Puppy Dreams...

Originally posted on my old blog, on May 10 of 2013...

Fletcher's first week here at home is almost complete and I have to say, it's been quite an adjustment for everyone, but everyone is getting a long just fine.  This first week has been simply time for him to adjust to his surroundings, his new owners and our miniature daschund, Abby.  Fletcher enjoys playing with Abby quite a bit and for the most part Abby enjoys playing with him.  However, like most older dogs being chased non stop by a pup, she eventually tires of the game and jumps up on the couch where he can't reach...yet.

There has been very little training this first week other than a few basics.  Tossing a puppy bumper for him in order to encourage his retrieving instinct is a game that he and I both enjoy, and it will pay off as he grows older.  Here in the next couple of days we'll introduce the wing of a chukar or quail, in order to foster his love of hunting birds.  I've started gently working him on "sit", but am not pushing it too much at his young age.  We'll get more into "sit", "come" and other commands soon enough.  Like most puppies, he is a tireless chewing machine and we're also working to correct that.  When outside, he feels the need to chew on every dandelion, pinecone, rock and blade of grass that he can get his teeth on.  We are getting quite familiar with the inside of his mouth as we work to get over this issue.  He has adjusted to his crate just fine and already realizes that's his space.  He no longer whines when put in his crate for the night.  He is also adjusting to going outside to do his business rather well.  I can count the number of times I've had to clean up a mess inside the house on one hand.  My getting up in the middle of the night to let him outside shouldn't have to last too much longer before he'll be sleeping all night without any accidents.

Fletcher has many puppy habits that are tiring, but he also has many that are absolutely wonderful.  The way a puppy plays and explores his world is filled with an innocence and zest that I think most adults miss about their own childhood.  Of all his habits and traits, there is one that has become my favorite in the short week he's been here.  At times when I'm sitting in my recliner and Fletcher suddenly decides he needs a nap he will run over to my chair, put his front feet up on it and want me to pick him up in my lap like a young grandchild would.  Once up in my lap, he will curl up into a ball and within minutes he's snoring.  I think my lap is his favorite place to sleep thus far, and I have to admit, it's my favorite place for him to sleep as well.  When he's curled up dreaming dreams that only puppies can dream, I'll gently stroke his soft fur and talk softly to him of the adventures we'll have in the future.  I tell him of future duck blinds, grouse coverts, hunting camps, places we'll explore and of course I tell him stories of times spent with my last lab, Kody.  Oh, I know he doesn't hear me or probably even care, but it comforts this old man to think that maybe, just maybe, the reason his tail wags in his sleep is because he too looks forward to those future adventures and days afield.

God bless puppy breath.

Home Sweet Home...

After a very long day spent driving, we finally brought Fletcher home yesterday.  This eight week old ball of black fur already has me wrapped around his little paw.  I look forward to our future adventures together.

There is just something about the smell(s) of a puppy.  I wish I could bottle puppy breath and sell it, for it's the only thing that heals the broken heart of a bird hunter who has lost a dog.  The smell of the pup's fur is also unique and I can't seem to get enough of it.  As for the few times that he has already used the kitchen floor as a bathroom, well I am even embracing that smell.

Then there are the puppy characteristics that appeal to my other senses...the softness of his fur, the sound of my daughter's laughter as she plays with Fletcher and the feel of his sharp little puppy teeth nibbling on my finger.  All of these are making for a wonderful morning at our house.  Yes indeed, there is nothing like bringing home a new pup.

Puppy Breath...

Originally posted on my old blog, on April 13 of 2013...


          Fletcher is my new male black Labrador retriever.  Actually, as I type this, he’s not quite mine yet.  He and his brothers & sisters were born on March 8, 2013 and we’re scheduled to pick the little fur ball up in three weeks.  To say I’m excited would be a serious understatement.

I’ve started this blog as a kind of journal and record of the adventures Fletcher and I will share.  I think it’ll be a fun way of watching him grow and it provides me with plenty of material to write about.  Fletcher and I will be sharing our hunting stories with you of course, but we’ll also share the off season stuff including everything from campfires to fishing from the kayak.  That's right, I plan on taking a big 70 pound Labrador with me in my kayak.  That should prove to be an adventure.  Based on my experience of owning my last lab…or him owning me depending on who you ask…I’m sure this blog will provide plenty of entertainment with more than enough humor thrown in.

