This is the second excerpt from the story about Buddy, my first hunting dog.

Next, we bought a canvas-training drop, a cylindrical object about ten inches long with a loop on one end. The loop would enable us to sling the drop without handling the body and ruining the scent.  Besides, I didn’t want to touch the drop after it had been sitting in pheasant-body fluids.  Next came the gross part.  Mitch put the drop in a large Ziploc bag with the pheasant wing parts and sealed the bag.  He left it for several days up high, on the top shelf so the stink (oops) scent would soak through the drop.  Personally, I can’t imagine that any dog would want to put something so smelly and probably foul tasting in its mouth. I was wrong.  Buddy thought that the drop was the next best thing to sliced bread. I have since learned that the grosser, the better, for a dog.

Mitch started off by throwing the drop about 15 to 20 feet away, (I didn’t want to touch it), then I would let go of Buddy’s collar and tell him, “Okay!” and point at the direction the drop was thrown.  Buddy did great at the going and finding the drop, but still didn’t understand, “Bring it back”.  So we had to devise a way to get Buddy to come when called.

I came up with what I thought was a simple, brilliant idea.  My plan consisted of tying a lightweight nylon rope to Buddy’s collar.  Then Mitch would throw the drop.  I would give Buddy the release command and as he would run after the drop, I planned to feed the rope so that it would trail behind him.  When he grabbed the drop, I would start reeling in the rope, at the same time calling, “Buddy come!”

I figured that if we repeated this several times, then Buddy would start to come back on his own.  That was my plan, really simple, the only thing I needed was for the dog to cooperate.  Well, when I tried to tie the rope to his collar, Buddy kept grabbing and biting at the rope, thinking that this was a great game.  The rope got all tangled up around my feet and hands.  As I pulled the rope away from Buddy and told him, “No let go,” Mitch threw the drop, thinking I was ready.  Buddy took off after the drop and so did my ring finger on my left hand.  The rope had wrapped around my hand and finger and I had no choice but to follow also.  When Buddy finally stopped and I untangled the rope off my finger, I stood there in the middle of the yard crying out loud like a little kid.  I had a pretty deep rope burn across my finger and it bled a lot.  At least it bled a lot to me.

Mitch kept saying, “I thought you were ready, I’m sorry, I thought you were ready.  I’m so sorry.”

So to this day, we have a retriever who doesn’t retrieve – at least not on command.  So much for plan A.  Now I think I know why nobody claimed Buddy. 

Another thing we needed to find out about Buddy was whether or not he was gun shy.  It makes it tough to hunt in the field with a dog hiding in the back seat of the car because he’s afraid of gunfire.

We decided to take Buddy out with us to shoot some clay pigeons and see how he reacted.  We finally had a success in training.  Buddy wasn’t the least bit gun shy.  In fact Buddy loves guns so much that when you pick up a gun he starts running back and forth in front of you panting with excitement.  Then if you don’t start moving quick enough for him, he starts barking a high pitched shrill, plaintiff bark, as if to say, “Get the lead out!  Let’s go!”  When Mitch threw the clay pigeons and if I missed, which happened often, Buddy would run out to hunt for and find where they dropped.  When he found one, he would bite it in half.  Yuck, eating baked clay, only a lab!  Then he would come back to us and start the whole process over again, run around like a loon and bark at us.  There’s nothing like a quiet day outside.  Next up on the training agenda began actual fieldwork.  Since the retrieving idea of mine turned out to be such a rousing success, Mitch’s mission became a challenge to come up with a workable plan.

Buddy still didn’t come when called unless food was involved, and that presented a bit of a problem.  Mitch explained that the labs he hunted within the past had a tendency to range too far in front of the hunters, so when the dog flushed a pheasant, the bird was harder to shoot because of the distance between the bird and the hunters.  He wanted to keep Buddy closer to the hunters while he ranged back and forth in front of them.  So Mitch sewed (yes, he can sew, quite well by the way,) a 30-foot leash out of the same material used for leashes you can buy at the store. 

Making our own turned out to be a good thing, since Buddy has chewed through about 4 leashes by now.  Buddy likes to carry his leash in his mouth when he’s walking, and when something is in Buddy’s mouth; it’s just natural for him to chew on it.

