Dogs – The Crooked Arrow Blog

Dogs, birds and sage bush

Last summer, I promised Finn we’d take at least one out-of-province hunting trip annually. For our first trip, we hunted sage grouse in Montana. This year we got invited to come to Idaho, and we didn’t hesitate long.

Day 1

The hotel in Great Falls looks a little tired, despite the ongoing renovations. Water drips from the parkade ceiling, cheap office furniture that was out of style thirty years ago piled up alongside the unmarked elevator door. The border crossing was uneventful, one twenty gauge side by side shotgun and two boxes of sixes, carried by a tired-looking old guy with a dog no cause for alarm.

We skip dinner, skip the beer, and turn in after a walk through a mostly deserted down town. I need to stop booking these cheap motels.

Day 2

We’re on the road early. In Butte we turn East, instead of following the direct route, taking the scenic backroads. Lewis and Clark, ghost towns, fly fishing shops, new housing developments. The tiny town of Ennis now has three large realtor offices. Descending from the Caribou-Targhee National Forest, we spill out onto the potato fields of Eastern Idaho. Traffic picks up closer to Idaho Falls, we miss an exit and add twenty miles to our trip. Another cheap motel, squeezed in between the highway and a series of silos. Their fans create a background hum all night, accentuated by the horns of the occasional train. Not wanting to drive anymore, I eat a dehydrated meal, washed down with a beer. Finn can’t be bothered with dinner, again.

Day 3

We meet Jacob and June early, and quickly fall in behind their truck, headed for our first hunt. June is a pup from the same kennel as Finn, one litter earlier. Slowly the terrain changes from tarmac and traffic lights to gravel and sage brush. A few more turns and we are on a two track dead-ending on the flats above a cut-up landscape. We are in a Wildlife Management Area; land set aside from agriculture, sparsely planted with crops that benefit animals.

Finn and June get acquainted quickly, and just like that we are off. Several coveys of huns bail off the cliffs like chukars, sailing to the valley below. Finn points, and Jacob gets the first sharpie of the day. Mid morning the sun gains strength, even this late into October. The dogs slow down, but not before Finn scatters a big covey. We follow up. The dogs demand all the water, and we run out. One more detour leads to a long point by Finn. His body language shows the heat, there is no intensity, he just stopped walking. A pair of sharpies flushes a long way out, and I manage to bring one down. We’re done. Two sharpies and a hun each, and lots of more birds seen, it’s been a good morning.

Later in the day we hunt cover for ruffed grouse. Finn finds a few, and I shoot one at the end of the walk, to reward him. We have a great meal of fresh birds, beans and corn. The couple of cold beers taste great too.

Day 4

Finn is limping, so he gets to sit this one out. June nicely works ahead of us, finds birds that Jacob hits, and I miss. Part of a covey flushes towards a saddle, and we follow-up. I get another chance that I squander, and a tight-holding bird in the saddle proves smarter than us, letting me pass within feet and flushing once I’ve passed. At the end of our loop, Jacob connects with the last bird to rise from a covey of huns. Another beautiful morning, in broken, mixed-vegetation terrain, with sage, grasses, occasional sunflower patches, and a few fields of something green. I try not to dwell on the misses.

We relocate to another cabin, an hour and a half North. Beautifully tucked into some trees, near a few large ponds, butting up against some hills at the end of the sage brush desert. The area is winter range for deer, elk and moose, but provides year-round habitat for sage, sharptailed grouse and huns. Where we had rocky ridges and deep valleys before, we’re now overlooking a seemingly endless relatively flat expanse of sage brush of varying density.

Towards dark we head out to walk the pond edges, to see if we can scare some ducks. Finn’s limping is mostly gone, with another good night’s sleep he will be running fit again in the morning. Small groups of ducks start flying, without giving us a real chance. The windless evening, setting sun combined with the yellowing reeds and mirror-like pond surface make for some great photo opportunities.

We sneak up to a small dam, and jump some ducks. Finn and June each retrieve one, but we may be missing a third. We see something move about three-quarters across the pond, a long swim. June goes first, calmly paddling across, making short detours left and right. She turns around not far from what we feel may be a wounded duck. Perhaps it isn’t a duck. Then Finn is up to bat, and takes the same leisurely approach, meandering across the pond, until he turns to go investigate what we hope is a bird. Whatever it is, he bumps it with his nose, and decides it’s not worth bringing. Fantastic swims by both dogs.

Day 5

Birds are scarce this morning. We stopped to take some pictures of a beautiful sunrise behind the Teton mountains. It’s June’s turn to rest up, and we hear her disapproving howls for a long time. A single sharpie flushed out of range early in our walk. Finn works hard, but it is just not a bird-filled morning. Another single sharpie flushes too close to Jacob, and finds his way into the vest.

It’s one of those afternoons where the wind is chilled enough to make a sweater not a luxury, but the sun warm enough to make the dappled shade under a big aspen tree the perfect place to be. For a few uninterrupted hours I read, watch the robins congregate and get ready for their migration, and stare across the sage flats. I can’t remember when I last had such a calm afternoon, with nothing that needs doing, nothing to worry about, and nowhere to go. Just be. Drink a lemonade. Scratch Finn behind the ear.

