Written by Karl (trout whisperer) Seckinger
If someone could be sired into the royalty of dog breeders, Wes was. His grandfather was highly esteemed for his exemplary training techniques with German wirehaired pointers, that at the time in his opinion were being overly trained, mechanical dogs, dogs with innate abilities being trained out of them over a hunters myriad commands and most often unreasonable expectations. The grand old man was a keep the dog a dog, a fine prey dog, guide them with a steady approach, not trained into a robot dog.
Wes’s father, a solid Brittany man, stayed in the pointier realm but deviated from his father, if ever a dog was bred for a man, he, a man on a mission, high energy and he enjoyed it with his well-ribboned, highly paid for started when sold, dogs. A dog for a dad if ever there was, and Wes coming of age, was half grampa dog breed, half dad dog in his undecided way with upland dogs until in his second year in college at an open field hunt trial he saw a glossy pick up pull up next to his dads truck.
Out stepped a well-clad man who opened the back tailgate and out pop’t a set of silky coated speckled English setters, they truly caught Wes’s eye, he said, they were a stately pair. Then the man’s daughter came around the back rubbing dog’s ear, she smiled at Wes, Wes smiled back, they married his senior year in college, he’s been an English setter man ever since, grampas gone now, but his dad says regularly, you can certainly train a dog, but evidently not a son. The trout whisperer.
