Story by Anthony J. Conte. Manhasset, NY
The blistering sun tortured us unmercifully as it attempted to burn through the multicolored foliage that hung desperately to the branches of the trees that created this wonderful upland grouse habitat. This unseasonably hot October day made grouse hunting difficult for me and my Brittany Spaniel, Rusty, as we meandered through the upland grouse cover in Washington County of upstate New York. As a ruffed grouse enthusiast, I hunted this king of the game birds since 1958, and to me, any day in October is a “Grouse Hunting Day” regardless of the weather conditions. Rusty and I worked our way methodically through Sam’s cover and into Pete’s property as the heat took its toll on us. We stopped often to rehydrate, drink and let Rusty cool down to prevent the possibility of a heat stroke.
As the afternoon sun worked it’s way into the western sky, we had taken one plump grouse and it was safely tucked into to my jacket pouch. Now as the hours moved on it was decision time – “Rusty, it’s hot, it’s getting late and we are almost out of water. Let’s not hunt to the creek. We will head down to the road and call it a day.” The last ounces of water were used to cool Rusty’s belly and moisten the sweaty bandana around my neck. I put the sun on my right shoulder and headed towards the road.
As we turned left, Rusty locked up on point. A big brown phase grouse exploded and melted back into the thick cover. Rusty disappeared along with the grouse and they both vanished. It was not uncommon for Rusty to disappear briefly when a grouse thundered from a solid point, so I paused for a few minutes, listened for the bell and called his name, hoping for a glimpse of his orange collar or the tinkle of his brass bell. As I moved forward, there was no glimpse of Rusty or tinkle of the brass bell.
Nothing broke the silence but the faintest rustle of leaves created by a slight breeze. Now I was concerned and worried. I spent the next half hour searching, backtracking and calling as I paused and listened for the sound of Rusty’s bell. Another anxious hour passed with no sound or sight of Rusty and I was certain that something was wrong. He had never been gone this long in the eleven seasons that we shared grouse hunting. Rusty always came to sound of a shot, so in desperation I fired a single shot, called and listened hard for a sound or sight of Rusty. Nothing happened. I searched for another hour before deciding to leave my jacked and hat where Rusty disappeared in hope that he would return. With a heavy heart I continued down and reached the road, sweaty and with rapid breathing and a pounding heartbeat.
It was a long sleepless night filled with the many scenarios of what had happened or could have happened and the many possibilities and various outcomes. Was he hurt or lost, what went wrong? I tossed and turned the entire night, worrying and wondering what had happened to Rusty. Early the following morning, I approached the spot where my jacked was placed the previous evening. It was another unseasonably hot October day and as I reached the spot where my jacket was placed, there beside it sat my Rusty, covered with blood and frightened as he raised his head and looked pleadingly towards me. I gasped and after finally gathering my thoughts, I spoke, “Rusty, what happened, are you hurt?” I tried cleaning the blood around his collar and finally I half carried him and we half walked to my truck and headed to the Veterinary Clinic.
I described the event the best I could and the very sympathetic veterinarian remarked, “WOW, you are a lucky dog and you both are very fortunate. Apparently a wire of some sort got caught between Rusty and his collar and it opened a wound as he tried to free himself. If he had torn one of the large blood vessels in his neck, he would have bleed to death in a few minutes.
How long did you say you guys were buddies?” “We have hunted grouse together for eleven seasons and he has been a great hunter and a wonderful hunting partner. This is the first time that anything like this happened he pointed, the grouse flushed and he disappeared. I searched for hours and finally found him the following morning bloody and sad. ” “Well I will clean him up, stitch up the wound and Rusty should be fine in a few weeks. Again, consider yourselves both VERY lucky.” Rusty recovered over the next month and then we hunted grouse together without incident for the rest of the season, putting a few more grouse in my pouch.
Rusty and I hunted grouse in our favorite covers for two more seasons and at the age of fourteen he developed heart problems and peacefully passed away in his bed on a February night. Our hunting dogs do not live as long as we do, or as long as we would like. This is the law of nature. If a man and his canine companion grew old together, many heartaches and tears would be avoided. Rusty, you will always be remembered and never forgotten. Rest in peace. I love and miss you.
