Although Mollygrubs Messer grew up in a region of the South not known for abundant populations of quail, during his youth that grand game bird Havilah Babcock once described as “five ounces of feathered dynamite” was still fairly commonplace in agricultural regions nestled in the valleys and gentler parts of the Southern Appalachian terrain. That consideration, along with having a paternal uncle who was a serious bird-hunting man who occasionally let his nephew tag along on half-day hunts, eventually led to the Messer family becoming proud possessors of what ostensibly was an English pointer with impeccable lines. The miseries connected with a predecessor pointer, the woebegone Smoke featured in an earlier Mollygrubs episode, “Of Pointers and Polecats,” notwithstanding, eventually the boy and his father decided to give the whole matter of bird dogs another try.
The dog was obtained, at no small price, through one of those vague connections involving “a man who knew a man who could get you a fine-bred bird dog.” Admittedly, when Mollygrubs and his father visited the owner of the recently weaned pup, all seemed fine. The rollicking bundle of boisterousness was one of a half dozen frisky young canines being overseen by a proud mother. Even then though, the discerning eye might have noticed that the mother was less than a visual delight. Indeed, she would have put any truly astute judge of bird dogs in general and pointers in particular in mind of some memorable lines from a classic bluegrass song from Bobby and Sonny Osborne, “Tennessee Hound Dog.” Two in particular, the ones saying “looks like ugly warmed over” and “an old age home for fleas,” seemed especially applicable.
While the bitch was anything but a beauty, her offspring did feature the right types of coloration such as lemon, liver, white, and black. Still, multiple aspects of their physical configuration just didn’t seem quite right. A man more knowledgeable than Mollygrubs’ father, who truth be told had all too many of characteristics that plagued his son’s life, might have smelled a rat or strongly suspected a mongrel had been in the canine connubial woodpile. Or, as a hunting comrade would put matters rather pithily a couple of years later, “They bought a dog that you would do a favor by staying silent when it came to discussing matters of its lineage.”
All that lay in the future though, and as so often was the case in Mollygrubs’ life, malignant forces prevailed. The breeder, with reasons aplenty to distort both lineage and likelihood of fine performance afield, went to great lengths to praise the pup. Mollygrubs’ uncle, who unfortunately was not present when the deal was done and certainly would have stopped the unfolding developments had he been, assumed impeccable breeding lay in the background. Adding to the unfortunate tumbling of circumstantial dominoes, surely a harbinger of what lay ahead, the pup emptied its bladder all over Mollygrubs as soon as the boy picked him up. Still, before you could say “dead bird” or “whoa,” the Messer family somehow found themselves proud owners of a new pointer.
Of course Karen Messer, whose entitled bumptiousness seemingly knew no bounds, saw fit to intrude on what was in those days the supposed male preserve of bird dogs and upland game hunting. She stuck her nose squarely in the middle of what was an unfolding disaster and, in her inimitable way, contributed to it.
She insisted that canine “naming rights” lay exclusively with her. Having bullied her way into an arena where she had little knowledge and no business (although there was nothing new about that), she duly dubbed the young pointer Precious. It would have taken a raving lunatic, or perhaps a mad genius, to have chosen a more inappropriate name for a field dog. The fact that the dog was a male made that doubly the case. Completely undeterred by the protestations from her husband and son, she then proceeded to make matters worse by regularly referring to the pointer as “her” Precious puffball. By mutual consent, Mollygrubs and his father forthwith decided that the dog’s moniker, for an assortment of reasons including avoidance of embarrassment when in the company of fellow hunters, would be shortened to “Pea” (obviously P. P. wouldn’t have done).
Pea soon developed into a prolific pointer. Like the predecessor bird dog in the family kennel, Smoke, he pointed sparrows, dickey birds, meadow larks, and pretty much any avian. He also pointed moles, field mice, rabbits, a wayward ‘possum that stayed on the ground long past the time it should have been in a tree, and doubtless would have performed admirably on a skunk had the opportunity presented itself. He also showed a pronounced penchant for rolling in fecal matter, reveled in back rubs in carrion, and Pea’s pee faucet opened wide when anyone petted him or picked him up. He seemed to take particular delight when it came to “marking territory” by anointing the nearest available human leg. Pea’s bladder must have been of impressive size, because he seemingly could perform this particular act time and again with impressive flow and without any intake of water.
