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Loyal, tenacious, smart: Hunting dog stories

Tue Oct 21, 2014 11:22 pm

Duluth tribune
Posted on Oct 19, 2014 at 8:39 a.m.
Photos: http://www.duluthnewstribune.com/conten ... og-stories“Annie, stay!”

“Annie, stay!” ordered Jeff Wiklund as a flock of about 30 mallards banked to take a closer look at our decoy spread.

Behind them was a nice little flock of geese, low to the ground and also heading our way. Annie, Jeff’s black Lab, was tucked nicely in her blind. As is often the case, she saw both flocks before we did.

We had had a good morning shoot and were just about filled out on drake mallards. We hadn’t had any geese within range yet, so someone whispered, “Let the ducks land. We’ll take the geese.”

The mallards circled once, committed, cupped their wings and dropped right into our decoys. The whole flock was on the ground, nervously checking out our imposters. A hen mallard had landed three feet in front of Annie’s blind. Annie held steady and didn’t break.

About 20 seconds later, the geese were low and in range. Someone called, “Take ’em,” and all hell broke loose. The blinds popped open, guns were firing, geese were dropping from the sky and the mallards were exploding toward the heavens. Absolute chaos!

When the smoke cleared, I looked over to see Annie, still in her blind, waiting for her command.

“Annie,” grunted Wiklund.

Then and only then did she burst from her blind and retrieve all of the birds we had dropped. It was a true testament to her training, and the relationship she and Jeff had developed over the years. Annie provided us with many wonderful and amazing hunting memories over the years, but this one is my favorite.

Don O’Connor, Duluth

Persistent Lady

I sat in the grass on a sunny Saturday morning while seven Labrador retriever puppies crawled over me, nipping and licking, looking for attention. It was October 1981, and I had just moved back to my hometown of Duluth. The first thing I did after finding a place to live was to get a dog. Only a Labrador retriever would do.

One by one, the puppies got bored with me and started to wander off. Finally there was just one little female left who refused to follow her brothers and sisters. She stayed with me, and it was pretty clear my decision had been made for me.

Over the next couple of years, with lots of work and help from local dog training legend Joe Deloia, Lady developed into the most well-behaved and determined hunting dog I have ever known. Ducks, grouse, pheasants — it didn’t matter. She would hunt all day long and made some epic retrieves. One was particularly fulfilling, not necessarily for me but for my longtime friend and hunting partner, David.

We were walking an old logging road for grouse in the Isabella area. Lady was quartering back and forth into the thick brush. I was watching the right side of the trail, David the left. Suddenly David shot once. I asked what the heck he was shooting at. He claimed he had shot at a grouse, and he was sure it had gone down. I hadn’t heard it flush, but my hearing isn’t the greatest so I gave him the benefit of the doubt.

Lady came rushing over to where we were searching and began a frantic hunt for the bird. After perhaps 15 minutes of fruitless searching, I concluded that David had missed, or more likely that there had been no bird in the first place. I voiced my conclusions to David, but he continued to insist there was a bird and that he had seen it go down.

Finally, we returned to the trail and stood around bantering about David’s eyesight and his shooting prowess. I was having a good chuckle at his expense. We stood there for another 10 minutes when it occurred to me that Lady was still hunting for the bird. She was like that. She usually didn’t give up until I called her back. I was about to do just that when she came out of the woods behind us. She walked up unseen and gently nuzzled David’s hand to present him with the bird. Vern Swanum, Duluth

Fannie and the goose

Fannie, my Chesapeake Bay retriever, and I had been training with our friends from the Iron Range. Now it was time to see how she would handle a real hunting scenario and behave in the goose blind. We were field hunting in blinds near Lacadena,Saskatchewan. Fannie was only 9 months old.

Fannie was trembling with anticipation and was watching the geese come in and circle right into range so I could get a great shot. Yes, I knocked one down, and to my surprise — and Fannie’s shock — the goose fell right on top of me in the layout blind.

Of course, Fannie was confused as to what to do — retrieve this big bird or sit there and bark. I did not move, waiting for Fannie to make the big decision. She picked up the goose and sat next to the blind with goose in mouth looking very smug and proud. I can’t imagine what she was thinking.

We continued our hunt that day, and Fannie was perfect. She was sent on several blind retrieves. At that point, I knew Fannie and I would make our mark in the retriever field-trial world. I miss her terribly, and I will always remember what great times we enjoyed together over 11 years. Lorraine Sarek, Cook

Some things take time

“Nellie!”

On my command, our springer was off like a streak. She had marked the Hungarian partridge perfectly as it fluttered to the ground.

“This will be a routine retrieve,” I thought.

