Digging Holes- A Good Death

Digging Holes

 

If you have bird dogs, many or just one, eventually time will run out.  It’s a sad fact that from a tiny puppy to digging a hole in the pasture is a span of time measured in “not long enough”. When they start hunting for you at a year old, until they are the senior dog asleep in the front seat awaiting the call 12 years later, they work their hearts out, and they deserve a good ending.  “A good death” is the phrase.  My Germanic ancestors call it “dying well”. 

 

We have a dog cemetery, here on the farm.  I picked a copse of pines in the pasture and almost all our dogs are buried there. One died in Montana many years ago and is buried overlooking the Missouri River alongside an ancient Buffalo jump. Until recently, all the others are buried in the pasture.  Then cremation became an option.  I didn’t even know that was a thing until I took a very sick dog to the Auburn University Vet School. The dog passed away (with us holding her).  They offered cremation.  A few weeks later, Pearl came back home in a small, wooden box.  Since then, Ruby joined Pearl and it won’t be long before Cap is there, as well. They are lined up on the walnut writing desk my father made back over 75 years ago. 

 

A good death.  I want that for all my dogs.  I’ll admit, 40 years ago I thought the way to end a dog’s life was to take it to the vet, let them take it to the back, and take the body home and bury it.  I knew that was a tremendous stride forward from the way my father ended the matter.  He wouldn’t dream of spending money to end a dog’s life.  He took care of it.  

 

But I came to realize how hard they worked for me and how much I was their entire world.  It seemed so cold and impersonal to end it on the stainless table in a place they fear.  Now, they are in my lap in my truck (where they spent so much of their life).  I hold their head, so they don’t even see the administration of the drug cocktail.  The last thing they see, hear, and smell is me.  My wife is even more demanding.  Her dogs are euthanized in our living room in her lap. Recently, her big Lab passed away on its own with my wife holding her head.  I never had a dog pass away on its own.  I wish they all went like that.  I was dispatched to the cemetery to dig another hole. 

 

A good death.  Our bird dogs deserve it.  It takes some courage to make sure it happens the right way.  Years down the road, remembering the dog’s life will always be accompanied by remembering its death.  Make it a good one.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Blue Grouse Hunting in Wyoming

Snakes

Snakes

 

“Cheh... Cheh………Cheh.”  

 

“That’s a weird bird noise,” I thought to myself.  Cheh..Cheh..Cheh, Cheh.   “It must be some sort of Prairie Dog, or bird, or something.”  I noticed the volume and frequency both increased just a bit while I was thinking about it.  

 

This was Grouse Camp.  I was in the high, hill country in Wyoming with six other bird dog enthusiasts.  We were in a great area for Hungarian Partridge, but still in the grass so there were no Sage Grouse (no Sage) and no Dusky Grouse (no Sage and no Fir trees).  The grass that year was lush and very tall, in some areas waist high. My little girl, JD, and I were taking a casual stroll by ourselves.  I had no expectations for her, I was just working on her quartering, keeping me in sight and in front.  It was a very pleasant and warmish day at about 7500’ elevation. Being a flatlander, it amazed me the power of the western sun.  The sky is so clear and blue, and, with low humidity, there is nothing to moderate the sun’s rays.  Even though the temperature was pleasant, outside the shade it was approaching hot. 

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We made a circular cast about a mile in length.  We were on our way back to the gaggle of trucks on the horizon.  I could just barely see JD and only about half the time.  I noticed she had the range and direction out from me perfectly figured out.  I was daydreaming about some inconsequential thing when I heard the first sound that puzzled me.  “Cheh……Cheh…...Cheh.”  While wondering about the unusual noise, I was quickly drawn back to the present, and I took stock of my immediate surroundings.  I was in tall grass that came about to my thigh.  It was very thick, and I couldn’t see the ground.  I was standing next to a green shrub of about two feet and next to the shrub was a low, natural stone wall about three feet tall that ran parallel to my course.  I heard the noise again, this time a little more insistent.  “CHEH…Cheh, Cheh, Cheh! 

 

I hadn’t moved since hearing the sound the first time. Now, I began to localize the whereabouts of the sound.  It was to my right, in the direction of the stone wall.  I was wearing my sound attenuators, molded earpieces that protect my ears from the gunshots.  The weird thing was that I could only hear the noise out of my right earpiece, but not the left.  Without moving too much, I looked down to my feet.  I could barely see them, and I did not move them.  At all.  The bush was to my right, the wall was to my right, the noise was to my right.  And now the noise became insistent!  CHEHCHEHCHEHCHEH, until became one noise, loud and long. 

 

I finally realized I had a rattler, very close and very pissed off. That was about the time the hair went up on the back of my neck.  I knew there was danger close. I knew he was upset and trying to give me every chance to leave.  The problem was I didn’t know where he was! I thought I knew the direction, but was I willing to bet a snakebite on what I thought I knew? Just about then, in my mind, I imagined the “whack” of the strike on my right shin and the emergency it would create way up there in the Wyoming mountains.  (It’s amazing what can flash through the mind in the blink of an eye!)  I looked up and saw JD coming to me about 100 yards away.  I realized then I was on high alert, and I needed to act before the dog got to me.   

 

It was time to decide.  I held my breath and, took a giant step forward with my right leg. Immediately, the buzzing stopped!  I looked to JD, took another step and strode off to meet her and keep her out of the area. We evacuated the area with intention.  

 

I realized the snake was probably only a foot or less away from me when I stopped.  I couldn’t see him, but he knew right where I was.  I was lucky I didn’t step on him.  I’m glad he chose to warn me, rather than strike immediately.  That’s one reason I think it was a mature snake. I’m thankful it worked out the way it did.  He didn’t need to strike me, and I didn’t need to remove his head from his body- and the dog stayed safe.  Everyone did what needed to be done, and we were all OK. It did cross my mind about snake avoidance training and whether, in this case, if would have worked for JD.  I’ve seen it work first-hand while hunting but moving fast through that thick cover would be a worst-case scenario. 

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Over the years, I have seen many snakes ,usually in Montana for some reason, mainly Prairie Rattlers.  I have stepped over Rattlers, canoed by Moccasins, field trialed by Eastern Diamondbacks. I attempt to stay out of “snakey” areas, and I don’t worry too much about it. This situation ended well and merely added a story to the logbook.  Bird hunting is 99% benign, but there is always that 1% buffoonery factor that keeps it interesting.