Jacob’s wife shows up with their ten-month old son, and cooks us dinner. Taco soup, corn bread, a cold beer. I could get used to this life.

Day 6

On the drive to our last morning of hunting, we bust a covey of a three dozen sharpies that we watch sail across the sage, hoping they’ll settle. They don’t. We suppress the tendency to follow these birds on a two mile grunt through waste-high sage, and park further down the dirt road.

Both dogs are running today. As we are getting ready, I sense more than I hear something, across the road. Four big birds sort of levitate out of the green-grey bush, and slowly, silently take off across the flats. Sage grouse! We follow up, but we don’t find them. We cross the dirt road again, and hunt slightly more open country. June and Finn work well, the sun muted by a thin veil of cloud.

Jacob shows me a plant with tiny red seeds that we found in yesterday’s bird’s crop. My internal alarm goes off, I should check on Finn. I find him stationary, tail slowly wagging. Before I can act he takes a few sideways steps, stops again, and four more sage grouse flush. We messed up that opportunity. Sorry Finn.

Not much later we are angling back towards to truck, the wind not great. Finn pops up out of the sage to my left, and freezes. He nicely holds while Jacob moves closer. June runs in front of me, and I softly call her name. She freezes and turns her nose into the wind. Both dogs are steady until Jacob gets in range. Another four sage grouse rise, I guess sage grouse live in groups of four around here. Jacob shoots the biggest one, which turns out to be a sizeable mature male, retrieved by June. What a beautiful bird. And how modest they are. Hungarian partridge flush in utter chaos, each one picking a different direction. Sharpies laugh at you while they jump. A rooster makes enough ruckus to unsettle the calmest dog or gun. But sage grouse just materialize, and almost gentlemanly try to make a silent exit.

Later that morning Jacob manages to pick off the last of a group of three sage grouse, a younger male. We don’t find any more sharpies. The sun starts to burn, the cloud cover gone, and we call it a day. It’s time to pack up, and start the drive back to Canada.

Day 7

We hit the border before nine in the morning. One car ahead of me, definitely a record. The friendly Canadian border agent asks me the standard questions, throwing in a few about the hunt and the role of the dog. We get sent on our way quickly. A five-minute border crossing, this will never happen again. I think I have officially entered the category of travelers that is deemed harmless: older, traveling with a cute dog, friendly, and genuinely surprised when he gets asked about cannabis.

Snow starts falling as we continue North.

Day 8

The return to reality is harsh. The highway is covered with snow and ice and filled with commuters. Sitting in a conference hall with 700 people feels surreal. Flashbacks recur of a sunrise on the sage flats, dusty, rocky trails, running dogs, rising birds, and lazy afternoons.

I may have dozed off a time or two. The conference coffee lacks a punch. Jacob’s morning brew was better.

Pheasants anew

Finn had shown much promise as a pheasant dog, last year, all of seven months old. Found birds, pointed birds, pointed birds where other groups with dogs had just before gone through, pointed a “covey” of four roosters, that rose one by one, the young pup staunchly remaining on point, while Kyle and I managed to kill none of them. Expectations for this season were not high, but well above moderate.

The “back 40” partridge coveys had provided good practice material, in early spring, before nesting, and in the weeks leading up to the start of the season, with the chicks flying as wild as their parents. It was not without a bit of pride that I dropped the odd hint about his steadiness. Shooting chukars during training days and a NAVHDA test had honed my skills a bit too, I thought. We were ready to have a great pheasant season!

We had drawn three slots at the Taber Pheasant Festival to kick things off. The first afternoon Finn and I and nobody else, because everybody canceled, overlooked an expanse of cattails, with a few drainage ditches leading in and out of it. I was just going to take it slow, let Finn do his thing, get some good points, work on steadiness, and perhaps shoot a bird. That cockiness was rudely and rightly crushed when the first bird went up. A straightaway, the gimme of upland shots, bird well within range, but wait, Finn hadn’t pointed it. Never mind, I was already swinging and missing. I tried to convince myself I didn’t want to kill that bird anyway, because I was training the pup to be steady, but lying to yourself is rather hard.

It went downhill from there. My notes say I shot seven times, and the limit for pheasants is two. Finn managed two sort-of points, which gave some hope, and I managed a couple of hits, but we flushed more birds without points or shots. Finn worked hard, but got a little flustered by the raucous birds, and so did I.

The next day, Finn’s brother King came out to play, and we managed to put up a fair number of birds. Miraculously I hit two with two shots, but again points were hard to come by. The birds tended to run out in front of the dogs, and neither of them hesitated to snort them up via their tracks. The third day Finn made a beautiful point on a covey of huns, and I promptly missed.

A week later we were out again, found pheasants and sharpies, got a nice point on a hen pheasant, and I double missed a rooster. Twice. Managed to shoot a consolation sharptailed grouse, so the dog kept some faith in my skills.