We drove to a friend’s farm to let Buddy experience a taste of fieldwork training.  We attached the long leash to Buddy’s collar, got out the training-drop and a shotgun for Mitch.  Mitch explained that Buddy would range along in front of us with the leash dragging behind.  This way if Buddy got too far ahead we could run up and step on the leash and stop him, plus dragging around a 30 foot leash would slow him down some.  Then as we walked along in the fields, Mitch would throw the drop out in front of Buddy and then shoot the shotgun in the air.  This would be to simulate shooting a pheasant in the field.  Gun go off, bird drop, Buddy retrieve.  Sounds simple!  Okay sure.  I’ll give it a try, what’s the worst that could happen?

It slowed him down a little, but you try running up on a runaway dog that weighs about 95 pounds now and oblivious to everything around him but his nose.  Then I have to try to stomp on the black leash dragging back and forth in the underbrush.  I’m really glad nobody had a camcorder out there.  I didn’t realize how many different ways I could fall down.

I hope you’ve enjoyed this story so far.  Come back for more.

This is the first excerpt from another one of my stories about my experiences learning the ways of hunting and training dogs.  I hope you enjoy it.

I’ve always wondered who was training whom.  When we acquired Buddy, we didn’t know any of his history.  We had our suppositions and made guesses based on his physical appearance, overall condition and hardheaded stubbornness.  He knew some basic skills, such as sit and down, but come wasn’t in his vocabulary.  I’ve learned that Labrador retrievers, especially male labs, are the most stubborn, hardheaded dogs around.  They have the sweetest; most laid back dispositions, but lord they are stubborn!  Buddy wasn’t even discreet about being stubborn.  A scar about three quarters of an inch wide ran almost half way around his neck, like a collar that was too tight for too long.  We didn’t think Buddy was abused.  Neglected maybe.  But he is a very social dog.  He doesn’t want to be left alone; he prefers to be with us all the time. He enjoys being around people.  Whenever Buddy meets new people, he walks up and leans into them and shoves his head against their hand.  Of course, it took us a while to realize what we thought was friendliness, was in reality that Buddy viewed everyone as a potential food source.  His pet-me-pet-me attitude was really an opportunity to get a handout.

Mitch and I began mapping out a training schedule.  I had never trained a dog for hunting (obviously) and it had been a long time since Mitch had worked with any dogs.  Plus we’re both pretty much rank amateurs, so, needless to say, Buddy wasn’t going to be one of those dogs you see on the hunting shows on TV.

The first thing we decided Buddy needed to become familiar with the scent of a pheasant.  For some odd reason Mitch’s brother, Troy had some pheasant wings, feathers and all, in his freezer.  Don’t ask me why someone would freeze body parts with feathers, but he had them.

Next, we bought a canvas-training drop, a cylindrical object about ten inches long with a loop on one end. The loop would enable us to sling the drop without handling the body and ruining the scent.  Besides, I didn’t want to touch the drop after it had been sitting in pheasant-body fluids.  Next came the gross part.  Mitch put the drop in a large Ziploc bag with the pheasant wing parts and sealed the bag.  He left it for several days up high, on the top shelf so the stink (oops) scent would soak through the drop.  Personally, I can’t imagine that any dog would want to put something so smelly and probably foul tasting in its mouth. I was wrong.  Buddy thought that the drop was the next best thing to sliced bread. I have since learned that the grosser, the better, for a dog.

Come back for more.

This is the second half of my story, I hope you enjoy it.

Thankfully, Mitch went shopping in a military-surplus catalog and bought me a desert-camo field coat with a heavy liner. At least I’ve got a warm coat to wear.  But what else do I take? No matter what kind of weather I pack for, it will be wrong. Mitch has told me stories about past hunting trips, where it rained the whole time they were out there, and he slogging around in ankle deep mud, or when he went to bed with the temperature in the 50s and woke up with the snow so deep, they had to shovel a path from the motel door to the trucks. Another time, he wore everything he brought because of bone-chilling cold.  I’m naturally cold blooded, so I decide to take everything I already own that could somewhat resemble a “hunting ensemble”  just to be safe.  Heavy coat, liner, pants and over pants. Extra socks, so I can wear two pair at a time, even though my boots are too snug when I double up. Long-sleeved shirts. Bandanas to cover my face from the wind. Gloves, and a hat.  And I hate to wear hats.

