I am not certain of when it happened, or why I adore dogs that love to do their job, but I know for certain that I have a soft spot for them. Dogs that work cattle or sheep, hunting dogs, police dogs or service dogs — it doesn’t matter the breed to me. What matters is their dedication to their job, and the outlook and attitude they have when doing so appeals to me.
Growing up, we had lots of different kinds of dogs, from family pets to my father’s prized bird dog Daisy. Although I was too young to remember much about Daisy, I do remember the pheasant mounted on our family room wall and the stories of how Daisy flushed the pheasant and how, with the dog’s help, my father took the prized bird home with him.
The influence of that mount and the stories told no doubt was the cause and reason I keep hunting dogs to this day. I keep and hunt with mountain feists, and I love nothing more than long walks in the woods with my dogs. It simply seems to be part of my DNA.
Every year around this time, a group of friends gather in South Dakota to enjoy each other’s company and to watch some of the best sporting dogs in the world doing exactly what they love doing — running, flushing and retrieving pheasants.
This is a trip I look forward to each year for just those reasons. It is a timestamp in life to discuss things that bring each one of us joy — old dogs that are still hunting hard, young pups that are learning as they go to figure out the game, old friends and new acquaintances, and of course, lots of discussion about shotguns and shot shells. Every year, I hear my father’s words ringing freshly in my ears. His pheasant hunting story is now part of my hunting story.
Knowing how emotional I get about old dogs, old shotguns and hunting stories, a friend of mine brought along not only his flushing and retrieving dog Loch, but he also brought me a gift. The gift was in the form of an old shotgun that belonged to his father, who recently passed away. He asked if I wanted to use the old shotgun on the hunt. I was honored.
His father was a full-time farmer in the Midwest and used the shotgun like he used all his farming equipment — the right tool for the job. The shotgun was not fancy, by any means — simply a stock shotgun he used for ducks and geese during the winter after all the crops had been harvested and the farming equipment maintained and readied for winter.
When walking the grasslands, we followed the sporting dogs running fast in search of the scent of a pheasant. I could feel the worn grip and forend against my hands. I could tell the shotgun was well-used and was taken care of, just like all the tools on the farm.
With the help of a flushing yellow lab, a pheasant leaped high in the air announcing his retreat into the air as I lifted the old gun to my shoulder.
With the report of the shotgun, the dog raced toward the downed bird. Loch retrieved the bird to my friend like he has done for many years.
I grinned at my friend, patted the dog between the ears and gave thanks to all the sportsmen and women who have come before me and passed along their sporting lifestyle. On the wind-blown plains of South Dakota, I paused to give them all thanks.
I was grateful to carry the old gun and to bring it back into the field. It is a fine tool for hunting not only ducks and geese, but it also proved to be extremely valuable in the pheasant fields.
I know my friend’s father would agree. I was honored to carry his shotgun.
Chris Ellis is a veteran of the outdoors industry. His book “Hunting, Fishing and Family from The Hills of West Virginia” is available at . Contact him at chris@elliscom.net.
