Some pretty good dogs I have known. By Scott Linden (Guest)

Baron

Some pretty good dogs I have known

 

By Scott Linden

 

I am the luckiest guy on the planet. I get to hang around bird dogs. Some are mutts, others are refined canines of the highest order, with pedigrees boasting an alphabet’s-worth of capital letters.

 

Some have entrenched themselves in my memory, become the stuff of campfire stories or inspire subtle smiles during business meetings. I’ll bet you have sigh-inducing recollections of dogs that shared a field with you. Maybe they’re like mine …

 

Missy was a mutt, half Lab, half Brittany. A pint-sized bundle, she never ran fast or far. But her tiny body contained a gigantic heart. The quail covers we hunted were peppered with blackberry thickets, and the flushing half of her DNA would propel her to their darkest, prickliest corners. She would emerge, ears bloodied, just long enough to retrieve quail we’d shot. Her owner still carries her memories on every hunt and so do I.

Scratch

 

Scratch the shorthair is a walking (okay, running) miracle. You would never guess one front leg had been crushed and skinned by a jeep wheel. He pants and slobbers through quail covers at fever pace, outward evidence of his demonic obsession with birds. Owner Nancy Anisfield deserves a medal for channeling it. Considerable effort with numerous setbacks finally resulted in this inspiring dog earning a Versatile Champion title at the recent NAVHDA Invitational. 

Scratch

 

Duke, also a shorthair, is an introvert. A mid-season replacement at a Montana hunting lodge, he gazed right through me when we met, searching for – what? – universal truth? The meaning of life? His thousand-yard stare drew me like a magnet, finally intrigued enough that I asked if we could hunt him the next day.

Duke

 

He wasn’t “finished” by any means, but he employed every skill, all his natural abilities, all the tools he’d learned in his short life toward serving us. He found birds. Pointed. Okay, he flushed some. He retrieved, even honored another dog’s point, sort of. All with a workmanlike style (if you could call it that) I would love to see in my employees. He’d shown us everything a young dog should, in bits and pieces, dribs and drabs, ultimately defining whatever word is the opposite of “flash.” Poise?

 

Someone shouted “point” and two TV cameras, two shooters and a guide scrambled toward Duke’s trembling form. Bird up! Bang! Bird rolling downhill, and Duke watching, staunch. “Fetch” shouted by his excited new owner, and soon the bird was delivered softly to hand. Cool, calm, unfazed. If he could talk, he’d have said “all in a day’s work.”

Baron

 

Baron is a Deutsch Drahthaar, and his noble demeanor reflects both his name and Teutonic heritage. He methodically works the wind, moving with a minimum of wasted effort toward his ultimate goal – a bird in the air. When I want to know we’ve covered a field from corner stake to corner stake, I ask for Baron. Being German, he would probably show up on time, too. At home he will survey his domain from a porch bench – you’d think. But he’s really watching out for his human while she gardens, intently scanning the horizon for danger. Or birds. 

Harry

 

Harry’s coat was black as coal on a moonless night, the young cocker’s eyes shone like the only two stars in the galaxy. His unbridled joy at hunting infected all of us, and enchanted the 16-year-old we had invited for her first hunt. 

Harry

 

He is the protons and neutrons of a highly-charge atom, orbiting a nucleus of even more energy. He vibrated. Stub tail a blur, he would wriggle under palmetto branches to put birds in the air, then retrieve with an ecstatic yip, launching himself into his handler’s outstretched arms to thank him for being allowed to GO HUNTING. 

 

Just 35 pounds of over-caffeinated elegance, a little setter in California would slam into the scent cone as if it were a brick wall, quivering until a shot was loosed. She would never be a trial dog, streaking away at the flush. But she was as earnest as any I’ve met, concentrated dog-ness bursting from her tiny body. Even her “drive-by” retrieve manifested the extra measure of hunt in her; she barely slowed while dropping the bird at her handler’s feet. At the end of the day, she slept the sleep of the righteous – knowing that no dog could give more than she had.

 

You have your own list, misty recollections of long-gone dogs. Go ahead, take a moment and look back on them. I’ll wait.

 

Dog memories make long hot days of summer go faster. Misty at first, becoming more clear as leaves turn russet and gold. There might be a genetic connection to your current dog, or that pup you’ve been eyeballing. You might be reminded of a long-lost hunting buddy. Whatever the link, it is often sweet, sometimes bitter, but always worth another look.