Mitch looked at the array that I had laid out on the bed. “You only get to take one suitcase.”

Is he serious? This won’t fit into one suitcase, or even two. I couldn’t believe his hard line. “I haven’t even laid out  my non-hunting clothes yet.”

“What do you mean, ‘non-hunting clothes’?”

“Well, you know, clean clothes to wear to dinner after we get back in from hunting.”

“You only need one or two extra shirts and one or two pairs of pants for that, all week,” he said. “You won’t wear them along enough to get them dirty.”

I just looked at him like he spoke a foreign language. So he explained, “When we get back at night, we shower, go to the Pizza Palace–the only restaurant in town that’s open at night–eat, and then come back and fall into bed. That will be the extent of our evenings.”

Oh.

I tried one more time. “One suitcase for hunting, one for street clothing and my makeup case.”

“Makeup case? What do you need makeup for? We’re going hunting, not to the mall. The birds don’t care what you look like.”

“I care,” I say. My mother always said, “Vanity thy name is Susan.”  Besides, what’s it to him if I wear makeup?

He took a deep breath, looked skyward for patience, and explained that space is at a premium. “We’re driving in a station wagon. We have to take the hunting gear—the dog, the dog’s food, the guns, the shotgun shells.  We’re talking about putting the large trunk that holds all of the shell belts, extra boots, the heavy coats and light weight jackets, my suitcase, your suitcase, dog food bucket, dog bed, the dog and oh yeah, the shotguns are a must, into a space that is about 4 foot by 7 foot.  All of that—and us—have to fit into the station wagon, otherwise there’s no point in going.  If you can get it down to one suitcase for hunting and one suitcase for street clothes and makeup, then you can take it,” he says, exasperated.

So I have him at two bags. One more won’t matter, if he doesn’t know it until the last minute. Then it will be too late.  I know it sounds lame, but I like to have clean clothes for each day.  It’s one of my “few” faults.  No problem, this will work.

I put back all of the sweaters and most of my sweatshirts and tightly squeezed them all into my two suitcases and makeup case. Everything fits, except for my heavy field coat. Hopefully, nobody will notice that I’m wearing the same shirt more than once.

I watched Mitch pack, how he buttoned and carefully folded his shirts. I paid close attention to the way he rolled his pants and stuffed extra socks in his boots. When he was done, I saw amazed how much he could cram in one suitcase. There was still room.

Next year I’m hiding my overflow in his bag. By the time he figures it out, we’ll already be at the motel.

After all, I’d hate to go all that way with nothing to wear.

MARINATED GRILLED PHEASANT

4 Pheasant boneless breasts

Marinade                                       

Salt to taste                                                   

Pepper to taste                                    

3 sprinkles Crushed red pepper            

Minced Garlic                                                  

Onion Powder                                                  

Tarragon                                                         

Olive oil                                                           

White Wine                                                    

Paprika                                                            

Topping

1 can Diced tomatoes

Minced garlic

Salt

Pepper

Onion Powder

Olive Oil

Grated Romano Cheese

Grated Italian cheeses for topping

Place pheasant breasts in baking dish and mix marinade together and pour over breasts.  Cover and refrigerate for at least 4 hours. 

Grill breasts over medium high heat until done.

Mix together topping ingredients for topping in saucepan and cook until liquid is cooked out. 

After turning breasts over on grill, cover cooked side with tomato topping and finish grilling.  Just before removing from grill, sprinkle Italian cheeses on tomato topping and melt.

Serve with angel hair pasta and wine (I prefer a Pinot Grigio)

Life was good – nice and boring.  The dogs were behaving, not getting into things, just laying around the house while we were at work.  I should have known that a storm was on the horizon.  It all started when we helped my son out and dog sat one of his out-of-control dogs while he and his wife went out of town for a few days.  Charlie, our “psycho” dog took an immediate dislike to my son’s dog, Izzy, and would bully her around the house.  As soon as we sent her back, both AJ, our laid back black lab, and Charlie decided to go on a rampage.  I guess they had some pent up frustration with us for bringing a wacko dog into their domain. 