This happened many years ago, when I was chasing birds up around Swift Current, Saskatchewan, with Jack Martin and Jim Engen, two old hunting buddies of mine. We would hunt ducks, geese and cranes in the morning, then hunt Huns and sharptails in the afternoon. Birds were plentiful, and we were being rewarded for full days of hard hunting. We were younger then.

Over 30-plus years of hunting with Jack and Jim and many other companions, we had witnessed hundreds of examples of good dog work. Several dogs — Spots, Christy, Lady, Maggie, Scout, Cinder, Coda, Chaucer, Ginger and Max — won high-performance medals.

On this trip, Sunshine Nellie, our happy-go-lucky springer spaniel, was our go-to gal. Something special was about to happen. She was small, liver and white in color, bright-eyed and always doing her best to please. She knew her job: Stay in control, flush, mark, find the bird and retrieve to hand softly.

She couldn’t get enough of it. Minnesota, Iowa, North and South Dakota, Saskatchewan — it didn’t matter where, just “let me at ’em.”

Bouncing out, Nellie covered the ground to where she had marked the Hun. We all watched as she coursed downwind, came back, crossed over, again and again. No bird. No bird.

I whistled her. She hupped and looked to me for orders. Suddenly, she broke and took off over the hill and out of sight. Not good dog etiquette, I thought. A rabbit, maybe? Not likely.

So, we waited. And waited some more. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Our day was almost over. Engen was getting thirsty. Martin was shuffling his feet. Finally I gave up.

I was ready to go looking for her when here she came, the Hun in her mouth. She brought the bird to hand, wagging her tail as if to say, “How’s that, Pop?”

“About time you got here,” Engen said. “We were headed for dinner.”

Don’t brag on your dogs, but always trust ’em. Bill Huron, Lutsen

Rex and Tom

Rex was a collie and Chesapeake mix. He was a wonderful dog. We had many great adventures together. One year, Rex and I were hunting grouse north of Tofte. We were driving down a logging road and came upon a man standing on the side of the road.

I stopped and asked him if he was having any luck. The man said he had shot one but it ran off and he could not find it. I said, “I have a dog. Maybe he can find it for you.”

I pulled off the side of the road and let Rex out. The man took one look at Rex and said, “That thing is going to find my grouse?”

“Do you want your bird or not?” I said.

I told Rex to go hunt it up. Rex took off like a shot.

“He’s going the wrong way,” the man hollered.

Rex went into a windfall and, sure enough, came out with the bird and brought it to me still alive. I wrung the bird’s neck and handed it to the man and said, “Here is your bird.”

In 1953, I was called into service and I was shipped to Germany for 18 months. When I left home, so did Rex. My folks got word that Rex had traveled 10 miles cross-country to the house of a widow our family knew. Rex stayed there the whole time I was away in the service. The night before I was due to come home, Rex showed up at the farm. My mom heard him barking and said to my dad, “Tom must be coming home.”

The next day I arrived home. Rex was very happy to see me. Tom Sabyan, Hermantown

The kennel

(Editor’s note: Karl Seckinger of Knife River writes about a kennel of bear-hunting dogs in Wisconsin. A “strike” dog typically has the best nose in the pack and is the first put on a bear’s trail.)

They have always given their dogs what I consider great dog names. And they ain’t lame human names like Bob or Fred. They are honest-to-goodness pooch names as fine as the collars they wear, made from leather with their names stitched into them.

Boone is a lanky dog with high shoulders. He ain’t mean, he ain’t overly friendly. I asked once what kind of dog he was, and I meant what breed, but George Sr. told me he was a good kind of dog.

Boone is the only dog allowed in the house. Boone is Sr.’s favorite. He said Boone is a strike dog with a fine nose. Sr. touches his own nose when he says this, said Boone could tell him more about spilt whiskey, black bears and bobcats than any other dog he ever owned, just by his bark.

Then he called Boone, like he was gonna prove Boone’s complete worth right then and there. Boone looked up, didn’t move, then set his head back down. Sr. tells me he’s a smart dog, too — “knows when I ain’t really calling him to come.” Oh, lord, I laughed, and so did Sr.

Blade, the youngest treeing hound, is a tawny red short-haired piece of carpet as wiry as a mountain cat with one torn ear, a cut he earned the Blade way.

Sr. says Blade don’t know when to back off, when to feint as quick as he should, he tells me. Blade ain’t so smart, but Blade hunts hard. I’m not fond of Blade. His battery is always overcharged, and lucky for me he is short-wired to a big stake in the yard.

We walk the caged line. Each mutt has its own little house, a fence separating each from the others — neat, clean and orderly like a pro-football locker room.

