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The dog-naming thread reminded me of this great hunting dog story I heard not long ago. I thought a thread on great hunting dog stories would be appropriate for this board.
I know someone who helps train cocker spaniels as hunting dogs. The head trainer had a dog, we'll call him Frank, who had always been a true companion - loyal, hard-working, always in a great mood, always a proud assistant when younger dogs were being trained. But Frank had gotten so old that, try as he might, he could no longer even leap onto the pickup bed to go out with the younger dogs for field training, which was his true love. So his owner would lift Frank up to the bed and away they'd go.
Hunting season came along and one day Frank knew something was up when the guys were gathering a few dogs in pickups. He must have put on his please-take-me eyes because the owner hoisted him into the pickup, and away they went.
They came to a slough and started working. It was getting toward evening and starting to snow. Suddenly they flushed a pheasant and someone knocked it down. The dogs all went for the bird, but it was in such brush and entanglement that it was hard to get through. Frank joined in.
After some time the dogs came trickling back, without the bird - but no Frank. They called and looked and went through the bush as best they could, long after dark. But he never responded, and everyone feared the worst, though there was general consensus that if Frank had to go this was what he would have chosen.
If I recall right, they were about 5 miles from the owner's home. He was upset, obviously. Late that night, I want to say around midnight, he heard a commotion at his front door. He opened it and there was Frank, bird in mouth. The next day they went back and checked his trail in the fresh snow and found where he had stopped to rest, every couple hundred yards or so, on his way home.
After you hear something like this you understand why they call them man's best friend.
I know someone who helps train cocker spaniels as hunting dogs. The head trainer had a dog, we'll call him Frank, who had always been a true companion - loyal, hard-working, always in a great mood, always a proud assistant when younger dogs were being trained. But Frank had gotten so old that, try as he might, he could no longer even leap onto the pickup bed to go out with the younger dogs for field training, which was his true love. So his owner would lift Frank up to the bed and away they'd go.
Hunting season came along and one day Frank knew something was up when the guys were gathering a few dogs in pickups. He must have put on his please-take-me eyes because the owner hoisted him into the pickup, and away they went.
They came to a slough and started working. It was getting toward evening and starting to snow. Suddenly they flushed a pheasant and someone knocked it down. The dogs all went for the bird, but it was in such brush and entanglement that it was hard to get through. Frank joined in.
After some time the dogs came trickling back, without the bird - but no Frank. They called and looked and went through the bush as best they could, long after dark. But he never responded, and everyone feared the worst, though there was general consensus that if Frank had to go this was what he would have chosen.
If I recall right, they were about 5 miles from the owner's home. He was upset, obviously. Late that night, I want to say around midnight, he heard a commotion at his front door. He opened it and there was Frank, bird in mouth. The next day they went back and checked his trail in the fresh snow and found where he had stopped to rest, every couple hundred yards or so, on his way home.
After you hear something like this you understand why they call them man's best friend.
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