There was one redemption weekend left in the schedule. Finn could use some solid points, and I could use some solid hits. We started off fantastic, as Finn worked a patch of buck brush along a coulee, and drew to a point. Unfortunately the bird flushed wild before Kyle could get in range. Not much later he pointed again, at the base of some brush in the same coulee, and held till I got close. When the bird flushed, Kyle got a little trigger happy and the close hit pre-tenderized the meat sufficiently. Finn didn’t skip a beat retrieving.

The pup was having a great day. As we were walking back along the opposite side of the coulee, he went back to where we had already passed. “He’ll probably find one all the way down in there”, Kyle said, and as if on cue, Finn pointed. I started down towards him, but was still a little far off when the rooster flushed. It took a second or two before my brain kicked in, but I managed an impressive shot – at least I like to think of it as such – on the quartering bird, leading him by a double body length. Nice retrieve to hand followed.

The following day we hunted another long, wide coulee with lots of cover on one side and along the creek in the bottom, and the odd grove of trees on the opposite side. Finn pointed a bird right off the bat, but broke and grabbed the hen. Luckily he is fairly gentle and we managed to send the bird off flying minus some feathers. Not much further Finn worked a particular spot for a minute or two, breaking off but returning a few times, until finally a rooster emerged and rose above the low brush, quartering away until my shot connected. Two for two for the weekend, and half-decent points, we could have quit and gone home happy right there.

Finn dug up a few more birds from the snow, but all flushed out of my range, or obscured by cover. On the way back, looping through a connecting coulee, he disappeared into some high bush and I lost sight of him. “He may be onto something there”, Kyle yelled from across the coulee, and directed me. I found him on point in thick cover, but my approach was too much of an incentive and he dug in. After a few tries he pushed out a hen pheasant. While not textbook, the length of holding point until I got there was impressive. Best we’d seen all season.

We ended the day, and pheasant season, by a quick snapshot at a hun, that he neatly retrieved. Three for three for the shooter, and some nice points and solid retrieves by the dog. We both need some polishing around the edges, but I think the team has potential.

Sage Grouse – Montana, September 2022

The sun had turned to orange early, filtered by the smoke of a nearby wildfire, and the dust of the two-track trail. All around, vast expanses of sage brush stretched to where nine thousand feet high ridges framed the scenery. The oppressive heat of the day still lingered, as our minds slowly started to shift from birds to the cool waters of the alpine lake ahead, and perhaps trout for dinner. Suddenly something stirred in the shrubs ahead. One bird head bobbed in the sea of grey-green leaves, shortly followed by a second. Sage grouse!

It all started with a spur-of-the-moment email to a friend in Butte.

“What do you know about sage grouse hunting in Montana?”

The response came quickly and oozed confidence: “I know everything about sage grouse hunting in Montana, my family has been hunting the opener for decades. We are going again this year. Why don’t you join us?”

Two days before the opener Finn, my seventeen-month-old Small Munsterlander, and I drove down, met up with my friend and his son, and set up camp the next day in time for a reconnaissance drive. Finn and I had chosen to stay in a tent. I like my privacy, and he would likely be too much puppy to allow for a quiet night in the trailer, with other people and other dogs. But mostly, I like my privacy.

The nights at seven thousand feet were cold. Despite the daytime mid-thirties (Celsius) temperatures, nighttime temperatures straddled the freezing mark. Though that notion had crossed my mind, I had still brought a sleeping bag that could not be cinched up across the shoulders. Rookie mistake. Finn was comfortable, I think, in his kennel, with fluffy pillow, wearing a jacket. I was not.

We hunted the early mornings, to avoid overheating the dogs. Finn was running big, using the freedom the long views provided, casting nicely left and right, like he had been doing this for years. A few hours were all we had, before the dogs started to suffer. I fed Finn all his water and most of mine
but halfway through the mornings it was time to call it. The area had a surprising number of alpine lakes and shallow creeks, when everything around it was bone dry. Both dogs and hunters took advantage of the opportunity for a cool swim after the morning’s hunt. Late afternoons, with the sun losing just a hint of its sting, we would saddle up again, slowly driving and walking two-track rocky roads and field edges, trying to spot moving birds.

The choice of fields to hunt looked random to me, as for a mile in all directions the terrain was featureless, but it was based on years of experience in this area. I was beginning to pick up small clues about what sage grouse might like. Fresh greens, of which we saw little, grasshoppers, which were ubiquitous, just not in every field. Water perhaps? Some animals get their moisture from plants, but things were pretty arid here. I just imagined birds hitting up water early morning, working their way up to higher areas to catch a breeze, perhaps to return to water late afternoon, before retiring for the night in cover. But that was just speculation.

The first morning we flushed a single sage grouse, and two huns, which all escaped unscathed. Finn had not pointed any of the birds, but he had seen them fly, and had decided to abandon whatever steadiness we had so tenuously achieved in the pre-season prep. I could not fault him, because I had forgotten all my intentions to focus on the dog with the first few birds, and help him remember. The dog did not know better, I should have.