Spirit, Red, Walker, Little Itchy, Tell Me. The names just go right down the kennel’s line. Each a name on a placard, one to a dog gate, a man’s height high, in-my-face high, so I won’t miss seeing, and knowing their names. Karl Seckinger, Knife River

Nonconforming hunting dog

A friend had told me there was a blue heeler in the pound. It was early winter in Fairbanks, Alaska, and the last thing I needed was another dog. The day she was slated to be euthanized, I drove my rattling old truck to town and picked her up.

For the first five years we were together, Cora and I never spent a night apart. She traveled with me for work with an Alaska Department of Fish and Game field crew in boats, rafts and planes.

Because Cora was part heeler, I assumed that meant I would need to learn something about herding sheep or cattle. I joined a herding club, but Cora had no interest in the sheep or herding.

That same year, I moved home to northern Minnesota. Fall arrived and with it the urge to walk old grouse hunting haunts. Cora had always been a little gun-shy but a walk in the woods without my dog seemed almost unnatural. So I tied her to my hip and headed out to find a few birds. In a single afternoon, Cora found the passion that would drive her for the rest of her life.

The years have blurred the exact details, but I know I shot one grouse. Cora didn’t like the blast of the shotgun much, though she stood her ground. I gave her the bird to smell and hold in her mouth. I tossed it a couple times and she retrieved it very carefully.

The second bird was the key. It was on an open trail, framed by a golden crown of poplar. When the shot rang out and she saw the bird fall from the sky, she put it all together. I let her off the leash, and she had that bird back to me instantly. The spark was lit.

I wish I could say I had great talent as a trainer of hunting dogs. I did not. Cora did what she did purely by instinct and drive. Over our 15½ years together, it is impossible to know how many birds she retrieved for me and for my family members. She quivered with excitement when anyone picked up a shotgun. She would swim any ditch or climb through any deadfall to retrieve her bird.

If I had one wish regarding my old friend, I would love to know what was in her muddled genetic makeup. Cora has been gone many years now, laid to rest at home behind the mule barn. I think of her often but especially when I walk a fall grouse trail. What trades I would make with the powers that be for one more day walking a trail along the Rapid River with that little black dog at my side. Kelly Krueger, Baudette

Believe the dog

At the end of long grouse hunt, my friend Garrett and I approached a lonely pine tree about 15 feet tall in the middle of a woodland meadow. His 4-year-old German shorthair pointer, Stella, was firmly on point at the base of the tree, her eyes locked on the top of the tree. Yet, to our surprise, there was no bird in sight and no flush from the tree-top.

We began to reason that Stella had burst into the clearing, startling the grouse and sending it high atop the pine tree seeking immediate cover. We then suspected that upon reaching the tree-top, the bird must have quickly flushed out the back side while keeping the tree directly between itself and the dog — a classic escape by a savvy old ruff.

Stella wasn’t fooled, however. At least that was what she was trying to tell us as she held her point. Unfortunately, the two bozos she was with weren’t getting the message. This went on for a minute or so when I finally picked up a stick and hurled it toward the area where Stella was focused. The stick glanced off a few limbs without seriously disturbing the top of the tree. Still no flush.

Surely no grouse would put up with that sort of disturbance, we thought. As puzzled as ever, I decided that in a last-ditch effort, I was going to show this dog that her point was unproductive. I casually stepped up to the tree, gripped the trunk firmly and gave it a shake. Immediately, a distinct sound filled the air — the thundering wings of a grouse as he took off over the meadow. That was followed by a single report from Garrett’s double-barrel.

Blinded by a face full of pine needles, I quickly turned to my friend in astonishment.

“Missed him,” Garrett said.

We both burst into laughter. Nick Larson, Duluth

Always trust your dog

When I was in high school, I hunted with my cousin from Ely and his Brittany. We would go through the woods and when his dog was on point, I would question whether she was on a bird or not. Suddenly a grouse would flush, and I would wonder where the bird had been on the ground. I would tell my cousin that there was no bird and he would always tell me to trust the dog.

Two years ago, now in my 50s, I took my 8-year-old Brittany, Misty, out for a hunt near our deer camp. Misty has a great nose and is a very intense hunting dog. She came on point, her stubby tail pointing straight up and quivering. I approached Misty carefully, ready for the flush, but nothing was flushing. I got within 5 feet of her, and I saw the grouse sitting still. When the grouse flushed, I shot it and Misty retrieved it to my hand.

I started to move on, calling Misty, but she wasn’t coming. I was starting to get a little irritated with her, when I saw that she was back where the grouse originally flushed. Again, she was locked on point and her tail was quivering. I was calling her to move on, figuring she was wasting her time smelling where the grouse had been.