AJ is a “carb monster”.  He loves bread, pasta, chips and most of all coffee cake.  He has stolen countless loaves of bread off the counter,  He pulled the covered glass Pyrex baking dish that housed the freshly baked coffee cake off the back of the counter and dragged it off to enjoy “al fresco” in a more relaxed setting.  Why it didn’t break when it hit the floor, I’ll never know.  Pyrex is some strong stuff.  This prompted us (I mean Mitch) to build a  pantry with doors and move everything that is edible out of harm’s way.  Or so we thought.

AJ figured out how to open the pantry doors.  The double louvered stained doors didn’t fair too well, now they are sporting deep gouges and scratches from determined toe nails.  After he pulled the doors open, he had a veritable smorgasbord in front of him to sample at his leisure.  Do dogs do anything leisurely?

We came home from work one day for lunch and discovered that the dogs had gone grocery shopping, using our well stocked pantry to dine lavishly.  As we walked in the door, AJ met us with a chocolate candy bar hanging out of his mouth.  The dining room looked like a tornado had blown through.  Strewn across the new rug we had just bought was the box that the taco shells had been in and the bag that had held a pound of dry pasta.  Yum.  The two had sampled their way through two loaves of bread, one white, one whole grain, everyone needs fiber.  For dessert they dined on chocolate cake mix, chocolate candy bars and Magic Shell chocolate fudge ice cream topping.  Magic Shell makes a really interesting mosaic all over the brand new rug.  All of those goodies must have made them thirsty, so they dragged a case of diet coke out of the pantry to quench their thirst.  In the kitchen, all of my spices had been knocked off the shelf and were scattered all over the floor. 

After a moment of shear disbelief, I snatched the candy bar from AJ, walked in and attempted to salvage any of my spices and herbs.  I picked up all of the chewed up wrappers and threw them in the trash. 

Mitch looked at me and said, “Well, how about sitting down to a bite of lunch?” 

I said, “I don’t have time now.  I have to get back to work.”

He said, “Well how about taking a sandwich back to work with you?”

“With what, they ate all of the bread!”

Contrary to popular belief, our dogs are not affected by chocolate.

I looked everywhere for child proof latch covers, nothing fit.  We secured the doors with heavy rubber bands.  That seemed to do the trick.  Once again, lulled into that false sense of security, I was positive that we were home free.  Dogs are cured.  Silly me.

One day when Mitch was out of town on business, I came home for lunch to walk off some of the dogs’ pent up energy and get some exercise for me too.  Bonus!  I opened the door and there was AJ and Charlie, munching away on a box of Hershey Bars with Almonds.  They didn’t even take the time to remove the wrappers.  The box was a full 36 count concession style display box that we had just bought last week at our neighborhood warehouse store.  I grabbed the one in AJ’s mouth, Charlie wisely chose to drop his and I managed to salvage two more that hadn’t been dined on yet.  I was in total shock.  I was so angry I could spit.  At that moment, all I could do was put their leashes on and take them for a
walk and try to calm down.

Before I could leave to go back to work, I had to come up with a plan on securing the pantry doors closed.  I had nothing to put the dogs in to keep them out of trouble and I had to go back to work.  I needed something big and heavy enough that couldn’t get knocked over to block the doors.  The only thing I had available on short notice was a padded weight lifting bench.  I dragged it in front of the doors and stood back to survey my handiwork.  I hoped that it would withstand my determined dog.  I wasn’t so sure.  When I got back to work, I entertained a co-worker with my lunch “date” and she said, “You don’t have dogs, you have goats!”

This is an excerpt from another one of the stories from my book, “A Woman’s View of Hunting…With Men”. 

How often have I stood in front of this full closet, wondering why I never seem to have the right clothes?  I take it all back.  This time it’s true. I really don’t think I have a thing to wear.  It’s November, and Mitch and I are going to a little town in western Kansas to hunt pheasant for a week. This is my inaugural hunting trip, I’ve never been hunting before. 