That evening we found the bobbing heads near a small water course and just off the two-track. I suggested falling back and around to get downwind of the birds and letting Finn work the breeze, but it was decided to follow the moving birds, taking the leashed dogs with us. As soon as we had stepped
across the water, Finn’s nose glued itself to the ground, the tail started working, and he became a handful. To my great surprise we managed to get within range before the first grouse flushed. The big bird worked hard to gain altitude, and the shot was not hard. Training a pup and hunting an elusive bird do not go well together. Both dogs rushed in for the retrieve but got distracted by two more falling birds, shot by my buddy. Each grabbed one of the fluttering birds and retrieved nicely, and my bird was found not too much later. A nice male bird, perhaps not the biggest, but not a young of the year either. We cut off wings for the registry, and took breasts and legs.

The second morning was mostly a repeat of the first. We hunted a large swath of land, in semi-circular fashion, above a small water source. My friend connected first, missing birds in a covey, but then connecting with the third shot on a single. Finn was bullied out of the retrieve by the other dog, but he got another chance. First a pair of grouse were bumped out of range by my friend’s dog, but not much later I shot a single with the second barrel, as it was rocketing down and around the slope. Finn nicely
delivered to hand.

After a short, late-afternoon fishing session the next day, catching some cutthroats to add to the intended grouse dinner, we again found some birds. We tried to get organized, but waited too long and the grouse flushed. I followed them with Finn, on leash first, but as I got downwind, I let him run. The birds were in the open, and two grouse flushed out of range, but the third one hesitated, and once airborne, followed the downhill slope which curved towards me. I gave him a good two body lengths lead, and the bird crumbled at the shot. Another nice retrieve for Finn.

We investigated the crops of our birds and found they contained fresh leafy greens, and whitish, or light-yellow berries. We have yet to identify what those were. The fresh greens indicated that perhaps water courses, or the few fields that had not been grazed recently, were the preferred feeding areas this time of the year. But again, this is speculation, based on just a few observations.

At night, my friend’s son cooked us up a nice meal of cubed, breaded grouse breast, and cutthroat trout. A few cold beers went with that, and life could not have been much better.

Four Point Kennels

In our search for a breeder of Small Munsterlander pups, we were extremely lucky to find one a mere 20 minute drive away. Tanner and Toby run their operation a little North of what used to be a small town, on a acreage with horses, goats, chickens, pigeons and quail, and two blocks of kennels inhabited by their band of very merry Munsterlanders.

Tanner and Toby are very personable individuals, who make you feel welcome from the get go, and who go to great lengths to show off their dogs and provide you with all the info you need to make a decision on whether a Small Munsterlander is for you.

Not being a person that makes decisions on the fly, with a desire to control all parameters that borders on the unhealthy, I struggled a lot through the process of selecting a pup, or rather selecting three. When the sorting was all done, and all the pups had traveled home with their new owners, I asked Tanner and Toby to put some words to paper about the history of their kennel, their breeding program and more specifically how they deal with the process of matching pups to owners.

Four Point Kennels history – how did you come to the Small Munsterlander breed, and what attracted you to starting the kennel and your breeding program?

Tanner was looking for a dog for his Dad to hunt with that could do both waterfowl and upland game, but smaller than a Labrador Retriever. After researching and contacting a few breeders, Hunting Hills’ Vivi Katy was welcomed into the family as Wayne’s dog. Soon after falling in love with the versatility of Katy, Robingun’s Cindy Lou Who arrived as a female breeding prospect.

What are your goals/visions for your line of breeding?

Our goal as a kennel is to breed healthy, stable Small Munsterlanders who are also well balanced, loving companions in the home. A dog’s temperament is as significant as their hunting ability so we strive to produce truly versatile hunting dogs that can not only hunt but also be a lifelong member of a family. Each litter is planned for the improvement of the breed and our breeding program.

How did you pick the name “Four Point” for your kennel?

Four Point Kennels was chosen with a compass in mind. Being a symbol for guidance, and the ability to point you in the right direction, in a way our bird dogs act like a compass for directing us to where game birds are. We also wanted to see the pups we were producing go in all directions across North America.

How do you get prospective buyers? Do they contact you? Do you have to advertise?

We do not advertise our dogs. People tend to find us through internet searches, social media platforms or word of mouth. They usually contact us by phone or email, or fill out a puppy application located on our website.

What criteria do you apply to prospective buyers?

We only sell to hunting homes, so it must be a hunting home in order for us to place one of our pups with a prospective buyer. Our dogs love us, but they live to hunt. We want to see them doing what they were bred to do. Obviously having previous dog experience (hunting dog or not) is always a plus. Wanting to test their pup in NAVHDA (North American Versatile Hunting Dog Associating) OR AKC/CKC trials is an asset as well. We view puppy applications as a prospective buyer’s resume.

What does your ideal future Four Point puppy owner look like?

Someone or a family that is going to love the heck out of their hunting partner and companion. Hone the dog’s natural ability and desire to hunt game. Obviously hunt with their dog. We love to get updates on the pups we’ve put on the ground and are here to help our puppy owners, so not being afraid to reach out when they have questions, or are stuck on something during training.

When multiple people express a liking for the same puppy how do you manage that?