Fletcher was originally going to be from the same breeder as my last lab, Kody, with Kody’s sister being the mother of my next pup.  However, the planned breeding didn’t happen as we thought it would.  A bit of research provided me with an ad from Hardy Lake Retrievers for the litter that I’m getting Fletcher from.  For those of you who are interested, here is a link showing Fletcher’s father, Hammerin’ Hank…

 

www.hamerinhank.com

And here is Hammerin’ Hank’s pedigree…

www.huntinglabpedigree.com/pedigree.asp?id=14049

While I don’t have any link showing pictures of Fletcher’s mom, Wake, here is her pedigree…

www.huntinglabpedigree.com/pedigree.asp?id=42844

While Fletcher will have some good bloodlines that will really fuel his desire to hunt, retrieve and chase birds, I foresee him being an even better best buddy.  It’s going to be a long next three weeks.

Kody, I Remember...

Originally posted on my old blog, on September 29 of 2012....

Dear Kody,

            Well buddy, it’s been a little over three weeks since you breathed your last breath.  It’s been a rough three weeks for me, that’s for sure.  I can’t count the number of times that I’ve pulled in the driveway, glanced at your empty kennel, and shed a tear.  Ginger and the girls miss you too.  As you can imagine, the girls took it pretty hard.  You were a big part of this family and I hope you felt every bit of our love while you were here.

            I’m not sure why I’m writing this letter, other than I think I need a little closure and feel the need to say good-bye properly.  Somehow simply rubbing your ears and telling you you’re a good boy while you took your last breath doesn’t seem enough, although it’s all we had time for.

The leaves on the trees are beginning to change color and I’m finding it hard to focus on anything but hunting season.  It’s a bittersweet feeling, since we won’t be sharing a duck blind or a walk in the grouse woods together this year.  You know full well that I won’t hunt birds without a good bird dog, so it appears I’ll be focusing solely on bowhunting whitetails this fall.  However, the memories of our too few hunts together will be at the forefront of my mind.  Places with names such as Woodcock Haven, the Goose Pit, Mallard Hole, the Hot Spot, the Pulpit and Grouse Island will never be the same without you by my side.  Our adventures in those places are cherished memories, and in my dreams we will hunt them again.

Like I told you as we lay beside each other on the floor of the vet’s office during your last few minutes, five and a half years was way too short, yet we had a hell of a good run.  When I think back on our time together, a few special memories make me smile.

For example, do you remember our first grouse?  I do.  You were still but a pup at 8 months of age.  I remember the smell of the Wisconsin northwoods that day.  I remember the bird’s flush and my shot that just winged it.  I remember seeing the bird, still very much alive but unable to fly, standing among the forest floor and my calling you over to it.  I can vividly still see you approach the bird for the retrieve, only to have the bird flair up and charge you, and I can still hear the nervousness in your bark as you told that bird what you thought of it.  I can still hear Ed laughing at the entire scene.  I’m looking at that cocky grouse now, mounted on the wall, its wings spread as if in flight.  It is a beautiful bird and that was a beautiful day.  It wasn’t the perfect shot or the perfect retrieve, but together we were two very proud rookies.  That day is, thankfully, etched in my mind.

How about our first mallard?  Do you remember the sun glistening on the drops of water as the bird rose up off of the river and into the air?  I do.  I remember the wind blowing through the yellow leaves of the large maple tree on shore and I remember the sound of the 20 gauge as I squeezed the trigger.  I remember the look of surprise on your face as that bird folded and dropped to the opposite shore, since you knew better than anyone else how poor of a shot I am.  I remember you jumping into the water immediately, not needing any commands before doing your job.  I remember you eagerly swimming back to me with that drake in your mouth, anxious to show me what you had found.  I remember myself being overly picky about the photo of you and your first duck.  You were such a handsome dog though, and nothing short of the perfect picture would do.  I didn’t have that mallard mounted, but I wish now that I would have.  We were, once again, two very proud rookies.  That day also, thankfully, is etched in my mind.

