This story, “Lingering Greatness,” appeared in the January 1985 issue of Outdoor Life.
The last half of December had been much colder than usual, and early January wasn’t much better. After finally forcing myself to go outside and do the usual farm chores one cold morning, I decided that it would be at least 1 or 2 p.m. before a person would have any business trying to find a few quail.
I owned a pointer bitch that was about 5 years old and that I believed to be among the better dogs. I had also just started a Brittany pup of about 8 months that had enough natural ability to make most men brag a little about their dog training, even if unjustified. Dog men and fishermen seem to possess bragging ability now and then.
I had seen many quail seasons come and go, and several good dogs, long gone, linger in my memory — dogs that never loafed on the job. They were always willing partners, no matter how hard the conditions.
I wonder, sometimes, if the dogs we remember as less than great just never understood what we really wanted because our training could have been better. It is always easier to lay the fault on the dog, I guess.
On dark, cold, and dreary days, thoughts such as these seem to find their way into our minds — or maybe they come to mind because we’re getting a little older and we reminisce more.
I looked out the window one more time around noon and saw that the sun had finally come out. It looked warmer, anyway. I had a quick bite to eat and stepped out to check the weather again. The wind was still blowing from the north, 10 or 15 miles an hour — not the best day for hunting I had ever seen. But after being unable to hunt for several days, I decided to try it for a little while.
I tried to think of someplace where there was still a covey or two that wouldn’t be harmed if I took three or four birds. I remembered an old field that bordered on quite a bit of timber. A pretty good creek ran through the north end of the area. There had been a couple of coveys there earlier in the season, but they had given me the slip after I had taken only four or five birds with twice as many shots.
There was plenty of cover in the field and maybe the birds would hold. That’s what that pup needs, I thought, after the wild birds we had hunted last. I would take him by himself. It would do him good. He hadn’t hunted alone before.
I put more clothes on than I thought a man could shoot in and, after I loaded the pup in the truck, I decided that an extra pocketful of shells wasn’t a bad idea.
I drove the four or five miles in about 10 minutes. When I parked the truck by an old gate, a feeling of excitement began to make me forget about the cold. I opened the door of the dog box and that bundle of energy leaped out. The pup seemed a little confused and ran circles, coming back to see where the old dog I had left at home was. The pup was, I guess, uncertain as to whether he could handle the job alone. But after we had walked more than half of the 30-acre field, he was hunting very well. We searched every acre pretty thoroughly, but failed to find one single bird. The cold spell had caused them to change their range, I thought. The pup had hunted everywhere in the old field.
Heading toward the truck, I noticed clouds covering the sun — the kind of clouds that seem to make the cold seep in through your boots and around the collar of your jacket. I looked south across the country road where I had parked toward some rolling hills. There was probably a half mile of bare pasture land between me and the hillside farther to the south. I hated to go home without giving the little dog a chance to see what he could do by himself.
Crossing the road, I headed him south. The walk would do us both good, I thought to myself. Besides, two or three weeks earlier, a hunting friend and I had set a good covey near a pond at the base of those ridges and there should be several birds still in that bunch. Maybe we could find them.
We walked along an old fenceline on our way there, hoping maybe to find a stray bunch that I didn’t know about. The little bit of ice and snow that had thawed down in the valley near the hills was now beginning to freeze again and we hadn’t found anything yet. Looking back toward the truck, I wondered if it was wise to go farther, but only about another quarter of a mile lay between us and the pond where my friend and I had found some birds.
The little dog had gone ahead and was out of sight over a little rise. I moved another 100 yards and, when I saw him, he still hadn’t found any birds.
While I was standing on the higher ground, I looked up at the hillside where there were a few scattered bushes and grass. Water seeped out of these ridges most of the time, but now everything was frozen because of the bitter north wind. Then something about 400 yards away caught my eye. It was near the pond. In the darkening light from the overcast skies, I was unable to make out what it was. I assumed that it must be a cow’s head sticking up out of a little bunch of tall grass growing near the pond.