Baron

 

Randy:  I've known Scott for many years.  Initially, only by his media and online presence, but that changed one rainy day in Idaho.  I heard he was at a sports store in Boise, doing a whatever it is he does.  I was tired of slogging through mud and the dogs needed a rest, as well.  I drove to Boise, went to the store, and introduced myself.  We had a long chat and connected as bird dog friends with a promise to hunt one day.  So far, we haven't made that happen.   I think mainly because trying to get a retired, traveling bird hunter together with a famous author, blogger, and TV personality is much harder than it would seem. I've been on his podcast twice and we chat every year to catch up.  One day, I'll trap him and we will have a day or so together that we can lie about.  Until then, I stay up to date by connecting to his amazing BLOG "Scott Linden Outdoors".  

Hunting Trucks, Mud, Sand, and Snow

 

It’s the eternal problem of bird hunters all over the country from September to February.  Not only can you not expect good roads, you should plan on mud, snow, sand, and rocks. 

Let’s go over some items I carry and a few things that are just part of the truck. 

First, 4-wheel drive. I know you could drive all over dirt and gravel from Montana to Arizona in your 2WD vehicle. I’ve done it. I had a 1989 F150 with a positraction rear end that went everywhere. Until it didn’t. I met a nice Georgia farmer with his tractor that day. Every truck I’ve had since then was 4WD. I use it every trip all over the country. Is AWD the same thing? No. I’m not an expert, but I’m assured 4WD is more flexible and locking hubs are important. 

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Second, good tires. I have Michelin LTX AT/2E tires on my F250. I have put 60,000 on a set with plenty of tread left over. (They get rotated every oil change ).  I drive 1500 to 2000 miles, one way, to get into birds, it makes sense to have good, solid freeway tires. But, they need some good off-road tread, too. These tires do it for me. I would expect you may find a different set-up. One year, in North Dakota, I was stretching the mileage on my tires, and a farmer drove up, looked at my tires and commented how I’d probably end up in a ditch. He wasn’t wrong. You need good tread. 

Third, tow straps. I have two types. The wide, flat type, and the “snatch rope” type. Both are 30’ long and rated to over 30,000#. I also have an apparatus to hook the strap(s) to my receiver hitch.  I can pull someone, or they can pull me out. Mandatory equipment. 

Fourth, traction devices. I carry two sets of Go Treads.  12' long plastic ramps, basically, that will allow your wheels to have traction and get out of mud hole.  In addition, I carry Track Claws which strap on to the tire to get traction out of mud.  A while back, I bought some plastic chains that are easy to install in snow or mud.  They worked great. I no longer have them for two reasons.  The first is that (and this was my fault) when I was a trying to tow my camper over soft ground, the tires started spinning in the chains and became useless.  I'm positive if it was only my truck, they would have worked as advertised, however.  The second reason is more serious.  They have a shelf life on the compound used for the chains of 4 years.  They aren't cheap.  My first set, when I needed them in South Dakota muck, literally broke while installing them.  Useless to me. They were stored in my truck for 6 years.  I complained to the manufacturer and they sent me two new sets, and that's when I learned about the lifetime limit.  They are awesome, and they work.  For 4 years.  Recently, I've been searching "tire socks" for snow.  They seem to work.  I haven't used them, but I see a few issues.  They don't work in mud. Mud is the medium that is my nemesis.  Second, is they may tear and become useless.  There appears to be a limit on the uses before they need replacement.  Third, they are becoming more expensive and are approaching the cost of a set of chains.  Lastly, there are chains.  They work. A pain to put on and take off, but it's hard to find a problem with them- sometimes they are required, too.  

Fifth, Your Brain!  We all know when it's just plain stupid to drive on the two-track.  I am a classic example of impatience, and I don't want to lose a day in the field.  But, wisdom is creeping in over the years. Take a day off and/or remember that if it's frozen on the way in, it may be impassable on the way out.  Also, don't tear up the farm roads.  You don't have to live with the ruts.  

What am I forgetting? This is what I use, but I'm sure there are other items that would be a good idea to carry, or equip your truck with.  A winch, perhaps?  Leave your comments.  #abirdhuntersthoughts 

I am not sponsored by any of those products listed. 

This one is a pistol.

Jade (JD) 10 mos. 

