Published in the May, 1996 issue of Pennsylvania Game News
"How is he doc?" asked the old man in a slow, fearful voice.
The vet stroked a finger along the edge of his thick gray moustache, then looked directly at the old man and said, "His condition has worsened. Frankly, I'm surprised he's lived this long." then after a pause added, "He'll likely continue to weaken until we won't have any choice but to put him down. The sooner we do it, the better off he'll be."
But the old man refused the suggestion. Looking down into the tired brown eyes of the now frail retriever, he couldn't just end its life. They had shared too much together. No, he wouldn't do it; not now.
"No," answered the old man slowly as his mind returned from some far off place. "I think I'll give him a little more time. Thanks doc for all your help though." With that the old man gently scooped up the dog from the examination table and placed him on the floor. After securing the leash, he let the dog lead them out of the vet's place toward the waiting car.
Driving home, the old man thought about what to do. He looked over at the retriever curled up on the seat beside him, and as if on cue, the dog lifted his head and looked back at him. It was then that the old man knew what he had to do.
Early the next morning the old man donned his hunting clothes, retrieved the shotgun from the cabinet, and made his way toward the kitchen door. The dog, seeing the gun case and smelling the familiar smells from the brush pants, carefully stood up and made his way to the door, his tail wagging expectantly.
A smile played across the old man's face as he noted the dog's enthusiasm. Gently stroking the dog's head, he whispered, "Come on pup, let's go huntin' one more time." He could hardly finish the words; his throat tightened as he looked into the dog's eyes.
* * * * * * * * *
It was early October. The opening of grouse season was still two weeks away, but the old man was determined to let the dog hunt one last time. He drove to their favorite patch of woods. It was an area the old man and his sons referred to as "the beaver ponds." They had always found grouse there, and this was a day when he wanted the best possible chance for a bird.
Stepping into the woods, the old man breathed deeply. It was a fine morning. The aspen leaves had begun their transformation into flecks of brilliant golds and reds. The air was crisp and clear. Remnants of a heavy frost still clung to the grass, glistening and sparkling like crushed glass. "The scent will hold well," thought the old man as he unleashed the dog and sent him into the woods.
The old dog went straight to work, though he moved much slower now. It had always amazed the old man at how easily the dog took to actually hunting for birds, as though he was an English Pointer masquerading as a Golden Retriever. His natural quartering ability, never straying too far from the gun, made him a true pleasure to hunt with.
The dog was working now to a place the old man's sons called "the blowdown." He remembered for a moment the day when the boys had followed the dog years before to this same spot. They were just a few yards behind the dog when he entered the thick tangle of branches and two grouse exploded from the cover. One rocketed straight-away and the other climbed high, angling slowly to the right. In seconds, two shots rang out and in triumphant unison, the boys each proclaimed a hit. It was the first and only double they ever had, which made the event all the more memorable.
The old man had many fond memories of seasons gone by. Over the years he had watched a quizzical, frisky pup turn into a great hunting dog and two eager teenage boys mature into fine men. It happened so fast.
The hunter spoke aloud now to the dog, reminding him of the time when the boys got their double, and he made two very fine retrieves for them. Suddenly, as if to punctuate the question, a grouse shot out of the top of the blowdown, heading sharply to the left. The old man quickly shouldered the lightweight 20-gauge side-by-side, and feeling the familiar wood settle against his cheek, swung through the escaping bird and fired. A puff of feathers exploded from the bird and it fell to the forest floor. At the rush of wings, the dog had looked back in time to see the old man shoot and to see the bird fall. With barely a word from his companion, the dog was on his way to the fallen grouse. The old man watched as the dog did his job.
The grouse had fallen about forty yards out, but the dog held his line. He knew where the bird was. The dog carried his prize triumphantly as he returned it to his partner's hand. It always struck the old man how the dog seemed to take such pride in his retrieves. It was as though the dog knew what he had been bred for and that he intended to set a new standard for Goldens with every bird. But the bounce in his gait was gone now. He walked instead of trotted. The old man obligingly accepted the bird, admired it briefly, placed it in the bag, and motioned the dog up the path.
As they topped the hill, the ground fell away before them into a large valley. They stood on the edge of a grassy meadow that sloped down into the valley where it met a succession of small beaver ponds connected by the run-off from each. The ponds appeared as large shimmering links in a watery chain. Directly opposite the meadow, the valley rose up into a thick stand of mature pine trees.
"This is the place," said the man. "There could be none better." The old man then sat down and leaned against a convenient tree trunk to ponder his remaining duty. The dog carefully laid down beside him. He looked into the valley for a moment, testing the air with his nose, then laid his head on the man's outstretched legs and rested.
This was the place the old man thought of the day before. He wanted the dog to have an opportunity to fill his nose with the magic and mystery of bird scent once again before coming to this, his final resting place. From here the dog could watch the seasons change. He would see ducks and geese dot the sky as they visited the beaver ponds during their annual flights. Fawns and rabbits would romp and play in the meadow before him. And if he listened carefully, he would hear the cock pheasants crowing from fields down the valley. In the woods behind him, he would hear grouse drumming and think back to the days when he and the birds played their game of hide and seek. And maybe, in the midst of it all, he would pause to remember the friend who hunted with him so often, and the boys who grew up with him.
The sun was creeping closer to the trees now. The old man prepared for what remained. He slipped a single shell into the gun's open breech and quietly closed the action. Then, stroking the dog's side, he tried to speak to the dog, but couldn't. Hesitating, he noticed the dog was very still and quiet.
Sometime during the old man's thoughts, his companion had left him. The dog was hunting again. He had gone off to some far away place in search of birds, and the old man was happy for him.
The End