YUMA — For dedicated bird hunters, little compares to the pride taken in successfully hunting with a dog they’ve trained themselves. Some might compare it with the first time they caught a fish on a fly they tied. Maybe even to watching their child grow up.
I’ve hunted with some quality dogs and have heard such songs of satisfaction more times than I can recall. But never having hunted with a dog of my own, it’s hard to get too caught up in the contentment. It’s sort of like watching a neighbor’s kid hit the winning home run. You’re happy for him, but after an ice cream cone, life goes on.
A word of warning to upland hunters who can’t tolerate such smug fulfillment of others: You may want to turn the page, because today the ice cream is on me.
Some readers may be aware of the roughly 10-month effort to take my dog, Bailey, from half- breed pound pup to certified bird dog. At just about a year old, the vizsla-Australian shepherd mix from the Humane Society began her first hunting season last week. And whether she knows what she’s supposed to be doing or not, in my eyes she pretty much knocked it out of the park.
Most of Bailey’s training has consisted of basic obedience, retrieving and a three-week vacation at Strasburg Game Birds. Dog trainer Bob Porter introduced her to a few of the chukar partridges he keeps at the hunting preserve, and there was even a tale going around of Bailey beating two senior field trials dogs to a point during an impromptu demonstration.
But, realistically, most of the dog’s experience with field sports consisted of a few scented dummy hunts between daily sessions of ultimate Frisbee.
So expectations were decidedly modest when the two of us loaded up and headed east with a copy of the Colorado Parks and Wildlife “2011 Late Cropland Walk-In Atlas” in search of ringnecks last Friday. Word on the vine had it that pheasant populations were up in Yuma County, so we drove around until stumbling onto habitat worthy of a closer look.
To an eager and energetic pup locked in a truck for four hours, rolling hills covered in miles of tall switch grass are enough to send her into a tongue-wagging frenzy of giddiness complete with bounding leaps and tail-chasing circles that can leave her master questioning his decision to bring the shotgun.
But when the wind lifted the strong scent of a pheasant to Bailey’s nose, the game changed entirely.
In a flash, her stubby tail shot toward the sky, twitching with anticipation as her nose locked onto the scent and floppy ears scooped aroma from the ground. It was as if a switch were turned on and instinct overruled all else.
I placed my thumb on the safety and took off after the dog as she sniffed and searched while I needlessly coaxed her to keep it up until she suddenly circled back with the speed of a shark. My eyes opened wide as the rooster and I both recognized the reaction, and I shouldered the shotgun as it rocketed to flight.
With a slap of the trigger, the bird dropped from the sky, Bailey in hot pursuit. The hardy bird ran another 30 feet before the dog was on it, panting with pride as she yielded our first pheasant to harvest by my hand.
I’ll admit to sharing in her pride, even as Bailey led me back to the same pile of feathers twice more during the short hunt. After coaxing her over the next knoll, she put me onto three more birds — two hens and a rooster — in a matter of minutes, although all three flushed before she managed to flash a point.
Maybe more than pride was the astonishment of our unanticipated success. Seeing the young dog not only figure it out before my eyes, but genuinely thrive in the environment caught me off guard the same way I imagine seeing my child catch a fish on a fly he tied himself.
Although she’s got a long way to go, it’s probably just a matter of time before it all becomes routine. But last time I checked, Baskin-Robbins still had 30 more flavors left.
Scott Willoughby: 303-954-1993 or swilloughby@denverpost.com
