SSAA: Australia’s best hunting and shooting magazines

The last hunt

by ‘Doc’ O’Meara

Jason was a great kid, but at the age of 13, like many boys that age, he was a bit shy and unsure of himself. My wife, never having been a boy, didn’t really understand.

Gretchen was a natural pointer with a nose like radar.I had been there and explained as best I could. We agreed that he needed a means to develop a greater sense of responsibility and the confidence that comes with unconditional love, unquestioned loyalty and absolute approval of his actions. In other words, he needed a puppy of his own.

All three of our boys began their education as hunters about the time they started school, but growing up in a military family, with their father away for extended periods, left gaps between lessons. Nevertheless, they developed good outdoor skills.

Our bird hunting trips would’ve been better with a dog but it was not until the last years of my career that duty assignments were stable enough that we could count on being in one place for a while. A dog needs a measure of stability too.

My wife’s idea of a proper dog is something on the order of a Yorkshire terrier or a toy poodle. Fortunately, the task of picking the pup was left to me.

Although the puppy was to be Jason’s, it would also have to be compatible with the rest of the family. I wanted one that would provide some measure of protection during those times I was away and would have the innate intelligence to be easily trained, both as a house pet and as a hunting companion. Sometimes fate is kind.

A week before Christmas there was an advert in the local newspaper describing a littler of German shorthair pointer puppies for sale. Their price was affordable and I’d always liked the breed. They tend, in my experience, to be extremely friendly and even-tempered with members of the family but rather stand-offish with strangers. They also have a reputation for being fearlessly protective of their turf and their owners. Their abilities as a hunting breed are outstanding.

The call was made and I went to the man’s home to see the litter. There were five left. I sat cross-legged on the floor and watched as they played among themselves. One, a female with a brown head and a large spot on her right side, tussled with her littermates for a while, then stopped, sat down and looked right at me; her head cocked to one side. A moment later, she stood, walked towards me on her wobbly little legs and climbed into my lap. I had been chosen. A deal was struck and arrangements made to pick up the pup on Christmas Eve.

There’s a tradition in our family that has provided a lot of fun throughout the years. Every Christmas Eve, if the family is together, we go to my wife’s sister’s home to exchange gifts with her family, then to her parent’s place to exchange there. From there we go to our home to open more packages and have a late buffet supper.

It would have been impossible to hide the new member of the family at our house so we arranged to keep her at my in-laws’. She was fed, watered and romped in the backyard. When she tired, I placed her in a large box with shredded newspaper and a loud ticking alarm clock. She was left to sleep contentedly in an upstairs room while I met the family at our first stop.

With all the excitement of the day, the boys never noticed that I went ahead when it came time to go their grandparents’ house. The puppy was quiet when I arrived but she was looking up at me, expectantly, when I peeked into the box. When the family arrived and the kids had settle down for some serious present opening, I disappeared upstairs and readied the pup by tying a big red bow and a card to her collar.

No-one noticed when I tiptoed downstairs. Jason was seated on the couch with his brothers, looking anxiously at the gifts beneath the tree. I placed the puppy on the floor beside the couch. All the adults in the room waited with bated breath. The little pup looked around the corner of the couch and saw three pairs of shoes. A moment later she was sniffing at Jason’s feet. One of his cousins spied her and cried out, “A puppy!”

Jason looked down and, beaming, picked her up. Tears began to well in his eyes as he read the card. It said, ‘I’m supposed to get a boy for Christmas. I think I’ll call him Jason.’ When he read it out loud, there wasn’t a dry eye in the place.

Jason ignored most of the rest of the night’s activities, devoting his full attention to the pup. Later, on the way to our house, he rode beside me in the pick-up truck, holding a very contented little dog. That’s when I nearly lost it. He looked at me and said, “Thanks, Pop. This is the best Christmas I ever had.” I could barely talk around the big lump in my throat to tell him he was welcome.

That was just the beginning. The pup was named Gretchen. Both she and Jason grew to be all I hoped. All the neighbourhood kids were her friends, but no adult who wasn’t a member of the family could get near her or them. She never bit anyone, but she made it perfectly clear that her family, which included the neighbour’s kids, were off limits to strangers.

Gretchen was a natural pointer with a nose like radar. By three months of age she was pointing quail wings presented on the end of a fishing line and was rock steady on point at six months. Her first season afield was good as far as it went but during much of it I was in the Caribbean with my ship. The second was better and by her third season I was on shore duty for my last tour before retirement, so we began hunting with her much more often.

While I was away, Gretchen’s nose proved its worth. My youngest boy, Aaron, was out walking her when a frantic mother stopped and asked if he had seen her three-year-old child who had wondered off. The toddler hadn’t been gone long, but there’s a big patch of woods and several small lakes nearby. An unsupervised little one could get into serious troubles there. Aaron told the distraught woman that he hadn’t seen him and asked if she had any of his clothing in the car. ‘Seek’ was one of the first commands Gretchen had been taught.

