Fifty years ago, the man who introduced me to grouse hunting said every bird hunter deserves at least one exceptional dog. “Counting Tammy here, I’ve owned three,” admitted Dr. James Hall of Traverse City, Michigan, while petting his lovely orange Belton setter. “I’ve been really lucky.”
That crisp November morning I learned how a veteran pointing dog stalks a running grouse without bumping it. How swinging through a flying bird helps shot pellets meet feathers. Why grouse are “grouse,” not partridge or “pats.”
James Hall lived to hunt grouse, and so did his sons Jim and Tom, who joined us that afternoon. At the time, this rookie didn’t fully grasp the privilege of hunting with three of Michigan’s best grouse hunters. I didn’t know I would soon buy a setter or that the breed would own me for the rest of my life.
I’m now the age my mentor was when we met. And, like him, fortune has smiled by granting me several setters, three of which were memorable. The first was Macbeth, a sweet-tempered, ghost-white girl who always seemed to know my mind. Progeny of a field-trial mother (my first setter) and a proven grouse-dog father, Macbeth was sold from my backyard litter to a Kansas friend who had to renege on the deal. His loss, my gain. Until her unexpected death at eight years old, Macbeth and I hunted birds together all over North America.
Sherlock was a second stroke of luck. One fall evening I had finished giving a bird hunting seminar at an Orvis shop when a man walked in with a male setter puppy squirming under his arm. “I thought someone here might want to buy this dog,” he said. With no offers made and the store about to close, I considered paying his bargain price of only $150, but then thought better of it because the pup was so hyperactive and declined. The owner asked if I wanted to see the puppy’s brother, who was still in the truck.
“Why didn’t you bring him in?”
“He was sleeping.”
“Show me that dog.”
Beginning with ptarmigan in Quebec’s Far North, Sherlock gave 15-plus years of bird hunting joy for most species of grouse and quail along with pheasants and Hungarian partridge.
Whether counted in human or canine years, time passes too soon when you’re a bird hunter. Ragan, my current teammate, will be 14 when you read this. Each of these three dogs has been special, but I can’t rate them “good, better, best.” The common denominator is that my partners not only hunted with me but for me. We knew our roles and each other well.
Someone—it could have been Dr. Hall—said that the best time to brag about hunting dogs is after they’re gone, but you won’t find my stalwarts in the Bird Dog Hall of Fame. They don’t keep score of love or affection there.
Buy This Issue / Subscribe Now
