Epiphany by Gary Tunkavige
It had been another night of fitful sleep, and it was because of worrying about Thicket. That Thicket developed into one of the best bird dogs I’ve ever had, or ever seen, came at the cost of a lot of lost sleep.
Thicket was a Ryman type English setter I got from a breeder in western New York State. His coloring was what the breed standard calls “blue belton”, meaning that he was predominantly white with uniform black “marbling” throughout his body and head. With no solid patches of color, he was considered a perfect belton. He was a strikingly gorgeous dog.
A few weeks earlier, on his first wild bird hunt on grouse, I knew he was going to be a handful. At only eight months old he was moving very wide and very bold. He looked like he had been doing this for years. Most Ryman type setters are a bit timid and still keeping close track of their handlers at that age. Ryman type setters have a reputation of being “Gentleman’s Shooting Dogs” and not especially big runners. No one told Thicket about that.
On our second grouse hunt he dashed down a hillside toward a swamp. His bell faded and faded, then disappeared. He went missing in action for five hours. A lost dog. For five hours I trudged throughout the countryside, blasting on my whistle until my cheeks were sore. A bowhunter I encountered told me he saw him chasing a deer. I returned to my car and drove around the property perimeter leaving my contact information with local stores. I called the animal control department and gave notice of the situation. I returned to the parking area and resumed searching. As darkness approached, I started back down the trail back to the car, depressed and trying to decide what to do next. I gave the whistle one more blast and heard a distant dog’s bark in response. I ran down the trail to find Thicket waiting for me at the car.
They call it “prey drive” and Thicket had an abundance, perhaps over-abundance. He was not at fault for getting lost and I blamed myself. While over the summer I had worked him on quail and pigeons, did quartering drills and worked him on responding to the whistle, he had not had contact with wild birds and was probably not sure as to what his “prey” should be or his actual purpose. The trick was to channel all that prey drive. Grouse were not the bird to start him on and it was time to try him on the accommodating woodcock.
So this morning we entered the witch hazel thickets along the bank of Connecticut’s Housatonic River. He was handling nicely – so far. Eventually, he bumped a woodcock and watched, astonished, as it twittered off. Thicket sniffed around the flush site furiously, his first encounter with this odd, but alluring creature. A few hundred yards on, his tail vibrating like that of a rattlesnake, he vacuumed the leaf litter in tight circles. Another woodcock went out, swinging over his head and startling him. He gave a short chase. This was fun!
Ten minutes later, I saw Thicket again go birdy, crouch low and freeze. He walked laterally a few steps then stopped for good. He held steady as I walked past him flushing the bird. I wish I could say that I killed this bird for Thicket. I sure tried, but I missed. It mattered little though as he found five more birds that day, each one pointed staunchly. And he also found his purpose in life.
