From: The Upland Equation
Charles Fergus
The Dog
I
t is a sensuous thing, having a dog. The other day I was
assembling a blueberry pie, wearing only boxer shorts
because it was a sticky summer’s evening, when the spaniel
came sneaking and surprised me behind the knee with her
ice-cube nose. In winter, when I lie before the fire, she curls
up in the crook of my body. I kiss here shamelessly on the dome
of her head. I like the smell of her fur, dry or wet. Even though
she is now middle-aged (come to think of it, I qualify as well),
she loves to play, barking and sparring her paws at me, catching
my hand loosely in her jaws. She goes berry-picking with the
rest of the family (daintily plucking fruit from the stems with
her incisors; none of it making it into the berry buckets), loves
riding in the canoe, and escorts me up the hill to the mailbox
every noon. Having a dog is fun. A dog is a boon companion
in all of those moments when you are not hunting–and a helper
and comrade when you are.
Hunting is the real occupation of my dog. She knows she is
a hunter. It is her life’s focus. By allowing her to reveal her skill
and character, it helps fulfill her. In turn, she helps fulfill me.
It is hard to describe the feeling of enrichment that comes
from hunting with a good dog. Many factors are involved. The
dog, with its sense of smell and its ability to cover the
ground, puts the hunter
into contact with more birds. It gives the gunner more and
better shots: The birds, paying attention to the canine intruder,
heed the hunter less. The dog fetches wounded birds that
otherwise would die lingering deaths and feed only opossums
and raccoons. The avidity of a bird dog is catching; the dog,
descending as it does from predatory ancestors, helps us
remember that we, too, descend from predators. Dogs clarify
and intensify the urge in us to hunt.
I am never alone when I hunt with Jenny. I like the
logistical simplicity of it: If I want to suddenly change
directions and check out a certain patch of brambles because
maybe, just maybe, a grouse will be there (on that south-
facing slope, where the winter sun shines and the grapevines
grow thick)–I just do it. I don’t have to consult. I don’t have to
explain or justify. I give two pips on the whistle and wave my
hand, and we do what the hunters’ instincts tell us.
When we are working in concert, when Jenny is combing
the cover in front of me, when I am watching her, looking for
her tail to speed up, her coursing to become more directed;
when I am listening intently for the twittering flush of a
woodcock, or the thunder of a grouse, or the cackling of
a pheasant, or the splash of a duck: Through this filter
of attentiveness and activity I pick up the beauty of my
surroundings. The carpet of fallen leaves, more colorful and
intricate than any Persian rug. The wind tossing the treetops.
The way the rhododendron leaves curl in the frigid air and
hang straight down like green cigars. The deep blue sky with
wispy clouds. A raven kronking. The fecund smell of loam
along the creek. Ice hanging in pendants and plates from
trees that have toppled into the stream. But my senses are
not simply resident in me: They are also out there, running
with my dog. Searching, testing, checking. Through my
dog, I see further, hear more sharply, scent more keenly,
feel more fully the presence of game.
Jenny is now eight. At that age, I can’t hunt her too
many days in a row. In the field, she has started to slow
down somewhat, which gets me closer shots, but it makes
me sad because it reminds me she won’t be with me
forever. Before too long, I’ll have to start thinking about
another dog.
Oddly enough, I sometimes feel that one should
choose a dog solely on the basis of what it looks like.
That sounds like heresy. The experts all say that one
should select a dog from the breed best suited to the sort
of game one wants to hunt, and the way in which one
will hunt it. I only know that hunting is a seeking for
beauty, a beauty that is embodied in the land and the
game, in the gun, and also in the dog. If a hunter’s soul
sings at the sight of a fleet hard-charging pointer, or