 “Whatever possessed me to want to go hunting?” I think to myself.  We can spend time together when he gets back.  “Stop it!  You want to do this.  It doesn’t matter what you wear, you’re going because you wanted to spend more time with Mitch.”  I berate myself into submission.  “Hunters” don’t make fashion statements, do they?  I’m totally clueless.

But I’m a woman from the suburbs, not much of an “outdoorsy” person. My closet is full of appropriate office attire, clothes to go shopping in, and work-around-the-house rags. But nothing for “hunting.”  And to add more stress to my plight, my first time hunting experience will also include going with Mitch’s brother, father and the family friend’s that always tag along.  So not only is this first time to go and  wander around in unfamiliar terrain, with a bunch of seasoned hunters, but I will look like a newbie.  Oh joy!

More to come – stick around

This is the final excerpt of the story

I had to get busy, because I had no hunting clothes.  So with the help of a sporting goods surplus catalog, we bought military coats and pants.  Nick gave me some hand-me downs and cast offs.  He made sure I was totally outfitted in a wide range of clothing options, depending on the weather conditions. 

My first hunting trip was a learning experience in more ways than one.  I carried a camera instead of a gun, and I recorded the day’s events as we stomped along.  The morning air had a brittle feel to it; that some loud sound could cause the very air to shatter.   I watched and absorbed.  I saw how they would line up to “work” a field or a draw.  The tall grasses made crunching sounds as I stepped on them.  I tripped over weeds that grabbed my ankles and fell in a few badger holes, but I hung in there and didn’t complain.  It was really important for me not to embarrass Nick or myself in front of his father and brother; who are hard core hunters and were skeptical about a woman in the group.

The only real drawback to the day was no toilet.  I enjoy being outdoors, but there are just some things that I need, and indoor plumbing is high on my priority list.  Privacy doesn’t exist in the outdoor world.  There is no easy or graceful way for a woman to go to the bathroom in the great outdoors. 

I kept up all week long to the amazement of all of the men except Nick.  Just being outside, walking around enjoying the day was great, but knowing that I passed the test with Nick was definitely the high point of the trip. 

As we trudged back to the truck side by side he put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Next year carry a gun.”

Then I knew this was the start of a beautiful relationship.

I hope you’d enjoyed this story, I have many more.

This is the second excerpt of the story, “I Came to Hunting Late”

Before long I became fairly accurate with the pistols.  We moved up to shotguns.  Mitch owns twelve-gauge shotguns, so that’s where we started.  A twelve-gauge kicks my butt.  Mitch’s guns don’t have recoil pads on them to help absorb some of the shock of the recoil.  Every time I pulled the trigger, the full force of the gun jumping back into my shoulder would force me back a full step, even when I leaned into the shot.  After a few minutes of lifting the gun to my shoulder for each shot, my shoulder was numb and sore at the same time.  Mitch would throw clay pigeons until I couldn’t raise my arm, but with lots of practice, I could actually hit the targets.

We recently acquired a “hunting” dog and the two of us worked together in training Buddy.  I asked to go with him on his next trip.  Mitch raised one eyebrow and cocked his head at me, “Are you sure you want to tromp around in a field all day long with a bunch of men?  There might be bugs, you know.  It’s not the best time to scream and jump backwards when you run across a bug out in the field carrying a gun.  You might shoot someone at a most inopportune moment.”  He knows how much I hate bugs.

“Oh please, the bugs will be dead by November.  And how else will I know if I like it unless I go.  I’ll just go and walk the fields with you and watch and learn.  I won’t even carry a gun the first time.”

He shrugged his shoulders, “Sure if that’s what you want to do.”

That began my field-walking training.  Supposedly, it was to work with Buddy and get him trained, but I knew it was really to see if I could walk around in the field with ticks, mosquitoes, spider webs – with or without occupants – and a host of other critters without screaming every time I came face to face with one.  We found some wooded, hilly, conservation land that we could take Buddy and tromp around in without worrying about the dog getting too far ahead of us.

Come back for more of the story.