This is one of the main reasons we ask puppy buyers to pick their top three and we place the pup within that is best suited. It eliminates picking a pup based off of looks and markings, and sets our buyers up for better success with personality being the priority. We often breed a roan to a brown/white so we can get roughly a 50/50 roan to brown/white ratio. We try to accommodate buyers’ preference in colouring, but if there are only three roans out of six males, we will just tell people they need to drop a roan from their list and add a brown/white. If they don’t want to, they will have look elsewhere for their Small Munsterlander pup, or be bumped to the next litter.

How do you go about assessing the personality of future owners, and that of the puppies?

Quite often a casual conversation about our dogs and hunting will tell us a lot about future owners. Often people will send us an email telling us about their lifestyle giving us a small glimpse into their lives, which always helps as well. If you live close to us, it’s easier for us to get an idea of personality types. If you live a long distance from us, we make an effort to either phone, email or text multiple times to keep things fresh when we start looking to place the pups.

What process do you go through to match owners/puppies? How much is reasoning, and how much “gut feel”?

We’re probably looking at 50/50 for reasoning and gut feel. We spend a lot of time with the pups we are raising. So we get to see their personalities develop, and sometimes change as the dynamic in the litter changes, or they are introduced to new things. For example, a baby bird dog can tell you a fair amount about their personality during their first encounter with a pigeon or coturnix quail.

When we have a puppy buyer that does more waterfowl hunting, we look for pups with a high retrieving desire or wanting to pack a toy around in their mouth at a young age. We don’t really take the size of the pup into consideration as sometimes the runt of the litter is no longer a runt in their new home. Our stud dog Camilo is a whopping 42lbs and will retrieve Canada geese for us repeatedly. He has a lot of heart in a tiny package.

If we have a first time pointing breed owner, we tend to avoid placing the alpha bitch with them, or a pup that tends to be more independent compared to other pups. We want our puppy buyers to be successful with their hunting partners, and we strive to put pups on the ground that anyone can train whether this is your first hunting dog, or your fourth. If you are a loud boisterous person, we don’t necessarily want to put a timid pup with you, or put a timid pup with a young family. Ultimately, the personalities need to match.

It’s hard to describe hunting characteristics besides waterfowl hunting and having a strong desire to retrieve. With upland hunting, the genetics should be there based off of the sire and dam pairing. So besides seeing the more methodical puppy that points and watches the quail fly off, or the pup that is more bold in their approach and points the quail, but then wants to chase it down and pick it up, puppy placement goes more towards personality of the person and pups at that point.

Find out more about Four Point Kennels and their dogs at www.fourpointkennels.com/

Meet Loki!

When you look into a little hunting puppy’s eyes, one that you have just brought home, a little shivering bundle of promise, torn away rather unceremoniously from his eight-week old world, yet oddly trusting that life with you will be the best thing that could have happened to him, it’s hard to not feel a little emotional. The human equivalent of what just happened to the pup would be unimaginably sad. But quickly the little munchkin shows you that you need not worry. He is here with you now, life is good, let’s get going!

A whirlwind two weeks have passed since we picked him up. It took us a week to settle on a name, but it is official now: meet Loki!

The first night was a little rough. He howled for a while, probably an hour, and my presence on a mattress next to his crate did nothing to alleviate his sorrow. I slept next to him for a week, but after three nights he went into the crate quietly, and the first night that I moved upstairs he didn’t whimper or whine for seven glorious hours. That’s about where we still are. I think he is up with the first crack of daylight so Daylight Saving Time is timed well this year.

The first few days we just let him adjust, and took him out for short walks. Our old dog Teeko wanted nothing to do with him, and still doesn’t, but Loki keeps trying. We need to separate them from time to time as the old guy’s knees are not up to enthusiastic puppy attention.

“Sit”, “Here”, “Pillow” and “No”, are the only commands we’ve been using. The first three go fairly well, especially when he knows food is on hand. The “No!” command, well, sometimes it works, but often it needs repeating. There are just too many fun things that need trying!

He had two visits with his sibling Purdey (formerly known as “I am Bulletproof”), and got acquainted with horses, and their tasty excrement.

We spent a few walks on getting used to cars driving by, and watching school busses come up the hill, something we need to continue doing. He’s improved lots already since that first scary encounter. Being a passenger in our vehicles is going very well, we’ve had several trips. He doesn’t particularly love being put into his kennel, but he’s accepting now.

I’ve had a grouse and a duck wing out in the field, and he worked the wind like a champ. He’s not shy about taking those into his mouth, and, if left unchecked, would certainly eat them.

People still puzzle him a bit, he is very cautious when he sees unfamiliar faces, but if the human party is understanding and patient, he quickly warms up to them. With the COVID restrictions it just isn’t as easy to line up a good variety of meetings, but we take every chance encounter we can get.

