John Kass wrote a great column that brought up a memory for me. If you aren’t a subscriber to John, join me.
Hunting season in the Midwest gets going a bit in October. November is when the big part of the season is because you can upland bird hunt, duck hunt, and deer hunt.
I never hunted growing up. I married into a hunting family. We had a French Britanny. My wife’s family always had American Brits. My brother-in-laws all hunt to this day.
French Brits hunt closer. We found an ad in the paper and went to see the litter. They were all gone except one little one who jumped up and licked me like crazy. We picked him, but really he picked us.
My dog Satchmo was the greatest upland bird dog known to mankind forever and forever. I enjoyed walking the CRP land on my friend’s farm, shooting pheasants that my dog pointed. Your description of the rabbit in the game bag reminded me of those cold November days and a warm pheasant on your back.
I never cared to hunt on game farms. Pen-raised birds weren’t as much fun to hunt as wild birds.
I took my father-in-law hunting one day. He was a master shot in all four gauges. Like many suburban Chicagoans, he had retired to Florida and only hunted once a year with my brother-in-law up in Alaska. He was a tremendous hunter. As a schoolboy, he used to hunt in northwest suburban fields before they were developed. He and his friends would hunt before school. They’d go to school and put their shotguns in their lockers before class. Later those skills he learned would come in handy when he was in the infantry in Korea.
We drove out to the field and my dog was anxious. We were putting our boots on and he had already pointed a bird. My father-in-law couldn’t get his gun assembled. He had a gorgeous semiautomatic Browning. He was frustrated and cursing as birds were flushing right by our vehicle. I put my dog back inside of it. Took him a half hour to get it assembled.
We finally started out. Satchmo went on point next to a big brushy bush within five minutes. Being the gentleman, and deferring to my father-in-law, I gave him the first shot. I flushed the birds. It was a magnificent double. Two male pheasants jumped up and took flight in the air! My father-in-law took aim and missed them both!
I nervously laughed just a little given the situation. I wasn’t a particularly good shot myself. My dog looked at us both wondering why he was in this particular field with these two particular people on this particular day. Missing wasn’t part of the deal but Satchmo was a patient dog. He found a couple of more. By this time, the rust was off my father-in-law and we shot our limit.
We brought them home and smoked them. We made stew. They were wonderful.
When my dog died, my hunting days died too. I had moved to the city and the only way to hunt was to make a whole trip of it. I knew people who went hunting in South Dakota and other places, but that wasn’t for me. I really just preferred being alone with my dog, watching him work, and walking the fields. It didn’t matter if we shot anything, but he was such a fine dog that we always came home with something.
I miss him and he is waiting for me.
I miss my days afield with my sweet female pointer. Lots of adventures and we had a special bond. She's been gone awhile now. They were magical days.
Very few pleasures match a good day of hunting over a capable dog.