She wasn’t listening to me, so I went over to get her by the collar so we could move on. As soon as I grabbed her collar, three grouse flushed. I was not ready for that, thinking that with all the noise and commotion that had been raised, any bird left on the forty was long gone.

I was wrong and apologized to Misty for messing up. She looked at me with that, “What were you thinking?” look.

I should have remembered what my cousin told me 30 years earlier: Always trust your dog. Greg Massoglia, Saxon, Wis.
Sophie makes her point

There really isn’t anything like grouse hunting with a dog. I have hunted grouse for a long time and just within the past four years finally got a dog. My dad, Phil Johnson, and I decided that we should get a dog together and ended up, after much research, settling on an American Brittany. We named her Sophie and started dreaming about hunting over a pointing dog.

In her second fall, Sophie was starting to figure out that pointing the birds was really fun. I decided one Sunday afternoon in late October to take Sophie out and just work her a bit on commands.

We walked for about 20 minutes, and then Sophie froze. She was pointing a stand of buckthorn. I walked up to her, and a grouse exploded from the buckthorn. I missed it. I was pretty disappointed, because I wanted to reward Sophie because she had pointed so well.

I noticed she had moved about 20 feet away and was pointing again. My heart skipped a bit and I walked up to her, where another grouse jumped. This time it was a textbook shot, angling away from me and in the clear. I was sure that I had hit it, but it kept right on flying.

Sophie took off like a rocket in the direction that the second grouse had flown. As I followed Sophie, I was muttering under my breath about having to practice shooting more. I had walked about 150 yards and decided that it was time to circle back to my truck. Then Sophie’s beeper changed tone to indicate that she was pointing.

I hustled over to where she was and walked up to her. Nothing. She was shaking and did not want to move, even after several minutes of me walking around her. There just wasn’t a bird. I finally convinced Sophie that we needed to go and that there were no birds where she was pointing.

Instead of following me, Sophie took off and went about 30 more yards and locked onto a small stand of alders that had long grass around the base of the trees. The grass looked like a small tepee. I walked up to her. Nothing. I walked around the trees. Nothing. Sophie would not move. I called her off and started to walk away. She went right back to the tree and locked on again. I couldn’t believe it. There was no bird in that grass.

I walked over to Sophie, not irritated but not real happy with her, either. Just to humor her, I shoved my foot into the grass at the base of the tree.

The next thing I knew, the grouse that I had missed exploded into the air. It was so close to me it almost knocked my hat off. It was wounded, though, and couldn’t fly well. The grouse landed about 20 yards away. Sophie pinned it to the ground, shook it twice to kill it and proceeded to bring the grouse right to my feet.

Sophie spit the grouse out and sat down. She had feathers sticking out of her mouth and I swear a huge grin on her face. It was as if she was telling me, “See boss? That is how it’s done!”

Nathan Johnson, Esko

Willow and the “long-legged dogs”

My uncle and I usually get together and hunt pheasants at least once a year. A few years back, his friend Bill invited us out to Mitchell, S.D., to hunt with a group from Oklahoma. This hunting party met every year for a hunt on a farm managed for pheasants. Bill’s friends were all retired oil men or retired military.

We met the group at a motel in Mitchell. The dog trailers parked in front of the rooms they had reserved said a lot. These were hard-core pheasant hunters.

On the way out, I had worried a little about how Willow, my field cocker, would do. If we had to hunt open grassland, he’d struggle a bit with running birds. Fence lines and ditches, thick understory in woodlots and swamp edges are more his speed.

Field cockers don’t get a lot of respect from the “long-legged” dog fanciers. Many upland hunters don’t even know that the English cocker is a hunting breed. So it did not surprise me when I brought Willow into the motel and one of Bill’s friends said that he thought that it was cute that I brought my lap dog with me.

The birds were holding in long sorghum breaks planted between corn plots. The sorghum was planted in a series of rows about thirty feet wide. After the first walk through the sorghum, it was clear the long-legged pointers from Oklahoma wouldn’t work. The dogs would range out and the birds would run the full length of the sorghum rows before flushing at the end. The chaos at the end of the “cane” break — 12 to 25 birds flying low out the sides and between hunters and back over the hunters’ heads — made for dangerous shooting.

Willow went to work on the next drive. The birds flushed throughout the cane break, usually going high and out over the cut corn, perfect for shooting.

About three-quarters of the way down the row, Willow flushed a tight-holding rooster on the edge of the cane break. The bird flew low along the ground. When I shot at the bird, it flew about 60 yards out, then folded. Willow stood steady where he had flushed it. When I called his name, Willow released and bolted across the cut corn. He came, sat and presented the bird. He got his “good dog” thanks, and I slipped the bird into my vest, a ritual we’ve done more times than I can remember.