Today, the two-week point in our relationship, we celebrated with a big trip out to the sporting clays range, about an hour’s drive from here. On a nice day like today, it was packed with shooters. We stopped about half a mile from the trap stations, and just went for a little walk. No problem. Then we closed the distance to about a quarter mile, and did some “sit” and “here” drills, involving some good treats. All was well. I think I was more bothered by the blasts than Loki was. Next stop was across from the parking lot. He was not bothered at all, so I decided to walk up the drive. All trap stations and two of the skeet stations were occupied. Still good. At the back of the club house we met a friendly gentleman, who gave him some good attention. That sealed the deal; Loki didn’t want to leave. He met a few more friendly people, and we walked around the club house, bringing us within some 35 yards of active shooting stations. Still no reaction to the shots at all. A very good introduction to gun fire, I think.

That leaves house training. He doesn’t pee in the house if we take him out every hour, but I’m convinced that the concept of peeing out on the backroad instead of in many much more convenient places has not yet sunk in.

I think it was the evening of day three when he first crawled into my lap, and settled in for his nap. Possibly I have been found worthy. Now, if only I can manage to not disappoint him.

The Start of a Journey

It’s not every day, or every year, not even every decade that you look at adding a pup to the family. Our last two new recruits were not hunting dogs, but rescues, so there was no litter to pick from. My first two hunting dogs were obtained through “this is your pup, take it or leave it” situations, and Aika, our last working dog, sort of picked me. So I was a little taken aback when Tanner and Toby informed me how the selection process was going to work: “Pick your top three, and we’ll match future owners with what we feel is the best pup for them”.

Ehm, what?

I suppose if you are a laid-back, take-it-as-it-comes kind of person, this wouldn’t phase you, but if you are a control-freak in rehab, this just won’t do. Even though I was educated as a scientist, learned how to deal with uncertainties and ambivalence in data, and even worked on Multi-Criteria Decision Analysis for a while, I’ve been tainted by the company of engineers and project managers for most of my working life. I need to be in control. So… what do you mean “pick three”? What if I only like two? What criteria are you going to apply to see which pup matches my personality and experience? What if I only like one? Who’s gonna get their number-one choice and who will not, and why? The “pick-three” approach caused a lot of heartburn.

Inferno

The first visit with the littler was a blur. “Everybody likes the roan-coloured ones”, Toby said. So did I. I focused on two which colour I liked, ignored the two with a lot of white, and came home with strong preferences, and a realization that I failed to give the rest of the mob a fair chance. My second time with the pups, I came prepared with an unbiased mind, handled each pup, but wasn’t much closer to picking three.

We discussed in more detail about how I like to hunt and what I do with the dog that isn’t hunting. Ivan with his size and dark colour could be prone to overheat sooner on long mountain runs. Reluctantly he was taken off the list. I’m Bullet Proof was the number one pick of my friend Peter by a big margin over the others. I decided to take him off my list as well. I would not be able to face him, if Bullet Proof were given to me. However that left only two roans to choose from, and I would have to add one of the brown/whites. Tanner and Toby indicated that Indy was a favourite: bold but not overly independent. Good traits for a hunting dog, who cannot be clinging to your heels, but who you also do not want to range far and wide without consideration for the guy with the gun. With some trepidation I added Indy, the darker of the two brown/whites, but also slightly smaller. My number one was Inferno.

I didn’t get him. I was given Indy.

(to be continued)

Indiana Jones (Indy)

Indy enjoying his first snow

A New Dog Part III – “A Small what…???”

In the end there were two contenders: the Griffon, and the Small Munsterlander. “The Small what…?” is the response I got a few times, even from my vet’s assistant. The Small Munsterlander, or Heidewachtel as we used to call them back home. My first dog was a Small Munsterlander. Neither of us knew what we were doing, but we both tried. Serendipity interfered when I found a breeder of Munsterlanders a mere twenty minute drive from where I live. They even had a few Dutch dogs in their kennel. A Dutch hunter and a two Dutch dogs travel half-way across the world to end up in the same place. It was preordained.

The Small Munsterlander is a breed that originated in Germany.Reports of dedicated breeders of dogs that fit the description go back as far as the mid 1800s. At the time no standard existed, and it wasn't until 1912 that a breed association was founded. Although purists proclaim that the bloodlines follow German huntings dogs back for hundreds of years, it is more than likely that some French Epagneul blood was mixed in at some point. The story is laid out in detail in Episode 4 of the Hunting Dog Confidential podcast. Well worth a listen!

Four Point Kennels turned out to be a pretty solid operation. They have been hunting and breeding Small Munsterlanders since 2013, sell puppies only to hunting households, and are active in the local chapter of the North American Versatile Hunting Dog Association. All their dogs came from great hunting lines. I provided them with a bit of a resume in my introductory email, and we agreed on a meet and greet. I stopped by their place coming back from a morning’s grouse hunting, the smell of which made me instantly likeable to each and every dog. Their kennels looked spacious and clean, all the dogs were friendly, active, happy, and eager to receive my pets and cuddles (because I smelled like grouse). On top of that Tanner and Toby proved to be pretty nice as well.

The next week I was back at their place and watched four dogs work on homing pigeons. We discussed litters. I handed over a down payment.