While Pea could most assuredly pee in prodigious fashion, what he wouldn’t do was hold steady on quail. No amount of yelling, instruction, correction, or any other measure known to the world of dog training would break Pea of the sheer delight he derived from jumping right in the midst of a covey of quail. The closest the Messers came to dealing with this was recognition, gained through sad repetitive experience, of when she was about to pounce rather than hold point.
This dramatic shortcoming made not such much as a scintilla of difference to Karen Messer. She had decided that Precious was meant to be a pet, not a pointer, and to make a bad situation worse in her headstrong, heedless fashion she declared that her “puffball” was to enjoy full house privileges. Any fool, and that included the two male members of the Messer household, knows that turning pointers into pets is bad business. That usually is reflected in field performance, but the undoing of Precious came in quite different fashion.
While Karen Messer’s pet was anything but fully housebroken, she somehow came to the conclusion that it was only when males were present that the dog misbehaved. She soon decided to put her dear puffball, Precious, on display for an afternoon tea gathering of the local ladies club. Supposedly these pillars of Stony Lonesome society gathered for noble reasons such as discussing literature, rendering aid to the unfortunate, practicing the finer aspects of flower arrangement, and making plans to improve the public appearance of the community. In reality their monthly gatherings were the female equivalent of males assembling at Dead Pecker Corner or in the two-chair barber shop serving the community. Both groups gossiped, told lies, discussed real and imagined sexual affairs outside the bounds of marriage, and had needles out for any hapless soul not in attendance.
Such was the nature of the gathering when Precious was put on display. One of the more pretentious ladies in a conclave of pretentiousness had, at the previous meeting where she was the hostess, brought out her French poodle for the observation and admiration of all present. The dog had been a hit, and not to be outdone, Karen figured that both she and Precious were equally deserving of center stage. Accordingly, when her turn in the hostess rotation arrived two months later, she laid careful plans for the presentation of her Precious puffball. She had already bombarded other club members with accounts of the dog’s many and varied accomplishments, biddable nature, and spoke with boring consistency on how a hunting dog had become a house pet and stellar canine companion.
When the big day arrived all sorts of special arrangements were in play. Precious, very much to his dislike, had been bathed and even undergone the ignominy of being dusted with some type of perfumed powder. A loathsome decorative collar replaced his usual one of simple leather. There was even an effort to adorn him with a specially sewn vest, but that was a bridge too far. The normally biddable dog fought mightily against this action and managed to defeat the combined efforts of his mistress and a maid, breaking a couple of utensils in the kitchen, which had been turned into a temporary dressing room for the dog, in the bargain.
Still, when the guests began arriving in mid-afternoon, Precious was in what his mistress reckoned to be a presentable state, and his introduction to the gathering of grand dames had been carefully planned. Karen led Precious out on a short leash, and he was initially greeted with suitable “oohs” and “ahhs.” Those expressions quickly changed to screams of horror when the bewildered dog instinctively resorted to what he did best. He lifted a hind leg and let fly at the closest convenient target. The receptacle of Precious’s liquidity was none other than the generally acknowledged grand matron of Stony Lonesome society, an elderly matriarch whose family owned not only the local bank but rental housing, extensive tracts of land, and multiple retail establishments. For Precious, such considerations meant nothing. He released in full flood mode.
The aftermath was something to behold. The outraged screams sent the dog scrambling. He tore the leash away from Karen and headed for somewhere—anywhere—less densely populated with distraught women. The highly polished hardwood floors of the Messer house presented a problem however, and Precious’ scrambling resulted in a tea cart being upset, two end tables covered with glass figurines going topsy-turvy, and one attendee was knocked from her feet and landed in the puddle produced by the dog’s initial greeting to the gathering.
A quarter hour later every lady in attendance had departed, mightily upset and muttering imprecations such as “never again” or “that Karen Messer and her dog are disgraceful.” It was a decided setback to “Caring” Karen’s efforts at climbing atop of the local social ladder. It also brought unequivocal insistence to the effect of “that dog (the name Precious had vanished) must go.” When she was in that kind of mood the male members of the family had long since realized that retreat into defeat was the only option. Two days later the former pointer of great promise was gone forever more—“Pea” had peed one time too many in a most inopportune setting.
Jim Casada is the Editor at Large and Book Columnist for Sporting Classics. To learn more about his many books or subscribe to his free monthly e-newsletter, visit www.jimcasadaoutdoors.com.