Here goes, Paule. I may have posted this one before. My memory is not as good as K2's.
trkyhntr
The big setter was really working the covert, when his instincts told him to freeze. His sensitive nose had detected the scent of grouse, and that was all the stimulus he needed. His body seemed to rise off the ground, his head turned toward the bird and his tail rose to vertical. He was totally absorbed in this momentary event. It was, after all, just what he had been born to do.
The hunter stepped forward toward the motionless dog. “Steady, Billy. Hold steady,” he cautioned. His finger touched the safety of the Ithaca pump, but didn’t disengage it. Safety was a primary concern. Suddenly, a whirring of wings assaulted his senses and a brown rocket took flight. Many times this had happened before, so the rise of the shotgun was nearly instinctive. The grouse flew slightly left, putting a tree between the hunter and himself, but the maneuver was not successful. The hunter had observed this tactic before, and had taken two steps to his right, so when the grouse straightened his flight, he was in the open. His finger tightened on the trigger, the gun recoiled against his shoulder, and a charge of number sixes was sent on its way.
At the crack of the gun, the big setter broke point. Now there was a job to do, and he knew just how to do it. The grouse folded in mid air, and fell to the ground, beating his wings in the final death dance. Gently, he picked up the bird in his jaws, turned, and brought the bird to his master. As he approached, he could be forgiven if he didn’t notice a tear traveling down his master’s cheek. He was an English Setter, bred to hunt. Just a dog, but not really just a dog. He couldn’t know what emotions this scenario had engendered. He had done his job. His master’s praise was all he required.
The hunter’s memory took him back in time to a December day just a year ago. He had received a telephone call from Tom’s wife, Marilyn. At one time, he and Tom had been inseparable, but they had drifted apart in recent years. In fact, it had been over a year since they had seen each other. “Way too long,” he thought. Tom was good company, and they had consumed many a foamer together while discussing the world as it was and should be. Their common interest in all things wild and wonderful had drawn them together, and he wasn’t sure why they had drifted apart. He had to go to see Tom now, however. Marilyn had told him that Tom was fighting a battle with an opponent he couldn’t whip.
Regardless of how he had tried to prepare himself, he could hardly control his emotions when he approached his friend’s bed. The cancer had ravaged Tom’s mouth and jaw, and the surgeon had needed to remove most of his tongue and lower jaw. It was a miracle that he could even speak. “Good of you to come, Yum Yum. How’ve you been?”
“I’ve been OK, Watash, but it looks like you’ve seen better days.” His hands were shaking. It was obvious that his friend was dying, and their use of the old nicknames didn't make it any easier. For nearly fifteen minutes, the two hunters reminisced over old and better times, and then it was obvious that Tom was tiring. As he rose to leave, Tom raised his hand and said, “before you leave, George, I have one thing to ask of you. You know the two young setters I have?”
He knew little of the setters, only that Tom had managed to acquire them about a year or so ago. Having been a pointer man most of his life, it had been a quantum leap for Tom to get his first setter. “I understand that they are rather well bred” he answered. “What would you want me to do?”
“I want you to find them a good home, and if it is your home, then I can die in peace,” Tom said. It was with those words that both Billy and Meg had become Naugle dogs. After all, it had been too long since a setter’s tail had thumped the floor next to his chair. That was only half of the promise, however. He had promised Tom that he would hunt the setters, if they showed any promise, and while Meg proved to be a bit flighty and high strung, Billy had been a natural. The big male had needed little training, his genetic background equipping him well for the hunt.
So, here they were. They had climbed to the top of the mountain this morning. The climb had tired him, but it had just taken the edge off the setter. When they reached the grapevine tangles on the bench, Billy had taken charge. His bell tinkled merrily as he worked the cover, and every so often, he detected the scent he sought. By mid afternoon, the hunter had two grouse in his game pocket, having missed many more than he got. “That is the way of grouse hunting,” he thought to himself. “You never get many, but you appreciate them all.” Billy was tired now, and the snacks he had carried, as well as the canteen of water were gone. He had shared both with the setter. After all, they were partners, weren’t they?
Back at the cabin, he dressed the grouse, while Billy rested next to the wood stove. “This is the way it should be. A man, a dog, and some game to hunt,” he thought.
“I guess there isn’t a better way to fulfill a promise.” His thoughts drifted to Tom. “Watash,” he said. “Your setter is one fine bird dog. Billy thumped his tail, as if to agree.
This story is dedicated to the memory of a friend and fellow hunter, Thomas C. H. Webster, late of St. Thomas, Pa. Tom and I shared many a foamer, and just as many stories in his ‘office.’ We occasionally pursued feathered game together. Good friends are hard to find, and even harder to keep. Look down and smile, Watash.
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