 

JD and me- AZ Desert

Maybe it's just me, but puppies seem to be getting smarter.  OR, I suppose I'm not. This little demon might just be the end of me.  She is 100% what I asked for from the breeder.  Like an idiot, I said "big runner, on the ragged edge of control, tough, smart".  You know the adage, "Be careful what you pray for, you may get it."  

She is not two years old, yet.  But, she just finished her second season hunting 6 western states.  I put no pressure on her at all.  What she learned was to quarter, stay in the county, and keep me in sight- all good stuff! I did break her to retrieve, and she's really good at that and enjoys it immensely.  Her pointing and steadiness were spotty, however. 

The last two months all that changed.   We are using pen-raised quail, but she hits them like they are Sharptails in the alfalfa.  By the time June rolls around, I'll have a steady little bird dog ready to join in the line up.  There are few feelings of satisfaction more gratifying! 

One tough SOB

I came across this picture of my Brit, Cap, from NM 4 years ago. We were hunting Gambel’s Quail around an old corral. The initial cast was away from the corral, up in the hills. The whole time, Cap kept slowly working toward the corral, and I would call him back. Eventually, I told my partner I was going to swing down that way. I saw probably 100 quail in several coveys over the next hour. Cap knew where they were. The issue here is that there was plenty of old, low-slung barbed wire in the area. His tracking, pointing, and retrieving took him over and under a lot of it. I did not see when he got hung up, but when I saw his bloody tracks, I called him to me. He had a pretty good slash on his left front leg. Some blood stop, antiseptic, freshwater cleanse, and a staple gun took care of it. He didn't like it, but he took the rest of the day off. He looks like an old boxer after a hard-fought fight. I wish I was as tough as this guy is.

FlyBoy Ace's Delta Captain (Cap)

Cooking Quail on Tailgate New Mexico

"Times Not Forgotten" by Mills Morrison. A Book Review

 

The Book

When I was growing up, my father would regale me with stories of coon hunting in the swamps of southern Mississippi.  He would tell me about the dogs, "They are not pets, Randy.  Don't touch them, and don't call them or try and tell them what to do.  There is only one "dog man" on a coon hunt.", the people, the swamps, and the challenges of coon hunting in the '40's and '50's of the last century.  He was a Naval Aviator during the early '40's.  Later, he was a young man with four children looking for work after the war.  He would tell me of the times they would use Carbide lanterns, crude affairs that would combine water and carbide to produce a combustible gas that could be lit to provide a flame positioned in front of a mirror.  These were worn on the head like a coal miner. Another lesson I learned was how to navigate by the stars.  It was part of his Naval Aviation training and he told me of times when they were absolutely turned around in the swamp, and he would be able to find Polaris, the North Star, or the Seven Sisters, pointing roughly east, and they could find their way out.

All that was a precursor to my inevitable introduction to southern quail hunting when I turned 40. My wife bought me my first bird dog for my birthday.  I immersed myself in the lore and history of the sport.  While my history only runs 33 years, personally, and 73 years for my family, I'm reading that the Morrisons can trace their Southern roots back hundreds of years.  

Mills Morrison displays a deep appreciation for the Southern hunting way of life, and bird hunting specifically.  The title of his hard-covered book, TIMES NOT FORGOTTEN Reflections of a Southern Sportsman is absolutely appropriate. 

The first chapter, The Burden and Beauty of Hunting in the South, tells a short history of the plantations, their history, creation, demise, and resurgence. He doesn't shy away from the issue of slavery (as he puts it: "enslaved persons'), but confronts it head-on, as it is integral to the formation of the plantations and deeply intertwined in the story of the South.  I was chilled by the story of his great-great-great grandfather "killed by bandits for his money" on the way home from selling cows.  "This left his wife, Polly Lane, with a young family, enslaved laborers, and a working farm, surrounded by the same hoodlums who killed her husband".  Polly was tough. Women were tough and courageous and determined.  These were pioneers, not "sipping a Mint Julep on the porch of a columned mansion."  This was a dangerous wilderness, then.  Polly survived and succeeded in raising several successful children.  

