He owned an American water spaniel—the state dog of Wisconsin and one of just a handful of AKC-recognized sporting breeds of North American origin.

It’s never a good sign when you begin a day of hunting pacing a veterinary clinic parking lot waiting for the place to open. Earlier that morning, when I went to load Rumor, my English cocker spaniel, it was all she could do to drag herself out of her kennel—and this is a dog who normally boils out like her bottom’s on fire.

Plus, she had a hacking cough. She hadn’t seemed herself lately, but this was something else again. Now I was seriously concerned.

We were supposed to meet Tim Otto and Aldo, his American water spaniel, for a day of grouse and woodcock hunting in Langlade County, about 100 miles northwest of my home in Green Bay. I didn’t want to cancel unless I absolutely had to—I figured I could give Rumor the day off and simply monitor her condition—but after meeting Tim for breakfast at the Dixie Lunch in Antigo, my worries ultimately won out.

“Do you have a local veterinarian you like?” I asked between forkfuls of scrambled eggs and sausage.

“I do,” he answered. “The Spring Brook Veterinary Clinic. They’re tops in my book.”

“Do you mind if we stop there before we head out? I’m worried about Rumor.”

“Let’s go,” Tim said, draining his coffee.

We arrived a few minutes before the clinic opened (hence the pacing in the parking lot), but once it did, Rumor went to the front of the line. Her temperature was 103.8 degrees—the upper limit of normal is 102—and given her symptoms and the prevalence of blastomycosis in that part of the world (see Gundogs, J/A 2019), Dr. Desiree Gentile recommended a chest x-ray.

The film was clear, thankfully, leading Dr. Gentile to conclude that Rumor had contracted some variant of kennel cough and might also be suffering from Lyme disease. She prescribed an antibiotic, a pain reliever/fever reducer and a couple days of rest, instructed me to limit Rumor’s contact with other dogs for a while and, no more than 45 minutes after we’d walked through the door, sent us on our way.

Dr. Gentile and her staff could not have been more professional or attentive, so if you ever find yourself in need of veterinary services while in the vicinity of Antigo, Wisconsin, don’t think twice. Just head straight for the Spring Brook Veterinary Clinic.

Tim Otto and I had bumped into one another along a Langlade County trout stream and, as sportsmen will, got to talking. Eventually it came out that he owned an American water spaniel—the state dog of Wisconsin and one of just a handful of AKC-recognized sporting breeds of North American origin—and that “Aldo” is employed in very much the multi-purpose capacity for which the AWS was originally developed.

Which is to say that Otto uses Aldo to hunt upland birds, waterfowl and small game, including rabbits and snowshoe hares. Aldo—who’s named, as you’ve probably surmised, for Aldo Leopold— also accompanies Otto when he runs his muskrat trapline. His duties in this respect are a little hard to pin down, though I suspect companionship is number one on the list. Trapping is hard, cold, lonely work so having a pal along helps to lighten the load, morally if not necessarily physically.

In any event, Tim and I stayed in touch and when he invited me to join him on a grouse hunt this past October I jumped at the chance, not only because it sounded like he was moving more grouse in Langlade County than I was farther east in the state (where I was moving hardly any at all), but because I thought it’d be great fun to hunt behind a water spaniel. I’ve always thought they were cool little dogs—“Townhouse Chesapeakes,” someone called them—but even in Wisconsin they tend to be pretty under-the-radar.

Tim told me over breakfast that a buddy reported good success hunting swamp edges and that if I didn’t mind doing

some “prospecting,” he had a place he’d like to try.

“I don’t mind at all,” I assured him. “Grouse hunting is all about prospecting— especially in a down year like this.”

“Well, I hope you brought your rubber boots,” he said, “because where we’re going you’re going to need them.”

Actually, I’d brought hip boots, and while not the most comfortable things to walk in, they served their purpose and kept my feet dry. Our destination that morning was the Ackley Wildlife Area west of Antigo, a multi-thousand-acre, table-flat sprawl of state-owned land that, as near as I can tell, is damn near all swamp. As we walked in on a deeply rutted two-track, the puddles crinkly with skim ice, Tim remarked “I don’t usually hunt this spot until after freeze-up.”

It was easy to see why.

Once we left the trail and spread out in the cover, Tim offered some tips on how to read Aldo’s body language.

“When he’s working scent,” he explained, “his tail starts whirling like a helicopter. He also starts hopping.”

“Hopping?”

“You’ll know it when you see it,” he said.

A few minutes later, Tim yelled, “Watch Aldo—he’s birdy.”

He’s not the easiest dog to see in cover but then, this is a breed designed to blend in, not to stand out. When I finally spotted him, his tail was cranking like mad; then, a second or two later, he suddenly shifted from a “normal” gait into a stiff-legged, pogo-stick hop that I couldn’t remember ever seeing a dog do before. It was kind of comical, even cartoonish, and more than anything it reminded me of the bouncing prance of mule deer.

Unfortunately, the source of whatever scent had gotten Aldo fired up didn’t materialize. Over the course of a crisp, quintessentially October morning, we made a big, meandering, counterclockwise loop, combed just about every variety of cover you can think of, and never fired a shot. For that matter, I’m not sure either of us glimpsed a grouse, though we did hear half-a-dozen. If you’re a grouse hunter, you know that’s just the way it goes sometimes.

Aldo, who hunted splendidly throughout, also flushed a woodcock in close proximity to me but as I was crashing through a hellish tangled mess at the time, I had to take Tim’s word for it.

That afternoon, after refueling on the excellent cheeseburgers at Rick’s 45 Roadhouse north of town, we hit a spot that, if not exactly secret, might as well be.

“This is public land,” Tim explained as we followed Aldo into the thick stuff, “but no one seems to know that. I’ve never seen anyone else hunting here.”

Higher and drier than Ackley (but still table-flat), it was more “classically” grousey-looking: brushy broomstick popple studded here and there with conifers. It wasn’t long before I registered the low sonic rumble of a grouse taking wing, turned in the direction of the sound, and caught sight of the bird rising through the canopy only to crumple at Tim’s shot. Aldo promptly retrieved it to hand, and we were finally on the board.

A little while later, I kicked up a woodcock that evaded my first barrel but tumbled when I touched off the second. I had a pretty good mark but I’m glad Aldo was there to find the bird so I didn’t have to.

Aldo worked several more birds that afternoon, grouse and woodcock both, but only Tim got shooting. Alas, he apparently used up all his luck when he killed that first grouse. That’s the way it goes sometimes, too.

Whether he was bounding around in mule deer-mode or not, Aldo was a fun and productive dog to hunt with. I’d gladly follow him anywhere. He and Tim clearly have a great rapport, too, which of course is something we dog men always love to see.

I let Rumor out of her crate after Tim had put Aldo up, and she proceeded to zoom around as if she’d never been sick. Thanks again, Dr. Gentile! Just don’t ask me why a diner in Antigo, Wisconsin, which bills itself “The Gateway to the Northwoods,” is called the Dixie Lunch.