Bird Camp Diaries: May 2009

Bird Camp Diaries are nothing more than whimsical monthly musings. We hope you find them entertaining, and sometimes thought provoking.

Dog Days Pass Much Too Soon

By William R. Buhler, COL, USAF, DC

My son Cody and I recently saw the movie "Marley and me" at the local theater. During the film, in the span of about two hours, we witnessed the life cycle of a beloved Labrador retriever. As I looked around the theater near the end of the movie, as Marley's life was ending, I noticed the subtle sobs and wiping of eyes from most of the movie patrons. Like the others in the audience, my son and I struggled with difficulty to hold back our own tears. This short movie of a dog's life allowed me to briefly relive the 13 glorious years I spent in the field with Rontu, my hard-driving yellow lab.

There is something special about the bond between hunters and their dogs that is difficult to express in written text. I still recall fondly our last pheasant hunt together. It was a frigid snowy day in Montana, and we had gone to our sure fire patch of tule cover near a small farm pond. There was a skim of ice across the 25-yard wide pond, snowflakes were falling as we approached the shoreline. Rontu's tail began to swing wildly like it always did on fresh pheasant scent. A brilliant late December rooster exploded from cover and took flight over the iced over pond. The bird skidded to a stop on the ice in the middle of the pond. Before I could stop him, he was breaking the ice as he swam for the downed pheasant. He easily made the retrieve and returned to the bank with the wet rooster. This moment will forever be etched in my memory because he had been diagnosed with cancer not long before.

He was taking prednisone only for palliative pain relief. The cancerous lesion in his lung was incurable. He would only survive for five more difficult months. This event today still reminds me of the tremendous heart this dog had for the hunt. Even with cancer and many years of hard hunting behind him, he would not stay home when he saw me preparing for that day's pheasant hunt. As much as I knew he should stay home, I could not bring myself to leave him behind that cold Montana day. Rontu lived and died a loved, unstoppable, loyal pheasant dog. I grieved many days after he was gone and still recall our 13 years together as pure joy.

Bird dogs have been part of my life as long as I can remember. The first dogs we had in the family were Brittney Spaniels. As a child growing up in the sixties, my dad had two Brittney's, Lady and Linda. My grandfather had two Brit's as well, Pat and Mike. Every Saturday during the California pheasant season all of us could be found in the corn, rice, and beat fields around Sacramento. There are so few of those fields left today. I seldom return to the Sacramento Valley anymore, but when I do I see rows of homes and stores where once we spent days every fall on family pheasant hunts. The Brit's too have long since passed, but they deeply instilled the love of hunting with bird dogs that I still enjoy 41 years later.

Bird Camp Diaries: May 2009 April 30, 2009, I lost my German Shorthair after only eight short years. It was so sudden that I still can't believe Heidi is gone. Sunday we went on a three mile walk and she pulled me the entire time as she always did. That evening I noticed her tail was down so I checked her over and felt her belly. She whined as I touched her abdomen. I thought maybe she had eaten or drank something that made her feel bad; however, I did not think much about it. By the next day I expected her to be back to normal.

Monday morning she stopped eating but was drinking, walking and even running, but not with the usual energy. By Tuesday the family began to worry - Heidi was still drinking and would eat only small amounts. Her condition was not improving so on Wednesday we called the veterinarian and made an appointment for Thursday morning. After making arrangements at work to skip the morning meeting, Heidi and I drove to the vet. She eagerly but weakly jumped into the cab of my pickup, like she has done hundreds of times before on our hunting trips. At the time, I had no idea this would be our last ride together. After the Vet looked her over she was taken for radiographs. The films revealed a grossly enlarged spleen that could either be a hemangiosarcoma or splenic torsion.

My wife and I committed to surgery with the hopes that it was splenic torsion and not cancer. After leaving the vets office I went to work with the hope that Heidi would have a splenectomy and return home with several more years to live. While at work the vet called and said that Heidi's hematicrit was low and she would need a transfusion before surgery. At about 10:30 the vet called again and informed me of the news I feared most, cancer. The survival rate of hemangiosarcoma is less than 10 percent for a dog with symptoms. At best with the spleen removed with this form of cancer she might live 3-4 months. As difficult as it was I consented to euthanasia for her.

Heidi's life ended under general anesthesia in a humane way. Grief is cathartic; it evokes maudlin sudden feelings, rents your heart and stimulates your mind. The loss of a hunting dog is a tragic loss to those of us who have experienced it. We lose a friend, a partner, a loyal companion who has shared countless hours in training and in the field together. We talk to our dogs, feed them, love them and are committed to their lives like only bird hunters can understand. Some of my greatest joys have been linked to my dogs and pheasant hunting. This last October Heidi, my Golden Retriever Danny and I drove to South Dakota for our first pheasant hunt in that state. The memories of that hunt are still vivid today and will always be in my mind. We had never before experienced so much action while bird hunting. Her performance was superior, she pointed more birds the first day then we found the last two years hunting in both Nebraska and Iowa. We had planned on returning to South Dakota again this fall.

I hunted pheasants with Heidi in seven states, watched her point hundreds of birds, agonized at night while she whined during thunderstorms, worried about her when we hunted with other dogs, and cared for her for eight years. I now grieve deeply for her loss. Time will eventually assuage the pain I feel for Heidi's sudden departure, as it has many times before for my other dogs. I someday will feel this sadness once again, because of my appreciation for dogs and bird hunting.

I'll eventually find another dog, awaken to the pup's cry at night, and crawl out of bed at all hours to let that pup out. I'll spend the hours of training needed to make a pheasant dog out of her. This I'll do willingly, knowing once again I'll one day have to endure the prevailing sadness that engulfs one's soul when that dog's days pass to soon. Even with all the sorrow we experience with the passing of a beloved bird dog, the joy of caring for them for the short time we share is much greater then never having them in our lives at all. Time is that relentless hunter who eventually takes us all, just as it does our dogs. So my hunter's prayer is that when it's my turn to pass through that vale to the other side, my faithful hunting dogs will be patiently waiting for my return with their tails wagging to experience endless days afield.

If you have story ideas, dog photos, pre-1980 hunting photos and requests for future On The Wing consideration, please send correspondence to ahauck@pheasantsforever.org.

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