As a bird hunter and an (very) amateur historian of the South, I enjoy reading the history of the Red Hills of the Georgia/North Florida area.  There is a reason so many quail plantations survive and thrive in the area.  Julia, Mills' wife, and Mills take us on quail hunts, dove hunts, deer hunting, etc, throughout the area.  Their stories bring back the smell of the woods and grassy slopes with cool mornings and warm afternoons.  They even include two book reviews by Harry Morrison: The Education of Pretty Boy by Havilah Babcock and The Old Man and the Boy by Robert Ruark. both are must-have books, in my opinion. 

I confess I did not know what to expect when I opened the book the day after it arrived.  What I found was a thoroughly good read that brought me chills, head-nodding in agreement, laughs, and wonder.  There is so much more inside.  This is a wonderful gold mine of history and love for the Southern Hunting way of life.  It is a hard cover book of 445 pages with numerous photos.  My recommendation is to obtain it, read it, and slide it into the bookshelf next to Babcock and Ruark.  It was thoroughly delightful.    

Disclaimer: I did not receive any type of material compensation. I did not receive a free copy of the book for this review.  

To order a copy:  Message: Julia D. Morrison, or email: juliadmorrison@gmail.com

Injury! Blue and his CCL tear and subsequent surgery and recovery.

Blue injured his right rear leg after a run about a month ago.  The vet diagnosed CCL tear (equivalent to an ACL tear in humans).   I am a huge believer in Medical  insurance for my dogs.  As luck would have it, CCL surgery is one of the exceptions on the policy.  $3500 (+or -) later, he's been fixed up and is home for therapy.  He had TPLO surgery. The doctor carefully explained all the different methods to fix the tear, and we chose this method.  So, all is good now and he should be ready to go in about a month.  Caution is the name of the game, and less is better than more.  

 

Water Therapy

Cool X-Ray.

Home treadmill therapy. 

A True Story

 

 

The old dog and I put out on a day that was cool, as the sun was about an hour above the Montana horizon.  This was a special spot.  Last year, he and I moved 16 coveys of Huns and Sharptails in the alfalfa fields, along the creek and below the hills that rose up from the north edge of the water.  He moved slower now, but still watched me and bounced around, and woofed at me to hurry up.  All he needed was for me to take a step in the direction I wanted to go, and he would move out, nose up, quartering in the wind, searching for the scent of whatever game-bird this particular piece of country had to offer. Ten seasons, almost forty trips, tens of thousands of miles driven, added up to a wise, old bird dog that had seen and done it all.   

 

As a young dog, he was blazing fast.  He never out-ran his nose, and he was all business.  In NSTRA trials, he would make an initial cast and loop back around to me as I left the start line.  Many was the time the judge would make the mistake of staying with me, instead of going after the brown blur off the line.  After a minute, with him still gone, I would tell him, "You'd better go find him.  If he's not back by now, he's on point."  Sure enough, I'd watch the judge head out and eventually raise his hand, "Point!", he'd yell, and I'd hustle to get to my big Brittany.  Now, he wasn't so fast, but the heart was just as big, the desire to please me just as intense.   

 

We left the truck, and the howling dogs still in their kennels, and I stepped into the knee-deep alfalfa, watching the old dog work the wind.  It didn't take long before the head came up, the movement became precise and calculated to put that nose right in the middle of the scent cone.  A few minor adjustments and he froze.  The point lacked the quivering intensity of past years and, perhaps, some of the style, but the nose was deadly and the knowledge of how to treat these birds was still spot-on.  A single bird got up, and the old boy watched it fall and put it in my hand.  A stroke on the side of the head, a drink of water, and a "Good boy!" and he was off again, quartering the wind, checking objectives and glancing at me (so quickly, it was hard to catch) to stay in front.   

 

After a half-mile of this and another bird in the bag, I gave him a long wail on the whistle to call him in  and we took a break on the top of a levee.  We shared some water, and he allowed as to how I was shooting pretty good today.  I accepted the praise gracefully, knowing he's seen quite the opposite many, many times.  I took off my beat-up hat and thanked God for this old dog and the time I was allowed to hunt with him.  We are reminded, in the Book, that life is nothing more than a vapor in strong wind and is over in a flash.  How much stronger is the wind regarding the lives of our hunting dogs! It’s a terribly cruel joke, I think, to love something so much and have it last but a minute. I struggle to my feet, leaning on the old double gun as the dog took off into the wind once more.   