When I turned around, every one of those Oklahoma hunters was standing there looking at Willow as he trotted back to the cane break. It was a collective “What the ——?” look.

Willow was in cocker heaven — big birds, lots of them, a couple dozen retrieves a day and abundant “good dog” thanks.

Steve Therrien, Superior

Paddy and the kids go west

An old dog is the best. We picked up Paddy, a black Lab, four days after I gave my dad a kidney. She spent the next six weeks recovering with me, going on short walks and enjoying long sleeps. Paddy was raised by my Australian shepherd, and so when our son Peter came along, she followed him absolutely everywhere.

“I’ve heard of dogs that follow kids everywhere,” our friend Jens Nielsen from Montana said. “I’ve just never seen it.”

Paddy accompanied my husband, Darrel, every fall to the lakes and bogs, proving herself as a fine hunting companion as well. But, after our twin girls were born, she was torn as to whether she really wanted to leave and go hunting.

“She was good,” Darrel would say, “but you could tell she just really wanted to be home taking care of her boy and girls.”

Her 12th fall, mostly blind and deaf, we packed up the whole family and went out west for a fall hunting trip. Paddy was in her glory — hunting and taking care of her kids! Peter shot his first duck on that trip. Paddy made amazing blind retrieves across rivers and fields. We had to point her head in the direction, and down went her nose to find the bird.

On our last day, Kyle Nielsen shot a pheasant that landed on the other side of the river. Darrel set Paddy up and sent her off. Sure enough, to everyone’s cheers she located the bird on the other side and happily swam the river as she returned.

Jessie Wick, Hibbing

Midge’s last ruffed grouse

Her name was Midge, a Blackfield pointer owned by Gene Letourneau of Waterville, Maine, who wrote an outdoor column daily for 60 years. I had the honor of shooting the last grouse over her.

She was 14 years old, deaf and arthritic. But once in the cover, there was no sign of arthritis, just fluid grace.

In the first cover, I heard a grouse flush a few yards to our right. Midge immediately made a right turn —remember, she’s deaf — and took us to a feather the grouse had left behind.

Midge led us to two more stops before we reached the point where the bird had flown across a freshet. Midge went upstream a few yards, then downstream. Unable to find a way across, she came back to us and sat down, emitting a disgusted snort, as we all were able to see the bird, sitting atop a dead tree more than 50 yards away.

That one got away.

A half-dozen covers later, not having had any success, we went into the last cover. We walked about a half-mile through an aspen grove on a former farm site when Midge came to a point. Gene released her and she flushed the grouse.

As always, my first shot was over the top, but the second was right on. Midge retrieved the bird, walked past me, rubbing against my leg, and brought the bird to Gene. English translation: “It’s your bird, but he’s my master.”

Midge carried the bird back to the car, held it while Gene got his camera and took a picture of Midge and me. That photo appears in the book Gene later wrote about the dog.

She had held the bird in her mouth for over a half-hour, yet there was not one tooth mark in it. She passed a month later.

Bob Woodbury, Winslow, Maine

Jake takes a break

I bought Jake when I first retired. He was a black Lab pup, and his pedigree was incredible. I had always wanted to train a pup for field and hunt trials. I purchased several books and videos on retriever training and joined the Duluth Retriever Club. After months of training, I entered my first field trial held by the Iron Range Retriever Club. It was an unofficial trial but still had both professional and amateur dog handlers entered. I’m not sure who was more nervous, Jake or me.

Jake was 10 months old, and the judge was using a dead pheasant for the dogs to hunt up. I had used ducks and pigeons for Jake to retrieve but never a pheasant. The judge allowed me to have Jake make short retrieves with the pheasant before the trial began so he could get familiar with it.

It was finally time for the first test in the trial. Jake had to make two retrieves, each about 75 to 100 yards away. This particular contest was for dogs 2 years old and younger. Jake ran out and made the first retrieve and brought the duck back to me.

Now it was time for him to retrieve the pheasant. Jake ran out and hunted back and forth. I thought he had lost the bird in the tall grass, but finally he came up with it. He came running back and just as he passed the judge, he stopped and relieved himself next to the judge’s boot.

I figured it was all over, but the judge just laughed and cleaned it up. We did some water retrieves after that, and Jake took first place. That year Jake was voted Puppy of the Year by the Duluth Retriever Club. Jake is 11 now and has been an incredible hunting dog.

Verne Wagner, Duluth
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God, help me be the man that my dog thinks that I am.

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