At that time, Toby and Tanner were still eagerly waiting to see if Lou’s artificial insemination had taken. Right now, Lou’s pups are three weeks old! She whelped eleven pups, six males and five females. We had indicated our interest in a male, so there are choices to be made. When they are a bit older we’ll go meet them and see if one (or more) of the pups pick us. Call me silly, but it happens. Aika, our German Hunting Terrier, was the only pup in the litter that showed interest in that strange guy visiting their snowy kennel near Hannover, and that was the one I brought home.

Until then we are just enjoying the photos and videos that Tanner and Toby put up on Instagram and Facebook. Go have a look: @fourpointkennels. They have another litter coming soon, so the next two months their feed will be full of adorable pups.

The six males: (top row) Inferno, I am Bulletproof, Ivan, (bottom row) Identity Theft, Iceman, Indiana Jones.

But seriously, how do you pick? I’m trying to not develop a bias just yet, based on their looks only. But I like Inferno! Or Ivan, as he is the biggest. The paw print patch on Identity Theft’s butt is cute, and Kyle’s kids have proclaimed him the favourite. In the end, Tanner and Toby’s opinion will play an important role as well, as they have the opportunity to observe the squirmy critters for a much longer period than we can. Which one shows more dominance, which one is more laid back? Is one of them more independent than the others perhaps? Who likes to cuddle? They probably all chase a pheasant wing when pulled away from them on a string. There is only so much you can try to approach objectively. In the end, the heart will have an important say. And perhaps there are one or two pups who think that the weird guy that is coming to visit (again) is really not so bad after all. I’ll stick a grouse wing in my pocket, to increase my odds.

Ivan

Cuteness overload

That looks like Ivan smothering one of his siblings

I’m Bulletproof sleeping on Inferno

Hard to see where one ends and the other begins

To be continued…

A New Dog Part II – “Decisions, decisions”

Labrador Retriever, Golden Retriever, Chesapeake Bay, and Duck Tolling Retriever, Flatcoated Retriever. English Pointer. English Setter. Irish Setter. German Shorthaired Pointer. German Wirehaired Pointer/Retriever. Griffon. Epagneul Breton. Brittany Spaniel. English Spaniel. Welsh Spaniel. Cocker Spaniel… The list goes on. No shortage of choices. It is amazing how many different hunting dog breeds have been developed in the last few centuries.

A very interesting series of podcasts is called Hunting Dog Confidential. If you are at all interested in hunting dogs, where they came from, and how they developed into what they are today, Season 1 covers them all: Hunting Dog Confidential

Sometimes it’s love at first sight. And sometimes that emotion provides poor guidance. If I had followed my first impulse, I would have looked for an English Setter, based on this photo alone (I hope SportDog forgives me for stealing their photo from an ad in the Pheasants Forever magazine).

I needed some criteria to narrow down the playing field, and to insert a modicum of objectivity into the process.

When it comes to hunting of small game and birds with a shotgun, the dogs used by the majority of hunters can be roughly divided into three categories: those mostly interested in work after the shot, also known as retrieving; those known mostly for their work before the shot, finding the game, and pointing or flushing it; and those that show a more or less natural aptitude for both. There are big grey areas between these categories, and many breeds that the average guy wouldn’t even consider for these task would actually perform admirably. But most would admit that an English Setter would look out of place in a duck blind, and a Labrador Retriever might be not the best choice for a stubble field partridge hunt.

With the image that beautiful setter still in my head, and the proverbial easy-going, easy-trainable nature of a retriever in the back of my mind, it would have to be neither of them. My dog would have to be as much at ease in my tiny duck boat as in a coulee cruising for sharpies and pheasants, or running an alpine ridge looking for ptarmigan; poking around for ruffies in thick cover, or lying on his pillow in the living room enjoying a quiet weekend. Even tagging along on long runs while I train for an ultra, although pretty much any dog would outlast me. Finding game, retrieving game, and good around the house. Although September can still be brutally hot, being able to cope with the cold of late fall and winter would be more important. Shorthaired dogs were out.

Taking out the specialists on either side of the spectrum still left a big pool to choose from. Pointer or flusher? Pointer for me. I feel I hunt fairly open country more than I do thick cover, where a flusher like a Springer would shine. Close or wide-ranging? Closer would be better. I like to keep my eyes and ears on the dog, and like it if he (or she) keeps in touch with me as well. And while a point 400 yards away on a stubble field can be reached with a quick dash, the same distance across a coulee, or down (or up!) a steep slope above the trees might just be too much to deal with (getting old, I know). Likes water? Yes, absolutely. Poking around the marshes on foot or in my little duck boat when the weather is still nice, is great fun! Size? Big enough to retrieve an occasional goose and deal with deep snow, but light and agile enough to follow me into sheep and ptarmigan country.

Four Point’s Alberta Bound “Alta” (http://www.fourpointkennels.com/)

Throw into the decision mix things like looks (totally subjective), proximity of breeders, breeds that buddies own and their opinions, and first-hand experience with the breed narrowed it down to two.

Part III – “A Small what…?