Speaking of birds that I wish I had mounted, do you remember that Halloween day we walked along Pony Creek with Scott in an attempt to jump shoot wood ducks?  I do.  Do you remember how badly I wanted…and still want…a drake wood duck on my wall?  I remember seeing those wood ducks down stream a short distance, making the stalk and flushing them off the water.  I remember the sound of their wings flapping furiously in an attempt to escape danger and gain altitude.  I remember the feel of the shotgun against my shoulder and the sight of the bead on a drake in full color.  I remember the way he too, like the mallard, folded at the shot and the splash his limp body created as it hit the cold water.  I remember the pride I felt as you brought the bird back to me and delivered it right to my waiting hand.  I also remember the taxidermist telling me that he couldn’t repair the drake’s beak that had been blown off during the shot.  I am still without a wood duck drake on my wall, but maybe the new pup and I will manage to accomplish that task next year.

What’s that?  Yeah, I’m getting a new pup next spring.  I hope you’re okay with that.  No dog will ever replace you and I will forever miss you.  However, I knew the day you died that I would have another bird dog.  I always said you would be my one and only, but I never imagined you would leave us so soon.  There are too many things that you and I were never able to do together.  I hope you’ll help guide the new pup when he comes.  Together you and I should be able to make a bird dog out of him.  Oh, who am I kidding?  You know as well as I do that the only reason you became such a good bird dog is because of your breeding and instinct, not because of the training I gave you.  But I feel that I learned a lot with you.  I know some things that I should have done, and other things that I shouldn’t, as a trainer.  Funny, I never thought of it that way, but you trained me buddy.  I learned more from you than you did from me, that’s for sure.

Since you passed away, I’ve had a lot of people express their sympathies.  Many of them have said things such as how the loss of a good dog can be just like the loss of a child.  Sorry buddy, I mean no disrespect, but it’s nothing like that.  I have buried my own son and although I miss you terribly, it’s not the same.  But damn it still hurts.  However, it makes me smile knowing that you and that son of mine are probably chasing birds in fields and forests so beautiful that I can only imagine their glory.  I bet Jacob is a good shot, and I bet he’s shooting the finest of side by side shotguns.  I’m sure you two are getting along just fine and having a fantastic time doing so.

Kody, I feel the need to thank you before I let you go.  There it is; the tears and the true reason behind this letter.  I have never had a dog like you buddy.  I had wanted a Labrador retriever since I was 19 years old, and you didn’t disappoint.  You were well worth the wait and even if I had known you would only live such a short time, I wouldn’t trade our time together for anything.  Your love for my family and I was truly unconditional.  I knew you better than I know most people.  Now, as your ashes rest on the shelf in our living room, all I have left are the cherished memories and the love you left in my heart.  Yet, that’s an awful lot and I’m thankful for it all.  So thanks buddy.  Thanks for everything and I’ll see you soon enough.  And yes, when I arrive at the gates to Heaven, I’ll be sure to have a Milkbone in my pocket.

I’ll let you go now.  You have birds to chase and I have to write a letter to that new pup.

Now, hunt ‘em up Kody.  Good boy.

That Damn Hat...

Originally posted on my old blog, on September 3 of 2012...



There is something special about a good hat.  At least to a man.  Women don't seem to understand the need for the perfect hat, my wife included.  Recently I told her I wanted to buy a new hat.  She rolled her eyes and made mention of the numerous hats I already own.  In order to help defend my case, I wrote and then e-mailed my wife the below story.  It must have worked, because her e-mailed reply was "Buy your damn hat."  The pen is truly mightier than the sword!  Enjoy!

 

 

 

That Damn Hat

 

 

The elderly lady stepped up to the coffin and lovingly looked at the shell that was once her husband.  She knew that he was no longer here, but she wanted some time alone with “him” before the girls and rest of the family arrived.  She smiled at how peaceful he looked, laying there in his suit and with his worn bible in his hands.  She peered over the top of her glasses at the items decorating the casket and area close to it; lots of pictures, her husband’s favorite wool coat, the longbow that he made out in his wood shop three winters ago, a leather quiver full of arrows that he had also made and there, on top of the casket, was that damn hat.

The widow smiled to herself as she reached up and took the hat from its place.  Her mind suddenly filled with memories of her husband and she couldn’t help but to feel the heartbreak of losing him ease a little bit.  She remembered the day he said he wanted that hat, forty years ago.  The fool had enough hats to start his own store, but there he was wanting another one.