I moved a little farther south and a little in the direction of the pond, stopping occasionally to watch the pup work. The little valley seemed so quiet; I hadn’t heard another hunter shoot the whole evening. I figured that the other gunners had better sense than to be out on such a cold day. Once more, I moved another 100 yards in the general direction of the pond, until I was again standing on a little rise. Once more, the odd object caught my eye. This time, because I was closer, I could see that it was a dog and that it seemed to be standing still and looking at something on the ground.
I looked around for other hunters but saw no one. As I moved closer, the old dog still stood in the same place. I could see that he was a setter. He seemed very tired, but he continued to look straight ahead. His head seemed to be too big for his frail body. When I got closer, I saw that ice had formed on his undercoat and that his ribs stood out clearly. The long shaggy tail swept back and forth like a pendulum. Its movement never ceased while I stood there, 20 yards away. It dawned on me that he was very old; far past his prime. The once-bright eyes were sunken and clouded, and I guessed that he had gone deaf from old age and too many shotgun blasts over his head. He didn’t even know I was there. Once more I searched the landscape for someone who might be with him, but again there was no one.
I had already decided that the old dog was on birds — if not, he sure thought that he was. I had forgotten about my pup while I’d been studying the old dog. When I looked up, I could see him standing 20 yards behind the old dog. He was honoring that old-timer’s point with everything he could stretch out.
The old dog was locked up and sensed nothing but the birds. Yet when I moved to within five steps of him, those dim eyes caught sight of me for the first time and he seemed startled. He looked up at my face just for an instant and I caught a message that only a hunter and an old dog can possibly understand. Immediately, the nose shot forward and the tail that had been moving straightened. No dog ever looked more beautiful and, as I moved forward a few feet to the place where the dog was looking, I felt sorry for him.
When 10 or 12 quail lifted into the air, I knew I had to shoot one or two for the old setter. I got a straightaway and folded one that went to my right.
The old dog picked up the first bird and started toward me, but when he got within 10 yards, he slowly put the bird down, his eyes seeming to say that he didn’t know how much he could trust people anymore.
The pup had picked up the second bird and was nudging me with it. I took it and he fetched the one that the old dog had put down. Then he came to get his pat on the head. Dogs seem to greatly appreciate just a pat on the head.
As I stood and reloaded my gun, I looked around to see where the old dog was. I had no idea where the other birds had gone. I stood there in that late-evening cold and wondered if all this had really happened. I felt inside my game pocket and there were two birds there, still warm, to tell me that it was all real.
I moved farther up the hill and looked in every direction. Finally, I saw the old dog crossing the slope above me. He moved as though his back legs were hobbled. He pulled them along behind him and I could tell that every step was extremely difficult, but he never gave in to his misery. The last I saw of him, he was headed south. I called to him but he kept going. Of course he couldn’t hear me, but it seemed that I had to do something. I tried to catch up with him, but it was as if he sensed my actions somehow and maybe remembered some past betrayal by a man.
I started back toward the truck and realized that I felt obligated to find someone who knew about the old dog. There were only two or three houses within about two miles of where we were and, as far as I knew, none of those people kept bird dogs.
While I hurriedly loaded my pup in the dog box, I decided to drive the roads in that area and look for someone who had lost the old dog. Maybe he would be parked somewhere waiting for the dog to come back. But I found no one on the roads, and I couldn’t find any signs of a place where anyone had parked and let a dog out. Then I thought of the only other place where anyone stayed. It was a pipeline shop about one mile east of where I had last seen the old dog.
I parked in front of the shop and went in just as they were about to leave for home. I asked them if they had ever seen an old setter bird dog around the place. To my surprise, they said yes. An old dog stayed around the shop sometimes. They said that some fellow had brought him out there, knowing that they liked to hunt some and maybe would take the dog. The dog had gotten too old and wasn’t much use anymore; he just wandered the countryside and came back to the shop for a little feed when he needed it.
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The old dog’s plight kept me awake that night. I could still see the greatness come alive in him again when I walked up to his side. He may have been old and crippled, eyesight nearly gone and completely deaf, but no dog that ever breathed showed more greatness than that old setter did on that cold winter evening. I’m not sure I will ever be the same after seeing him.
When I told the men at the shop about the old dog that I had found on point, they asked if he had been onto anything. I took the birds from my coat and put them on the floor before them.
“Here’s a present from the old dog,” I said.
I suspect that they were the last birds ever taken over him.
