- Joined
- Jan 30, 2002
- Messages
- 7,269
An old friend, Chuck Petrie, died a while ago. I recently received an email from his widow, with some of the contents of emails that he and I had exchanged over the years, as she "cleaned out" his electronic accounts. Kind of bitter-sweet: nice knowing he kept it; sad knowing he's gone. This from the first year I got Young Bert, the-not-right dog.
Enjoy if you can:
(For Chuck:
On Tuesday, December 4, 2001, young Bert, the rescued dog, and I go out in the afternoon to see if we can aggravate any pheasants at Yellowstone State Park. Bert's done very well the last two times out, while I have missed everything in the sky that I shot at, including, perhaps, the atmosphere.
Rather than take responsibility for the misses, I blamed the shotgun, and took off the inch-thick recoil pad. (Bert did not blame the shotgun.)
(Bert needs to pay attention to who is buying the dog food.)
The weather is unseasonably warm lately, and though overcast, refuses to rain, can't possibly snow (mid-40's), and seems to always have a light wind.
There were a few other cars in the parking area, but only two hunters within
sight. Bert thought the outing was a good idea. I found myself pleased that
the shotgun shells I brought fit the shotgun I brought--this is not always the case. I've learned to appreciate small joys.
We walked. And walked. Then, we walked some more. Oddly, the miniature cow bell on Bert's collar becomes a focused sound, and the cadence, and volume send information to me...where he is, how he is moving, if there is a scent that makes him slow, or speed up....
Nothing. Two other hunters stop to chat, they've seen a bird, and have been told that 60 or so were spread out over the 1,000 acres, but no joy as yet.
Nice guys, one having taken the afternoon off to hunt before Winter shuts
down the possibility; the other had hunted this same area in the morning,
and thought I might find some pheasants in the woods. "Might" being the operative word.
Bert and I meandered on, working the high grass edging the woods. He got birdy a few times...but nothing materialized. I keep waiting for him to
encounter a skunk...but, I can't say I'm looking forward to it. I've educated him once on the consequences of deer-chasing, but I'm not sure just
how well the lesson took. Time will tell.
At the back of the property, near where two small fields are occasionally
planted with corn, and near where a friend once shot, in sequence, two
single birds that flushed simultaneously*, Bert started getting interested.
At least I think he did. The grass was about 7 feet tall, and I am not. He
may have been shaking the cow bell with his paw.
But, I began my "VINTAGE STALKER" walk (there is no resemblence to Elmer
Fudd's hunting movement...none) (OK, well some) (OK, I don't want to talk
about it) and the sounds from the bell...slowly died just in front of me.
Now, I chose to think Bert was on point. He may, in fact, been devouring a
field mouse, which to him, are like Cheetos. (Another thing I will NEVER
understand.)
I am a study in focused... er...walking in 7 foot high grass with a
double-barrelled shotgun at port arms. (NOT Fudd-like.) I come upon the
brown behind of Bert, who is pointing at... something. Something in front
of him. I edge up to him, he edges a bit forward.
CACKLE THRASH, CACKLE, CACKLE THRASH, FLAP FLAP FLAP....two roosters go up, and away...one to the front, one to the left.... I level the gun (I think,
dunno, happens fast) fire the right barrel at the straight-away bird,
swivel..and fire the left at the (duh) left side bird....
DAMN.
They both went down. I just shot an unwitnessed, sequential pair
of single pheasants. Damn. Not sure, maybe the second time in my life...maybe the first. Damn.
I walked on a line to the left-side bird, found it, and set about field
dressing it, waiting (hoping) to see Bert show up with the first bird after
which he had charged. Bert arrived. No bird. Hmmmm. Doesn't mean I missed it (I KNOW I didn't miss it.) I resisted the temptation to go look immediately for it, and finished with the first bird. Bert seemed surprised to see it.
(Hell, I was suprised.)
Finished, walked though the high grass, and Bert surged ahead, found the
second bird. I said "Fetch." He looked at me. Then he lay down next to it.
We have some work to do on "fetch."
But, Damn. I went from missing the sky to hitting a set of two sequential singles. I KNEW IT WAS THE SHOTGUN.
*The discussion here is that when my friend shot his two birds, he
thought it was a "double." Not being a smart-ass, but rather a person who appreciates accuracy in language, I maintained that he shot two birds with
two shots, hence...it was sequential singles. In baseball, a "double" is two bases with ONE hit, seems like in hunting it ought to be the same:two birds with one shot.