“Honey, this hat will be THE hat.  It’ll end my search for the perfect hat, I’m telling ya!” he had said.

 

“What about that hat hanging on the coat rack, out in the breezeway?” she had replied.

Her husband went on and on about how the hat in the breezeway wasn’t shaped right, didn’t fit right, didn’t look right, and blah, blah, blah.  She finally had given in and told him to order the hat he wanted, just to shut him up.  The day it came, he was like a kid on Christmas.  She just rolled her eyes as he jokingly asked if he could wear it to bed.

“You’ll understand someday baby.” he had assured her with a boyish smile.

Now, forty years later, she was holding that stupid hat knowing she would never again see her husband walk in the cottage door wearing it while his eyes lit up just seeing her.  Oh how she loved that about him.  It never mattered if he had been gone for two weeks on a hunting trip or just a half hour walk looking for blueberries.  He was always delighted to see the love of his life.

The old lady ran her wrinkled, soft fingers along the brim of the hat.  The worn felt hat was full of character.  There were stains and blemishes that held stories of her husband’s life.  He wore the damn thing everywhere, especially on his bowhunting trips.  She recognized one particularly dark stain on the crown of the hat, where her husband had carelessly removed his hat in the middle of quartering a moose.  His hands were covered in the animal’s blood at the time and the stain was a reminder of that hunt, as well as the hour the widow had spent trying to wash the stain out of the hat for her husband upon his return.

She glanced up at the pictures that her daughters had used to decorate the table near the casket.  There were lots of family pictures, pictures of just the two of them, vacation pictures, pictures of him with a few of his closest friends, and quite a few pictures of him bowhunting or fly fishing.  The lady noticed two things in every one of the pictures; his wonderful smile and he was wearing that damn hat.  The hat was as much a part of him as that charming smile, she thought.

“Mam?” came a voice from behind her.  It was the young secretary from the funeral home.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” the secretary continued, “but a few weeks ago, your husband came in and dropped this off.”   She handed the widow a small box that had her name on it.

“He asked that when his funeral day came, that I give it to you.  Again, I’m sorry to interrupt and my sympathies over your loss.  He was such a nice man.  I’ll leave you alone.”

The elderly lady gave a polite but forced smile and managed a soft thank you as the secretary walked out of the room.  She still had the hat in one hand, so she laid it back down on top of the casket and opened the box.  Her eyes filled with tears as she pulled out a red glass heart.  Also in the box was a note in her husband’s hand writing and she clutched the glass heart close to her chest as she read…

Dearest Love,

            If you are reading this, then my time here on earth is through and I am dancing with Jesus.  As I have always said, please do not cry but rather rejoice!

            Enclosed in this box you will find “your heart”.  I hope you will see, that while it may have a chip or two, that I did indeed guard it safely and treasure it above all else.  Loving you was the greatest joy I ever had in life and I anxiously await your arrival here in heaven.  Until then, know that I will be missing you.  Please give the girls my love.

                                    Yours forever and always, no matter what,

                                                                                         -Jameson

At this the widow began to sob, but soon regained her composure.  She pulled a tissue from her pants pocket and wiped the tears away best she could.  Then she walked over to the casket and gently placed the glass heart in the pocket of her husband’s suit coat.

“You old poop.  My heart is yours forever.”

With that she took the old hat from the top of the casket, brought it to her nose and inhaled deeply, smelling her husband one last time.  Then she carefully slid the hat inside the coffin beside him.  That damn hat is part of him and that’s where it belongs, she thought.

“You were right my love.  I understand now.” she said out loud.  And with that she gently kissed her husband’s still lips and turned to go let her daughters in.  It was time for her and her family to rejoice.

 

The Chair...

Originally posted on my old blog, on June 12 of 2012...

If you walk into the living room of our humble home, you will notice a few things.  The first thing you may notice is that handsome pronghorn antelope on the wall in one corner, followed by the beautiful ruffed grouse on the other side of the same wall.  You will see our fairly new television, which serves to entertain my wife and daughters on a daily basis.  Personally, I watch very little television and feel the women in my house should be watching old westerns and Andy Griffith reruns instead of “reality” TV, which has to be the fakest stuff ever produced.