A New Dog Part I – “Eleven Years”

Eleven years. That’s a long time to be without a hunting dog. Eleven years is also how long Teeko, a husky-look-alike mixed breed from uncertain progeny, has been with us. He was the perfect hiking and backpacking companion, never straying too far, friendly towards people and other dogs, and, a very commendable trait, alert during long, dark nights. His low growl when some, mostly unsuspecting animal approached camp would raise me from the dead, and there is a story about a night spent in prime grizzly country, a 3AM growl and a porcupine that I have to tell one day.

But he is not a hunting dog. He stumbles across the odd covey of huns, and I have seen him walk into the wind to flush them, but generally he is more interested in sundry other sights and sounds and smells. In his younger years he also refused to swim, which is inconvenient when hunting waterfowl, and despite trying, I could never interest him in retrieving anything, not even a stick.

These days, a knee problem has him hobbling behind me on ever shortening walks. Hopefully medication and a knee brace will keep him mobile for a bit longer.

Through some unforeseen circumstances, we ended up adopting another mixed breed dog. Hailing from a village some 250 miles North of Yellowknife, the first two years of his life will remain a mystery. We melted when we saw him. If ever there was a dog in need of a home, he was it. He has also flushed some birds, but like Teeko he does not seem particularly fond of water. He’ll run with me all day, and curl up beside me all evening, but a hunting dog he is not.

Eleven years is a long time to be without a hunting dog indeed; but I won’t be much longer. It’s just not the same, upland hunting or waterfowling, without a dog. You can find a bird, but you’ll walk past a whole many more. And even with a canoe or boat, and judiciously picking your shots, ducks will end up where they can’t be retrieved without swimming (which I have done), or they will fall where finding them is neigh impossible. The urge became too strong to ignore, and after a partridge, at my shot, fell into deep snow, and the dog on duty proved gun shy and refused further cooperation, it was clear that it was time. It was only a matter of selecting a breed, and finding a breeder.

Part II – “Decisions, decisions”

Memories 3: The Best Hunting Dog In The World

“Do you think Aika will be able to find my deer?”

We were standing on a cut line in the municipal forest where my uncle leased the hunting rights on some 700 acres. My cousin had shot a small buck that had jumped off the trail into a stand of immature pines. Thick stuff. He’d looked in the first rows of trees, but found no sign. So he backed off and waited for me to show up after the morning sit.

Aika was a German Hunting Terrier, six months old. I had picked her up at a breeder near Hannover, Germany in late winter. The pups were born in a small unheated kennel in the heart of winter. There were six pups. More had been born, but the breeder had killed them, because he “didn’t want to deal with bottle feeding”. She was so small, fitting into a shoe box. Hard to see at the time how she would grow into a fierce little hunter, flushing pheasants from thorny cover that bigger dogs couldn’t (or wouldn’t) enter, retrieving anything up to the size of a big hare, crazy about working in water, never losing the drive to hunt during long, taxing days in the field. But that was still uncertain future when we were zipping West across the Autobahn, with a furry bundle in my wife’s lap.

Aika and I had barely moved beyond training on continuous-drag scent trails to a trail with discrete drops (more like small gushes) of blood. She’d been doing just fine, but it was all still pretty playful; short trails in easy terrain with no distractions. After all, at six months old, she was still all puppy-brain.

“Do you think Aika will be able to find my deer?” my cousin asked again.

“I don’t know. It may be asking a lot of her, but let’s try.”

We drove back to the cabin to pick up the little munchkin. About 90 min later I rolled out the long line, trying to relax and send calming vibes to the bouncing pup at my feet. As we walked up to the first blood, beyond where the yearling buck had been standing, the change in the dog was striking. She went from playful to business in a heartbeat. During practice sessions on a fake trail she usually was borderline disinterested, but now it was all concentration.

With a final confirmation from my cousin about the direction the buck had disappeared we entered the thicket. About 30 feet in, the little dog sniffed up a clot of blood. Perhaps 100 feet beyond that, she found a patch of bloody hair, rubbed onto a tree. This was actually working! Five minutes later I was not so sure. Aika lost intensity and started meandering. We were off the trail.

I took her back to the beginning for another try. She pointed out the same blood, and the same hair, but again lost interest a little later. It was just too much to ask for such a young and relatively untrained dog. We started to circle back to the cutline, when Aika took a sharp left and pulled hard. I almost told her to stop playing around, but something told me to give her a little more time and trust. Moments later we were standing next to the dead buck.

Opportunities to work on lost or wounded deer don’t come very often. Aika’s star really shone brightly when hunting small game. I fondly remember so many great retrieves of pheasants, ducks and hares, that I gladly forgive her for the time she made me swim out into a beaver pond. She had not found the duck but instead had grabbed onto a branch, and was determined to retrieve it, even though it was attached to the beaver’s lodge. Her tiny brain had momentarily locked up, and I was afraid she’d drown before letting go. I swam out, and she cheerfully greeted me, happy for the support. With mixed emotions I pushed her into the direction of the duck that floated a ways beyond the lodge. We swam the loop around the pond, she picked up the duck and after some drying off we continued to hunt.

Unfortunately Aika died too soon at the age of nine. Kidney failure. I still miss her.