However, because I am a generous person, given to compassion, I am now
willing to reconsider the definition. My reconsideration has nothing to do with my recent experience. Honest.
(Hope you are enjoying Bert,
Chuck.)
Enjoy if you can:
(For Chuck:
On Tuesday, December 4, 2001, young Bert, the rescued dog, and I go out in the afternoon to see if we can aggravate any pheasants at Yellowstone State Park. Bert's done very well the last two times out, while I have missed everything in the sky that I shot at, including, perhaps, the atmosphere.
Rather than take responsibility for the misses, I blamed the shotgun, and took off the inch-thick recoil pad. (Bert did not blame the shotgun.)
(Bert needs to pay attention to who is buying the dog food.)
The weather is unseasonably warm lately, and though overcast, refuses to rain, can't possibly snow (mid-40's), and seems to always have a light wind.
There were a few other cars in the parking area, but only two hunters within
sight. Bert thought the outing was a good idea. I found myself pleased that
the shotgun shells I brought fit the shotgun I brought--this is not always the case. I've learned to appreciate small joys.
We walked. And walked. Then, we walked some more. Oddly, the miniature cow bell on Bert's collar becomes a focused sound, and the cadence, and volume send information to me...where he is, how he is moving, if there is a scent that makes him slow, or speed up....
Nothing. Two other hunters stop to chat, they've seen a bird, and have been told that 60 or so were spread out over the 1,000 acres, but no joy as yet.
Nice guys, one having taken the afternoon off to hunt before Winter shuts
down the possibility; the other had hunted this same area in the morning,
and thought I might find some pheasants in the woods. "Might" being the operative word.
Bert and I meandered on, working the high grass edging the woods. He got birdy a few times...but nothing materialized. I keep waiting for him to
encounter a skunk...but, I can't say I'm looking forward to it. I've educated him once on the consequences of deer-chasing, but I'm not sure just
how well the lesson took. Time will tell.
At the back of the property, near where two small fields are occasionally
planted with corn, and near where a friend once shot, in sequence, two
single birds that flushed simultaneously*, Bert started getting interested.
At least I think he did. The grass was about 7 feet tall, and I am not. He
may have been shaking the cow bell with his paw.
But, I began my "VINTAGE STALKER" walk (there is no resemblence to Elmer
Fudd's hunting movement...none) (OK, well some) (OK, I don't want to talk
about it) and the sounds from the bell...slowly died just in front of me.
Now, I chose to think Bert was on point. He may, in fact, been devouring a
field mouse, which to him, are like Cheetos. (Another thing I will NEVER
understand.)
I am a study in focused... er...walking in 7 foot high grass with a
double-barrelled shotgun at port arms. (NOT Fudd-like.) I come upon the
brown behind of Bert, who is pointing at... something. Something in front
of him. I edge up to him, he edges a bit forward.
CACKLE THRASH, CACKLE, CACKLE THRASH, FLAP FLAP FLAP....two roosters go up, and away...one to the front, one to the left.... I level the gun (I think,
dunno, happens fast) fire the right barrel at the straight-away bird,
swivel..and fire the left at the (duh) left side bird....
DAMN.
They both went down. I just shot an unwitnessed, sequential pair
of single pheasants. Damn. Not sure, maybe the second time in my life...maybe the first. Damn.
I walked on a line to the left-side bird, found it, and set about field
dressing it, waiting (hoping) to see Bert show up with the first bird after
which he had charged. Bert arrived. No bird. Hmmmm. Doesn't mean I missed it (I KNOW I didn't miss it.) I resisted the temptation to go look immediately for it, and finished with the first bird. Bert seemed surprised to see it.
(Hell, I was suprised.)
Finished, walked though the high grass, and Bert surged ahead, found the
second bird. I said "Fetch." He looked at me. Then he lay down next to it.
We have some work to do on "fetch."
But, Damn. I went from missing the sky to hitting a set of two sequential singles. I KNEW IT WAS THE SHOTGUN.
*The discussion here is that when my friend shot his two birds, he
thought it was a "double." Not being a smart-ass, but rather a person who appreciates accuracy in language, I maintained that he shot two birds with
two shots, hence...it was sequential singles. In baseball, a "double" is two bases with ONE hit, seems like in hunting it ought to be the same:two birds with one shot.
However, because I am a generous person, given to compassion, I am now
willing to reconsider the definition. My reconsideration has nothing to do with my recent experience. Honest.
(Hope you are enjoying Bert,
Chuck.)