The last thing you may notice in our living room is an old, brown recliner.  It is “my” chair, the throne of my small castle.  It is as old as I am and I am not its first owner.  This old Lazy Boy recliner, which I am writing this from, used to belong to my grandfather.  It was Gramp’s chair for many, many years and I grew up admiring this one piece of furniture above all else in my grandparent’s house (besides my grandparents, of course).  My brother and I were welcome to sit in Grandpa’s chair if he wasn’t, but if he came into the room we knew to move ourselves to the couch or floor, which we did out of respect for Grandpa and with no argument whatsoever.  I don’t recall Grandpa, Grandma or anyone else ever telling us we had to vacate their chairs when they entered the room.  We just did it.  As much as this is going to sound so cliché and exactly like something us old folks are expected to say, this is part of what’s wrong with today’s youth…less and less respect for their elders whether it be grandparents, teachers, police or whatever.  I know that letting Grandpa or Grandma have their chairs when they came into the room served to teach us boys respect for an older generation and that’s why I require the same of my children, even as they grow into adulthood.  My daughter has always known this was a rule in my house, but my stepdaughters had to get used to it when my wife and I were first married and I moved in.  They didn’t like it at first, but they’ve learned well and I like to think they understand why it’s the right thing to do.  I still to this day will get up and move if my grandparents want to sit in their chairs.  It is respect that is due to them.

This old chair that I sit in doesn’t fit me.  Those of you that have been “fitted” for a recliner before know full well what I mean.  I look like a giant sitting in this thing, although I find it to be quite comfy.  The cushion where you sit has been long broken in and the footrest is a bit too close for my long legs.  Nonetheless, there is no place I would rather sit.  Each time I sit here, I am flooded with memories of my wonderful, precious boyhood.  Memories that seem as if they were centuries ago now.  Memories that I wish I could relive, because I truly had a wonderful childhood.

I recall the many times that Gramps would be sleeping in his chair, or rather pretending to sleep, and we boys would sneak up from behind him.  He would be reclined back with his feet up and his eyes shut, yet I’m sure he was aware of what was about to happen, and we would suddenly push down on the back of the chair and thus tip Grandpa backwards until he was on the floor.  He would act surprised and a wrestling match would ensue, usually resulting in one or both of us boys in what Gramp’s called the Crow’s Nest (a wrestling move more commonly called a Scissors Hold).  Oh what fun it was to wrestle with Grandpa on the floor while Grandma sat in her chair watching, with that loving smile and sparkle in her eye just knowing that her boys were having a good time.

I also remember the old CB that Grandpa had on a shelf beside his chair.  There were numerous times when baby brother and I would get on the CB when nobody was looking, just to ask for a radio check.  We really thought we were cool each time some trucker in the area replied that our radio was working fine.

Then there was the time when I, as a teenager, had a buddy over and we were watching a movie.  Gramps was downstairs in the basement taking his evening shower and I was sitting in his chair.  My friend, John, and I were watching the show when in came Grandpa walking from the basement to his bedroom, which took him right through the living room, in his birthday suit.  Apparently, he had forgotten his pajamas in his bedroom and felt that we boys weren’t going to see anything that we hadn’t seen before.  You have to know my Grandpa to really understand how very little of a shock that was to us.  John and I still talk about that to this day, although we don’t see each other often anymore.

There is a picture of myself when I was a boy, sitting on Grandpa’s lap while he smokes a pipe, in this chair.  I don’t remember that day, but I love that picture.  It’s funny how nowadays anyone smoking with a kid in their lap is a horrible influence and is going to kill the kid.  Sure, lots of secondhand smoke isn’t good, but an occasional pipe won’t hurt any more than drinking water from the garden hose instead of a plastic bottle will.  Now that I own Grandpa’s old chair and one of his pipes, I have every intention of having a picture taken of myself smoking a pipe with my future grandson in my lap, critics be damned.

Yes, this chair holds lots of memories, a lot more than I could ever write about on this blog.  They are memories that always make me smile and be thankful for such a wonderful childhood.  My grandparents were and still are very special people to me.  Without them, my boyhood would have been lacking many of the adventures that have made me the man I am today.  Someday I’ll be a grandfather.  I have no doubt that my future grandchildren and I will have many adventures, right here in this old chair.

