our vet.
She finally came over to Steve and he checked her over. The blood came
from a cut on her tongue, but aside from that, she appeared to be fine.
What a relief! He gave her some water and she retrieved the bird.
She hasn't had a haircut since spring and we think the thickness of her
coat protected her from the wire, although it did leave a scratch on her belly.
Trixie was lucky as she could easily have suffered a serious injury or worse.
The "Spiral Death Dive"? It was the most remarkable sight. Jim was
working Jedi when he flushed a pigeon, who somehow, escaped our gunners.
Not being a very smart bird, he flew over the woods, only to return
directly overhead a couple of minutes later. It was quite high up.
Justin took the shot, and it did this amazing, Olympic quality, spiral
death dive, straight down. Those of us in the gallery thought we should
hold up cards with "10"s on them! Everyone was watching, amazed and
impressed with the gunner's prowess. While the guys were watching the
pigeon, Jedi flushed a pheasant!
A while back we bought a dead pheasant dummy for the dogs. We showed it
to the guys in our training group and they all went out and got some,
too. The lab guy had to out do the rest of us by getting three!<
One of the guys came up with this nifty idea for adding a handle to the
rope. You'll need a hard plastic, golf ball sized, whiffle ball - and a
jack knife. Whittle one of the holes a bit larger and on the opposite
side of the ball cut out a triangle shape between three holes. Thread
your rope through, tie a knot in the end, and it's ready to go.
I'm sure it would work just as good on any type of dummy. Makes a great
grip. And it's cheap.
Several days ago I was sitting in the vet's office with Rocky. While
hunting he apparently got a cut inside his mouth, then did what dogs
will do - chew on or eat something disgustingly yucky! He ended up with
a bacterial infection in his eyes and a swollen lymph node. (This same
thing had happened to him in a previous hunting season.) We had been in
the previous Friday and the eye ointment had cleared that up, but now we
were getting antibiotics.
He and I were waiting in an examination room for the veterinarian. Rocky
was his usual cheerful self. He had just got a belly rub from the cute,
blonde, vet assistant and he expressed his appreciation by licking the
makeup off the side of her face. She laughed and said the vet would be
with us shortly as she left.
I noticed a slight fluctuation in the lights and knew that the vet was
taking an x-ray in the next room. A dog began to squeal and moan in
obvious pain and Rocky's ears perk up just as they do when he makes a
mark in the field. I could see his eyes expressing concern as he
listened intently. Then his eyes became real big and he started to
panic. He began panting, whimpering, and needing my reassurance. He's
never behaved fearfully at the vets before. By the time the veterinarian came into the room,
Rocky had a full blown case of Vetaphobia!
It made me wonder if that squealing dog was saying, "Help! Help! They're
trying to kill me! Save yourself! Run for your lives!"
This morning I was baking a Christmas cake that would have a cranberry-pineapple filling between the vanilla layers, frosted with vanilla frosting,
sprinkled with coconut, and topped with a green and red sugar stenciled poinsetta design as the crowning touch to our holiday dinner. The cakes had just come from the oven
and been turned out onto racks to cool when I decided to check my email. As I began the first reply, I heard what I thought was the sound of Abbey, our five month old springer pup,
eating her dog food in the kitchen. A few moments later, I decided to check up on her and found her front legs planted on the edge of the counter, a huge grin on her face, and
three or four large bites missing from one layer of the cake!
Funny thing is that her mom, Trixie, did almost the same thing when she was a bit older - except that it was my daughter's birthday cake that I planned to decorate with frosting
roses on top. I happened to step into the kitchen just in time to see Trixie licking one of the heart-shaped layers as it cooled on the rack. After a quick trip back to the store,
I managed to bake a replacement and frost it as planned before the guests arrived. Just as my father-in-law was about to take a bite of his piece of cake, my son piped up, "Grandpa,
that's the piece of cake that the dog licked!"
Like mother like daughter.
Well, our grand dessert will be a layer shorter this year!
