The last time I took Misty out hunting she was sixteen years old. I had purchased her as a pup from a local farmer who just happened to have a litter of liver and white english springer spaniels every year or so. My brother had an English Setter that was just too hot for southern Minnesota. She would quarter way ahead and get lost in the cornfields or marshes more often than not. It was one of those typical October mornings here with a light dew, sunlight filtered through high clouds and the refeshing aroma of decaying leaves that is almost intoxicating. Misty was going to stay home, but, the ol' girl put up such a fuss and would have no part of that idea. The others as well as I thought she would be of no use. She really could not see very well anymore, and deaf as a stone! Her trot lasted about ten steps and then into a gait that can only be described as 'the nursing home shuffle'. We, three hunters and three dogs, two of them setters, went out at the appointed hour of 9 a.m. We went about 50 yards and lost Misty in the lowground. The others made some unkindly remarks about old dogs and the need to put them down when they can't hunt anymore. I had the others go on ahead and sat by a tree near a hill for about 45 minutes. Low and behold, but what do you know, there she was following my trail with her nose. Needless to say, I was very glad to see her...she seemed happy, too.
We went up the hill and found the others, more caustic remarks about my dog followed. The race horses were really moving now, Misty was taking up the rear-behind me most of the time. I had hunted with these fellows for many years when I had the only dog, I really thought they would show the old girl some respect! These guys knew the same thing that I did, as Misty got older and lost her closing charge to flush a rooster pheasant she would let out a single bark. I am certain she knew if she didn't bark, the bird would outrun her and we would not get the shot. Although, perhaps, she thought I was getting slow in my old age and needed a little warning of the impending excitement. As the the four others covered the ground hurriedly in record time, Misty and I covered the same ground to get to the car where they were already waiting. We were about 40 yards away from the car now when suddenly she got into that "nursing home shuffle" again. The next thing you know, a burst of speed and a 'bark' of all things. The fellows at the car quickly turned their attention to my old dog just as the gaudy rooster became airborn. My .410 Winchester 101 reacted with with the quickness of a cat! The 3" #7 1/2 lead load from the bottom barrel caught him right on the preacher's collar nearly decapitating him. It is a good thing he wasn't too far away, as the retrieve might have done the senior citizen in that day. She proudly pranced back with the rooster in her mouth. I knelt down to take the bird. She really did not want to give it up. I don't know if she wanted an apology for trying to leave her at home, of if she knew it would be the last one and wanted to savor the moment. She reluctantly handed it over and we walked to the car. The first thing I did when we got back was lift her into the car and get her some water. With the windows open, so she could hear, I politely asked, "So, how many did you guys get?" Pause for dramitic effect. "You seem to have missed one."
When we got got home I fed and watered her in the very spot she layed for three days straight. She finally mustered enough energy to get up. She died about six months later.
I can only imagine what the other fellas were thinking after that about old hunting dogs and their usefulness in their last days. I am sure Misty thought of that day the rest of her life, as I have...with tears in my eyes.
I for one can not imagine leaving an old dog at home during the hunting season, if the spirit is willing!
Hairy
