What was supposed to be a three-day bird hunting trip, turned into a single long day quickly when I tried to pat Finn on the head and he flinched and yelped.
Camp had been made along the banks of the reservoir. Not our regular spot sheltered by trees. In stead there was nothing but grass between us and the water, and the neighbours on either side, a hundred yards away, on equally barren spots. I was hoping for a windless night.
Kyle had hurried home from classes, and skipped some work, to come out with Brizz, his thirteen-year old German Shorthair. We wasted little time getting out to a short-grass coulee where we’d been a few times before, but was new to Finn. Sharptail season had opened five days earlier, huns had been open for over a month, but pheasants were still a week away. Of course, Finn bumped a rooster not ten minutes from the truck, and Brizz and Finn tag-teamed on semi-pointing a group of three more, where the wheat stubble gave way to native grass.
We loosely walked up the high ground between two draws, with Finn trying hard to cover the land beyond as well. After the long drive, and afternoon of being staked out in camp, he had just a little extra energy, and was hard to keep under control. He had pointed a covey of huns, presumably, because I didn’t actually see it, but judging from the absence of sound, that flushed when I followed a cattle trail into the twelve-foot tall buck brush. Kyle tried, but couldn’t connect.
We got another brief point out of Finn on a rooster that wouldn’t hold, when he returned from exploring “the land beyond” one more time. He figured that chasing these big chickens was just the best thing ever. I’m still getting used to having the e-collar remote dangling on the left side of my vest, and often tuck it in a bit, so he had more than enough fun by the time I found the right button. He’d done so well on our local hun coveys, but all those lessons appeared forgotten, or at least considered temporarily irrelevant.
I had shot one sharpie, and Kyle unfortunately had missed several, when we bumped one from a patch of ten-foot tall vegetation, that I managed to drop. Finn rushed in for the retrieve, but circled wide. Brizz slow-jogged over, and they arrived at the same time, briefly pointing the still-alive bird jointly. Brizz claimed seniority for the retrieve and Finn came to me for a little praise and consolation. That’s when he cried in pain.
It didn’t take long to see the blood in his eyeball. He wouldn’t even let us point at his face without whinging. We decided to call it a day, Kyle couldn’t hit anything anyway, Brizz was already past tired, and Finn’s eye needed some attention. I called the vet from camp, and decided to pull up stakes to get him checked out in the morning.
Back home, Finn cuddled up beside me as he sometimes does when I sit on the ground. As I was stroking him I noticed something hard under his skin, inside his left elbow. Clearly something was wedged in there, but we couldn’t find any obvious entry point. More things for the vet to look at.
Fast forward and $485 later, the 1 1/4” thorn had been removed, his eye checked, labeled “bruised cornea”, and the birds cleaned. Thanksgiving dinner coming up. I think I’ll do up the Montana sage grouse.