Grandpa and Grandma…thanks for everything, and I do mean everything.  From the trips to Canada to the times you let me cry on your shoulder, from replacing the clutch in my old Camaro to the homemade cookies, from being at Jacob’s funeral to taking us boys fishing, from giving me my first job to babysitting the daughter of a newly single father while he worked the late shift at the factory, from the many bottles and cans of Pepsi to being firm yet loving with a foolish drunk teenager, from the wrestling matches to the many hugs…and everything in between, thank you.  You will never realize how much the love you’ve shown others, me included, has impacted future generations.  You’re the greatest and I am an eternally grateful grandson.


And I really love this old chair.

My Buddy...

Originally posted on my old blog, on May 20 of 2012...

It is no secret that the bond between a man and his dog is a strong one.  Especially if that man is a bird hunter and his dog is a bird dog.  From the time that dog is brought home as a clumsy, curious and adorable pup, the man and his dog become not only pet and owner, but also hunting companions and best friends.  Such is the case with my black Labrador Retriever, Kody.

Don’t get me wrong, Kody is a knothead.  But he’s my knothead.  That big ox has had me smiling, swearing, laughing, frustrated and just plain old dumbfounded at times.  At times he’s made me proud and at other times he’s had me ready to leave him stranded in the woods while I pack up the truck and head home.  I’ve watched him do everything from eat goose poop to break ice just so he could swim during a terribly cold winter duck hunt.  He’s cuddled up with barn cats and scared Fed Ex drivers so badly that they won’t get out of the truck when they pull in the drive.  We’ve shared successful hunts together and non successful hunts.  He’s retrieved pheasants, grouse, woodcock, doves, ducks, geese and even a sparrow or two (or three, or four, or five).  I’ve watched him swim across a strong river’s current and find a dead mallard in the most impenetrable brush imaginable, yet I’ve also watched him walk right over a dead dove laying in plain sight that he couldn’t find.  Together we’ve shared everything from fajitas to cold beer, from campfires to ice cream.  He loves my family with a love so unconditional that if he were human, I would trust him with their lives.  Usually he loves to play, but once he sees me get out the shotgun, he goes into work mode.  When I’m shooting my bow in the backyard and in the few (okay, maybe more than I care to admit) instances that I miss the target and can’t find my arrow, I go get Kody out of the kennel.  I know he’ll come out there and when given the command “hunt it up”, he’ll rush out into the yard with his nose checking every square inch of ground until he suddenly stops, tail wagging rapidly.  It’s then that I know he’s found it and I had best get to it before he digs it up out of the grass and demolishes it.

When life, cars, teenage daughters, work or whatever it is has me frustrated, I know I can lean on him and vent without him telling me what a cry baby I am.  He’ll lay down at my feet while I smoke my pipe, give a large sigh because he would rather be out hunting, and fall asleep on the floor of my shop.  He’ll soon start snoring, no doubt dreaming of hunts gone by, until I get up out of my chair.  Then he suddenly is wide awake and following me every step.  His favorite place isn’t in his dog house, in a duck blind or even in the northwoods chasing grouse. Rather, it’s at my side.  I don’t know why and I can’t explain it.  But that’s where he wants to be 24/7 and I wish I could oblige him.

There is one emotion that Kody hasn’t caused me to feel quite yet and that’s sadness.  Someday he’ll take his last breath as I pet that head of his which is large enough to rest a small block V8 on, and I’ll cry like a baby as I feel the warmth steal away from him.  Then I’ll take him home and bury him out behind the barn where many days after I’ll walk out with a pipe in hand, sit down in the grass and talk to him.  I’ll miss him terribly.  But that’s the bittersweet price we pay for having a pet so wonderful and dear to our hearts.  Until that day comes, I can’t say whether or not I’ll get another dog after Kody’s gone.  I’ll deal with that decision when it comes.  However, I can say this…no dog will ever replace my buddy.  He’s one of a kind.

I know you will never read this Kody, but I love you buddy.  And I’m counting the days until hunting season, if for no other reason than to simply give you that which you deserve.  What’s that?  Yeah, I’ll quit with the mushy crap and get you a Milkbone now.  Knothead.