 

He slowed up considerably and limped constantly, now. But, he knew where he wanted to go to find the birds.  It pained me to watch him with the swollen elbow and lack of the grace he had in abundance as a younger dog.  Almost to the truck, at the end of the last field, he turned and locked up once again. Breathing hard, I could see he was tiring.  The thought crossed my mind, this might be his last hunt. I quickly discarded that notion, "No.  Surely he has a few years left in him!", and quickly walked to where he showed me the bird was hiding.  The big Sharpie got up and I unloaded both barrels at him, managing to hit him but not knock him down,  He glided down through some trees and in to the field below as I lost sight of him.  Ace watched him, too, and looked back at me before trotting down the hill, through the trees and out in to the next field.  I quickly followed, not willing to be chastised again by the old campaigner for not keeping up.  His nose picked up the scent and he went straight to the bird.  He brought it to me and, this time, he set it on the ground and dropped down next to it.  It was the last bird he would retrieve.  

Photo by Gary Thompson

 

 

He faded fast. Three weeks later, we took him to the local University Vet School to see if there was anything to bedone. Later that same day, the doctor called and said there was no hope.  The cancer was too far gone.  I said make himcomfortable, I'm coming to take him home.  They let him walk out from the back.  He saw me, and his tail startedwagging.  He staggered a little bit walking to me.  “Where’ve you been, Boss?” He and I drove home in our usual spots, me driving and him curled up in the passenger seat. 

 

Three days later, he walked into my den and lay down at the foot of my desk.  The drug patch for pain meds wason his side and his shaved leg and bandaged other front leg were all a testament to his last day in the hospital.  He was in his spot, I was in mine. I sat down next to him and took his head in my lap.  He gave me a huge sigh,  “I’m so tired“, he said, “Are you going to be OK, Boss?“   “I’ll be OK, Ace.”  It was the only time I ever lied to him.  

For more bird hunting and dog stories check out my two books on Amazon, Endless October and Endless October Season 2.  Endless October (Finishing October) out soon.  

   

 

Texas. Quail Mecca.

 Texas

 

I’d like to hunt Texas more. The reason I don’t is simple.  I can’t afford it. That’s not a reflection on the folks in Texas, it’s just the reality.  Compared to most western states, Texas has an insignificant amount of public land.   They have some huge, well-managed Wildlife Management Areas, but the hunting pressure is overwhelming in good years.  Western Texas does have BLM and State land available hunt. To really enjoy the bird hunting in Texas, a lease or a day-hunting fee on private land is the way to go for me.  Leases can be affordable, and the day hunter fee is usually not prohibitive, but I end up saving my nickels and driving to states where public hunting lands are plentiful.  One notable exception happened back in the early2000’s. 

I wanted to hunt the wide-open west. 

It was a great year for Bobwhites, and all the publications were touting the advantages of Texas.  I read all the information I could find, and finally settled on the Panhandle as a likely location. Most places offered up leases and/or day hunting fees.  I didn’t want to get locked into laying out several thousands of dollars to hunt one area, so. I explored the day hunting idea.  At the time, $100/gun/day was the average going rate.  (Dirt cheap by today’s standards.). I finally called a few places for more information and found them to be full up.  Finally, I decided to call the Chamber of Commerce of a good-sized town and asked about “day hunting” a ranch.  “You need to call Will,” she said.  She gave me the number.  No last name- just Will. 

 

Will answered the phone and was friendly and likeable.  He told me the family had around 9000 ac. just outside of town.  It had a few cows on it, and a few pumpjacks, and a lot of quail.  He was not a bird hunter, he explained.  He guided on the place for deer and Pronghorn. No one lived there. “Meet me at the gate at eight in the morning, and I’ll let you guys in,” he said.  The next morning, Will took us on a tour and said he’d be back before dark, and drove off.  That was it. 

 

We parked on a hilltop and put our dogs out at 10 am.  It was near the end of the season, cold and windy, but there was water in the stock tanks and the grass was tall.  By the end of the day with two guys walking with two dogs on the ground, we had 17 pointed coveys.  I didn’t keep track of the singles.  It was getting dark, the wind was picking up, and the temperature was dropping. On the walk back to the truck, we had to leash the dogs, or they would point more birds.  

