It’s hardly uncommon, on the night before a hunt, to be subverted by sleepless sabotage. Fraught with anticipation, hope and maybe some overanalysis, the mental stimulation leaves me squirming between the sheets, awakening hourly to take an inventory of gear, plans and timing between fitful naps.
But never before had I gone so far as to actually dream about a shotgun. Particularly one I had yet to fire.
This gun haunted me, although I suppose in a good way. I’d studied, saved, shopped for sales, rebates and coupons, even applied for a new credit card in order to pick up a few introductory bonus bucks to go along with all the club points I would soon incur along with my shiny new debt, I mean, shotgun.
I’ve never been much of a gun collector, and swapping out between break-action and auto-loading, walnut stock and dipped synthetic, even 20-gauge and 12-gauge, all feels more like a chore to me than a treat. As much as I appreciate the nuances of shotguns, I value more the opportunity to streamline the system to a single go-to gun capable of handling all that’s asked of it. OK, maybe two.
What I really craved was something reliably built for wallow-in-the-mud duck hunts, light enough to haul up hills and the occasional cliff into grouse, chukar and ptarmigan country, chambered for loads varying from doves to turkeys and expandable, should the occasion arise, for a few extra rounds when “conservation order” season arrives. In short, I was looking for the last shotgun I would ever need. And shortly thereafter, I was looking for a reason to use it.
As usual, I didn’t have to look far. Just beyond the cold, wet nose nudging my elbow as I oiled and assembled the new firearm were the anxious brown eyes of my most steadfast hunting partner. History and the holidays clinched the deal.
Bailey and I have been doing this together for over three years now, my first attempt at turning a rescue dog into a gun dog beginning shortly before . The Vizsla/Australian shepherd mix-breed had been a puppy present to ourselves the year before, deftly delivering a ribbon-wrapped ring to my betrothed that Christmas. This December, Mrs. Willoughby returned the gesture by framing a photo of Bailey and I had bagged together, the yearling pup nuzzling her nose beneath the rooster’s wing as she savored the scent of the bird she’d played such a huge role in harvesting.
We’ve had our ups and downs since that late-autumn afternoon, but I’d like to think we’re making progress despite a disturbing decrease in practice opportunities. Certainly we’ve learned some things about each other.
Among them, we’ve discovered her favorite place in the world. On a friend’s farm in the northeast corner of the state lies a sprawling meadow of tall grasses surrounded by fields of corn and wheat, and it holds as many wild pheasants as either of us has ever seen in Colorado.
It’s a place where a lithe, agile dog like Bailey can romp and bound through dense cover until her pointing half takes charge and she effectively becomes a slave to her nose. Dab some fresh snow and black powder into the mix, and the elixir can be overwhelming.
This too, I know by now, long since reconciling my dog’s hybrid instincts by describing her as a “flushing pointer.” She’ll never be finished by field trial standards, although I’d never known her to be a bona fide bird buster. As it turns out, an overstimulated and underworked Bailey can spook a field full of pheasants with the worst of them.
The upside is that she’s a quick study, remembering her role in our partnership after little more than a stern scolding and doing all she could to make it up to me for the remainder of our hunt. Her nose eventually led us to well over a dozen silver-platter shooting opportunities, remarkably all hens, leaving the dog to cock her head in confusion. The few remaining roosters we admired from a distance, flushing wild and posing long, challenging shots for a sluggish marksman shouldering an as-yet unfamiliar shotgun.
And so our Christmas hunt turned into something more closely resembling an . There are pheasants out there, by my estimate at least 35 left in our favorite field in northeast Colorado, anyway. They come to us in our dreams.
Scott Willoughby: swilloughby @denverpost.com or twitter.com/swilloughby
