When it comes to a well-performing, honest bird dog, pure pedigrees aren’t everything. Looks can be deceiving.
One thing about the dog standing on point in the Johnson and wiregrass was for sure; it was a drop. If anyone knew of its lineage, they weren’t talking, and it didn’t leave me with much to go on. The five-year-old male stood tall and weighed a robust 55 pounds. He had a basecoat of tan and big black patches pockmarked with white flecks. His tail was docked like a shorthair’s, and his hair was so wiry and tangled that it looked as if it was combed with a grenade. The kennel held a significant number of all types of dogs, but this one looked like the product of an honest accident that could have happened to anyone.
It wasn’t a coincidence that Bobby pulled me aside; he’s always poking the fire.
“What do you think of that dog?” he asked.
I rolled my eyes. I knew he wanted me to say that the dog was ugly with an odd coloration and an unusual conformation. He was fishing for a negative comment, but that season was closed and I wasn’t biting. It’s not my place to rip on another man’s dog, and I held my tongue. No way was I gonna bite.
“I know one thing about that dog,” I said.
“Oh yeah?” Bobby grinned. “What’s that?”
“I know that dog is on point,” I said. “That’s the eighth of the morning, and every one has been productive. That’s an honest dog right there.”
“Yeah, I know all of that, but what do you really think of that dog?”
“He’s got a nice gate. He moves easily without much effort, and I bet he can go all day. He’s been nailing points with the wind blowing just as easy as when it’s still. He was put down when there was still a chill in the air, but the sun has been up for a while and he’s still jam on. He’s got a good nose that cleans up the fields as well as a Zamboni smooths out a hockey rink. I like him.”
“Would you want him in your kennel?”
I looked over at Bobby for his tell. When he’s up to no good, he’s always had this slight tug of skin pull in the corner of his lips, just the way he does when he’s bluffing in a game of five-card draw. He knew well and good that I’m a setter man. He also knew that this pup was the exact opposite from everything else in my kennel.
There’s a lot to be said about pure pedigrees of the highest order. Clean genes are important for an entire breed. Solid lines advance good characteristics and maintain integrity. As a kid, we had Irish setters. That was back in the ’70s when the line breeding was a bit too tight. They were gorgeous to look at, with big heads and chests and a rich russet color that shone in the sun like a freshly polished car. Our dogs were outstanding dogs for a whopping ten minutes; after that, the whole lot of ’em pointed trash. Attention spans drifted off, and no whitetail, rabbit, squirrel or pile of cow dung was safe. I figure I must not be that bright because after sordid experiences like that, a smart man would have taken up golf.
But this dog was just the opposite. He wasn’t much to look at, and I wasn’t sure if he should have a smooth coat or a wire one. I couldn’t tell if he should have a long, slick tail, a feathered tail, or no tail at all. If I had to guess, he was a mix of setter and wirehair, but that wirehair would have to have been a mix that included some pointer and a dash of Brit. I looked at him standing there and thought one thing: He sure is a wonder on birds.
We put down a springer, and that flushing dog busted up the covey. Birds went everywhere, flying like rockets. Bobby scratched one down to the left, and I made a mess of feathers fly on one that broke to the right. My bird evidently didn’t get the message that he was shot, and he flew, flew, flew away. But about 75 yards out, he dropped like a stone.
The springer dashed out and retrieved the first bird without a hitch. He dropped him off then went looking for the second. He stopped at the biggest concentration of feathers and rooted around quite a bit. The springer didn’t know that the bird flew off; he was focused on Bobby’s bird, but he combed that area thoroughly. There was no bird to be found.
One tap on the head of that drop sent him ripping cross country as fast as a thoroughbred. He’d watched that bird no different than a Lab studies a duck. His intensity was significant, his speed tremendous, and he arrived in the general area in a flash. Suddenly, the dog’s nose dropped towards the ground like he was a bloodhound chasing an escaped convict. He stopped and whipped around, some tall grasses moved, and he disappeared from sight. When he emerged, he had the quail in his mouth. He unceremoniously returned the bird to hand.
Looks versus skill—that’s a jump ball for sure. The ideal for bird doggers is to have a good-looking pup that’s a wonder on birds, but what do you do when an ugly dog outperforms a stunner? That all depends on the handler, for beauty really is in the eye of the beholder.
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