 

Will was waiting for us at the trucks.  For not being a bird hunter, he enjoyed the tales of the day as much as we enjoyed telling them.  Finally, he said, “Well, I got no idea how much to charge you guys.  What do you think is fair?”   Questions like that are enough to tempt a bird hunting Baptist Preacher.  “Will, this was an amazing day.  Honestly, I think the going rate might be up to $200/gun/day in parts of Texas this year,” I said.  “OK,” he said, “why don’t we call it $100/gun/day?  Here’s my address.  When you get done, make sure the gate is locked, and send me a check.”  We shook hands and that was the last time we saw him, although we hunted that patch for a few more years.  “You might want to check out our other place by Amarillo.  It’s 32,000 ac., and it has plenty of quail, too, but they are a different kind.,” he said on a phone call later.  “Talk to the Ranch Manager.  I’ll call him.  Same deal for money.  Good luck you guys,” he said as he hung up the phone.  

 

 I was driving out after a frustrating day hunting Blue Quail in the Texas Panhandle near Amarillo. A drought gripped Texas, and I was thinking about moving up to South Dakota, when I saw a bird flush to my left close to the truck. I stopped, grabbed my gun, my dog, Ace, a handful of shells, and stepped off the graded sand road of the ranch. The world exploded when 30 Blues Quail got up all around me.  I stepped into the middle of them, and more ran off into the brush.  Ace stopped to the flush, and I watched as they scattered out along a stretch of flat, brushy, sandy, grazed-over pasture. The sun was at my back, the breeze was in my face, it was 30 deg., and I wore a big grin as we set out to some of the most fun shooting I ever had.   It was cold out, and the ranch picked up a little dusting of snow that day. After the birds landed, I could see their tracks running into clumps of grass or cactus. I laughed when I saw a set of tracks run into a clump of grass and not come out.  Ace locked up time after time pointing two or three of the little buzz bombs before they erupted out of the pointed cactus, shin-oak, or grass patch. We took our time, easing along and hitting all the cover, ditches, and vegetation. After what seemed like 5 minutes (an hour plus), I grabbed for more shells and came up empty. Ace was pointed, the sun was low on the horizon and the temperature was dropping like a stone. I had one shell left in the A.H. Fox 20 ga. double and was one bird shy of the limit here in TX. (Limits never held much fascination for me. I rarely got close enough to worry about them on quail. But today it would be nice to round it out.)  Ace pointed the base of a cactus as I eased on up alongside him. I glanced at his face, and it was set in that stony look bird dogs get when they are dead center of the scent cone, mesmerized by the smell. I kicked at the shrub and 5 gray blurs came out of that cactus heading to all points of the compass. As a lefty, I locked down on the one heading from my left to right, checked his location down the barrels and pulled the trigger to a satisfying little “whump” when he hit the trace of snow-covered sand.  Ace brought the bird up and put him in my hand.  “It was a pretty good day, after all, Boss,” he said.  We headed to the truck on the horizon. 

 

Texas will always hold a soft spot in my heart.  Wide open, rugged, with a ton of quail.  

 

 

 

Tent Camping in the Mountains for Old Men

It's been over a half-century since this boy spent any time in a tent.  This hunting trip, I decided to revert to the basics in order to save a little money on the ridiculously sky high diesel prices across the country and use a tent versus my camper.  In light of the fact I would drive over 6000 miles, a little saved at the pump could be significant.  Waterproofing, ease of setup, comfort, and cost were all factors in my choice of tent.  I found several I thought would be perfect, but they would take two people to erect. I ended up with this tent by Magellan.  Not only was it amazingly easy to erect by myself, but it allowed me to stand up inside, it came with LED lighting, it had plenty of openings for air flow, came with a separate rain cover, and appeared durable with heavy duty zippers and substantial ground spikes and tie lines. I took the liberty of sealing all the seams with a spray waterproofing sealant, and I bought a ground tarp and cut it to fit.  Set up was fast and easy.  The tent, when properly staked, seemed to be able to take a substantial wind, although I did not encounter anything over a stiff breeze.  I did have a rain event the third night that dropped an inch of rain in the mountains.  I noticed a small drip at the base of one of the zippered windows- nearly insignificant. 

It packs up into its own canvas bag (first picture), weighs 20-30#, and is approx 6' long.  It fits perfectly in the back of my truck.  It's not for backpackers.  Two adults with cots would have an easy time of it.  For just me, it was like a room in the woods.  I would have liked a tarp over the entrance, especially during the rain event.  

