Steve Horswell
Member
For your continued reading pleasure. From time to time I will post additional tales...SRH
Tales of the Old Crony---Brandy’s Birds
It had been a slow day in the blind so the Old Crony and I had ample time to reflect on many hunts we had shared over the years. “Remember Brandy’s first hunt?” he asked and went on to tell of it: We had been trying for some late season bluebills on a nearby lake. The lake had been rough and the boat was quite small. The wind caught a bird we had hit and carried it far out from shore. Brandy was then still a small pup so I left her on the bank with him as I motored out for the retrieve. I glanced around to get directions and saw Brandy swimming towards me. Unhappy at being left behind, she had slipped away from him and took off after me. I went back, dragged her into the boat, and resumed looking for the downed duck. Appearing smug and very pleased with herself, she sat between my legs enjoying the wild ride. And she hadn’t stayed behind since.
He retold the story of her first duck as well: By the following morning, the wind had shifted to the northwest so we set up on an island he favors when it blows from that quarter. The ducks hadn’t been working with the intensity of the previous day but we managed to down a hen bluebill close to shore. As it splashed into the decoys, Brandy was off like a shot. Her enthusiasm had exceeded her style on that retrieve, but it would be hard to say which of the three of us were more proud.
I recalled that her first encounter with a goose came that same season: Other engagements had kept the Old Crony from joining us. Brandy and I had been hunting from my sneak boat on a nearby lake, had called in a single, and downed it. Still a pup, I decided she was too small to attempt such a retrieve. Too deep to wade, we headed out together in my small duck boat. The goose was quiet, with its head down on the water. It became very lively, however, as I grabbed it by the neck and hauled it aboard. We quickly discovered that a five foot long cockpit is too small for a man, a half-grown-dog, and an unruly fifteen pound Canada goose. I used one hand to hold the goose at arms-length and while the other shielded my face from the furious blows of the goose’s wings. The dog, showing good sense even at an early age, avoided the worst blows by putting her head between my legs. I wrestled with the goose and only got the upper hand when I lay upon it. The old man was thoroughly amused, picturing me trying to put a half-Nelson on a flapping goose in a rocking, little boat. The incident caused Brandy and me to develop a healthy respect for geese and, thereafter, we both preferred our geese very dead before attempting to retrieve them.
I went on to tell him about her first pheasant as well: It had been a cold, late December morning with a stiff northwesterly wind. A snowstorm had roared through in the night, depositing about a foot of the white stuff. Brandy and I had gone out to a marsh where the pheasants often hole up during bad weather. As we worked through the cattails and brush, I saw Brandy come to an abrupt stop. She leaned forward and raised her right front leg. Without any encouragement, she held steady as I walked past her. A rooster blasted off about ten yards away and I dropped him with a single shot. I hollered for Brandy, who continued to hold rock-solid, to fetch the bird. She bounded into the cattails, ran straight to where the rooster had fallen, and brought him back to my waiting hand. Beaming with pride, neither of us had felt any cold the remainder of the morning.
To be continued…
© All rights reserved. Steven R Horswell 2015
Tales of the Old Crony---Brandy’s Birds
It had been a slow day in the blind so the Old Crony and I had ample time to reflect on many hunts we had shared over the years. “Remember Brandy’s first hunt?” he asked and went on to tell of it: We had been trying for some late season bluebills on a nearby lake. The lake had been rough and the boat was quite small. The wind caught a bird we had hit and carried it far out from shore. Brandy was then still a small pup so I left her on the bank with him as I motored out for the retrieve. I glanced around to get directions and saw Brandy swimming towards me. Unhappy at being left behind, she had slipped away from him and took off after me. I went back, dragged her into the boat, and resumed looking for the downed duck. Appearing smug and very pleased with herself, she sat between my legs enjoying the wild ride. And she hadn’t stayed behind since.
He retold the story of her first duck as well: By the following morning, the wind had shifted to the northwest so we set up on an island he favors when it blows from that quarter. The ducks hadn’t been working with the intensity of the previous day but we managed to down a hen bluebill close to shore. As it splashed into the decoys, Brandy was off like a shot. Her enthusiasm had exceeded her style on that retrieve, but it would be hard to say which of the three of us were more proud.
I recalled that her first encounter with a goose came that same season: Other engagements had kept the Old Crony from joining us. Brandy and I had been hunting from my sneak boat on a nearby lake, had called in a single, and downed it. Still a pup, I decided she was too small to attempt such a retrieve. Too deep to wade, we headed out together in my small duck boat. The goose was quiet, with its head down on the water. It became very lively, however, as I grabbed it by the neck and hauled it aboard. We quickly discovered that a five foot long cockpit is too small for a man, a half-grown-dog, and an unruly fifteen pound Canada goose. I used one hand to hold the goose at arms-length and while the other shielded my face from the furious blows of the goose’s wings. The dog, showing good sense even at an early age, avoided the worst blows by putting her head between my legs. I wrestled with the goose and only got the upper hand when I lay upon it. The old man was thoroughly amused, picturing me trying to put a half-Nelson on a flapping goose in a rocking, little boat. The incident caused Brandy and me to develop a healthy respect for geese and, thereafter, we both preferred our geese very dead before attempting to retrieve them.
I went on to tell him about her first pheasant as well: It had been a cold, late December morning with a stiff northwesterly wind. A snowstorm had roared through in the night, depositing about a foot of the white stuff. Brandy and I had gone out to a marsh where the pheasants often hole up during bad weather. As we worked through the cattails and brush, I saw Brandy come to an abrupt stop. She leaned forward and raised her right front leg. Without any encouragement, she held steady as I walked past her. A rooster blasted off about ten yards away and I dropped him with a single shot. I hollered for Brandy, who continued to hold rock-solid, to fetch the bird. She bounded into the cattails, ran straight to where the rooster had fallen, and brought him back to my waiting hand. Beaming with pride, neither of us had felt any cold the remainder of the morning.
To be continued…
© All rights reserved. Steven R Horswell 2015