The child’s mother handed him a jacket and Aaron placed it in front of the dog’s nose and let her get a good whiff. Giving the command, he released her from the leash. Gretchen began casting about and then started running up the street towards the woman’s house. She continued past it, stopping two doors away and entered a neighbour’s yard, with Aaron close behind. The youngster was there, quietly playing with another toddler.

Her protective nature and even temper were put to the test the following spring. A burglar made two big mistakes: the first was not knowing that school had let out early that day and the second was coming into our yard.

When the burglar came over the fence from the neighbour’s yard and started towards our back door, Gretchen came out from under a bush. He stopped short when he saw her. Jason looked out the window when he heard her bark and snarl. He watched as the man ran to the gate in the six-foot stockade fence leading to the front and went through, slamming it behind him as Gretchen pursued.

She wasn’t stopped for long. She simply leapt the shorter, four-foot link fence that separates our yard from the neighbour’s and continued the chase. She caught up quickly, with Jason and many of the neighbourhood kids close behind. By the time they got there, Gretchen had the man pinned against a car parked at the kerb. Her jaws were open and around his throat. She always had a gentle mouth with birds and hadn’t applied any pressure, probably because he gave up all resistance.

One of the kids rang the police and a few minutes later two patrol cars pulled ’round the corner. The officers stepped out and one asked who owned the dog. Jason told him she was his. The lawman asked him to call her off and, with the command, Gretchen came and sat beside Jason, quiet, but with teeth still bared. The officer asked Jason to hold her but he said it wouldn’t be necessary. Taking him at his word, he approached and took the would-be thief into custody. As the thief was led to the car he was heard to mutter, “Boy, am I glad to see you guys.”

It seemed hardly any time at all; Jason grew to manhood and moved into a house across town. Unfortunately, pets were not permitted so Gretchen remained with us. However, he was near enough to visit quite regularly, so the separation wasn’t too traumatic for either of them.

It came as a shock to me when I realised that Gretchen was growing old. She was moving more slowly and had gone very grey at the muzzle. Arthritis had set into her left hip and she tends to limp a bit on damp days.

My pick-up truck has a good cap on it and I always keep camping gear in it as a precaution against emergencies on the road. That’s where Gretchen rides when we go hunting. She simply curls up on my sleeping bag until we reach our destination.

One day my wife had hauled some bags of mulch and topsoil for her flower garden in the truck. Some of it had spilled so I was cleaning it out. Gretchen was watching as I repacked the camping gear and must have thought I was getting ready for a hunt. She tried to climb in. She couldn’t make it by herself and looked over at me as if asking for a hand. I told her, “No”, and took her into the backyard for a brief game of fetch. Watching her move, I realised there wasn’t much time left for hunting. Our previous hunt had left her exhausted. I dismissed it to her being out of shape, but knew now that her time for hunting had grown short.

It was early spring. The regular season for quail had ended three weeks before and we hadn’t been on an outing since December. By the start of the next season, more than six months in the future, Gretchen would not be up to going.

The season was closed, but I considered taking her out with the gun unloaded so that she would at least have the opportunity to put up a few birds. She’s given me enough dirty looks in criticism when I’ve missed throughout the years but not shooting at all would likely confuse her. No, she must have a genuine hunt, complete with the opportunity to find taken game.

There was only one answer available. There are a few private game farms in the area. In a week their mandatory closing date would be at hand. I’ve never had much interest in ‘canned hunts’ but I couldn’t believe she’d know the difference. Gretchen has brought both Jason and me so much joy during the years that this would be worth it to provide her with the opportunity to do that for which she was bred and for which she has so much heart. I made arrangements for a mid-week date. Unfortunately, Jason was unable to join us.

This was to be a private affair, just for the two of us. Walking the hedgerows around the cultivated fields on the private preserve was much easier on her than our usual hunting grounds. Aged as she had become, with dimming eyes and stiffening legs, her nose was apparently unaffected. In the course of the half-day hunt she put up three coveys of quail and two pheasants. I managed to drop four quail and one of the pheasants. She found all of them easily and retrieved the quail with no trouble, but the big cock pheasant was large enough to cause her problems carrying it back to me. I went to her.

By the time we’d finished, she was obviously tired and having difficulty walking. When we returned to the truck I helped her in and she immediately went to sleep.

I don’t know if I did this for her or for myself, because I knew in my heart that she would never be able to make it through another season afield. I will sorely miss her companionship on the hunt.

She will probably live another few years, but who can tell? I haven’t the heart to put her down until it’s absolutely necessary. Hopefully she will simply die peacefully in her sleep.

In the evening, as she lies sleeping near my feet, she will sometimes appear to come to a solid point. She hesitates as though waiting for the flush and the shot and then her legs begin moving while her head twitches from side to side, as though she is casting for the scent of a dead bird. It seems she has her own memories that are as fond as the ones I cherish. Perhaps some are of our last hunt.