In retrospect, I'm really amazed at how comfortable I was.  With the rain, sun, breeze, and temps in the 30's-40's at night, I had a blast.  Made by Magellan, I bought it at Academy Sports.  I think next time, I will ditch the Tent Cot, for a regular cot.  I will put a tarp over the door, and bring my (super quiet) generator for a small heater and coffee maker.  I probably just went from camping to glamping with those additions, but that's fine with me. 

Start

Finished in 10 minutes

 Note:  I'm not compensated in any way by Magellan or Academy Sports. 

Product Review: Lick Sleeve- an alternative to the 'Cone of Shame'

Unfortunately,  Blue tore his CCL a few months ago.  One month before we were due to leave for Wyoming and Montana. Throughout the process of diagnosis, surgery, $$$$, etc., one bright point was when the vet told us about the Lick Sleeve.  It replaced the Cone to keep the dog from licking the incision site. What a great product! It's so simple, and works so well, I'm amazed I'm only hearing about it now. 

Blue out of TPLO surgery.  The incision is inside the knee. 

Blue with the sleeve on- no cone!

It's made from a slick and tough fabric that discourages dogs from tearing it off.  And they can't reach the wound to lick it.  So simple!  Washable and fits either rear leg.  They have one that fits the front legs, as well. Only one snap.  It isn't available on Amazon, but I went to their website (Lick Sleeve) and ordered.  It arrived in 2 days. 

Most highly recommended!

Note:  I'm not endorsed or compensated by this product.

Awesome Open to the 2023-2024 Hunting Season

I loaded the dogs and drove to meet friends, first in Wyoming, then in Montana. I waited a little later in September to try and avoid the stifling heat.  To a large extent, I succeeded.  The first week I camped up in the mountains at 7500', hunting for Blue Grouse.  We were very successful, and I learned all over about camping in the cold! Then we drove to meet 5 other friends for Sage Grouse, Chukar and Hungarian Partridge.  The hunting was exceptional, but best part of this portion of the trip was the food! With at least three "foodies" in the party, we cooked our birds in tasty and creative ways every night.  After a week, I said my goodbyes and drove to Montana to chase Sharptail Grouse and Hungarian Partridge.  The weather was excellent and all the dogs did well on the Sharps and Huns.  Overall, it was a tremendous way to kick off the season! 

Shack and me after Blue Grouse

JD and 3 Blue Grouse

Marker Cairn

2 Sage Grouse

JD Retreiving BlueGrouse

Lunch Break on the Prairie

Double on Hungarian Partridge

Out on the Prairie

Rest Break

The Beast

2013 F250 Lariat

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The Beast has been everywhere and done everything I’ve asked of it. Many of those situations I look back and just shake my head. Over 400,000 miles now, and still rolling down the road. I’d like a new one, but the prices are nearly prohibitive. #Ford

I just turned of 405,000 miles on the Beast.  I'm super happy with it.  That is not to say it's been all sweetness and light,  But, I've had nothing other than expected repairs.  The routine maintenance is expensive, but less than a $900+/month new truck payment.  So, I'll keep it until it dies

Graduation Day

Today was the day. JD and I headed out to the barn. Graduation day! I put her in the with the big dogs while I eased out to the bird pen with a couple of mesh bird cages in my hand. The big dogs knew exactly what was coming, and they started making a ruckus. The fur-missile just sat at the gate and watched me.

 

I grabbed two quail and headed out to the fresh cut pasture. I put the two birds down quite a ways apart, then returned for JD. I took her to the edge of the pasture, told her "bird in here!" and turned her loose. It's fun to watch a young dog just torn up with bird finding! 

 

She hit the first one a lttle loose, then locked up. I waited a bit, then stepped on the edge of the cage. The bird flushed, but low. Too low to shoot, so I let her chase and then yelled "leave it" and watched her pull away and return. "Let's go. Bird in here, JD!" I said. Off she went. It didn't take long at all for her to wind the second bird and point. This time the bird got up high enough to shoot. It dropped and she was on it, and flipped over on her back, then came back to pick it up. It was right to hand. 

 

That was the first killed bird over her for a retrieve. It's been about 2 months since I started her on the training table. At this point, she is showing a great deal of promise. September is coming.....

 

JD One year old, today.

JD One year old, today.

 

 

New Podcast with snake expert Jason Clark!

What to do, and more important, what NOT to do when your dog is bitten by a snake! Click the link below to listen to the podcast.  

 SNAKE Bite!