Dog men, real dog men, the kind of men who look first at a dog’s feet and then press down on their shoulders and notice their gait and grit, belong to a relatively small group these days and their number is dwindling. Even though their lives are defined in every aspect by some connection with dogs, they are often not recognized or appreciated by lesser dog enthusiasts. They are, however, always recognized by their peers. And when these men’s paths cross, it’s not a frivolous event. They pit dog against dog and it ultimately becomes man against man, for neither dog nor man is complete without the other. Sometimes, when the respect of the other is at its greatest, it becomes dog for dog and man for man. Membership of this fraternity is made of the wealthy as well as the near destitute and pity or esteem is bestowed on neither by either. It is the dog only and the knowledge of the dog that gains their respect. — unknown
Lane looked into a cracked mirror and combed his sandy colored hair. Baking soda on his toothbrush had cleaned his teeth shiny white. The front row glistened. It was “Picture Day” at school.
“Lane, get a move on. The bus will be here in a minute,” Lane’s mother called from another room. She laid out starched blue denims and a crisp, white shirt with all its buttons tightened for the occasion. No jacket.
“Don’t get your clothes dirty today,” she added.
Quickly into the kitchen, he downed a bowl of oatmeal and dressed, socks first, then shirt and then blue denims and shoes. Lane called back to his mother as he climbed up into the waiting bus, “Feed Rusty!”
Taylor Reed had been around birddogs since he was a child. His father and grandfather had kept them from the beginning. Nearly 8,000 acres of pine timber, cotton bottom and grainfields offered the perfect sanctuary for bobwhite quail and provided the perfect venue to showcase the many champions reared and trained at Red Oak Plantation.
Mr. Reed was in a rush this morning. Kent, the farm manager, was busy saddling Mr. Reed’s favorite horse and loading this year’s derbies into crates on a wagon for a morning outing that would decide which of the swift pointers would be kept and which would be culled.
It was a tradition in the Reed family. September’s flocking and yard-breaking narrowed down the potential group of young dogs from 25 or so to seven. Now, in late October, after frost had laid low the rank grasses and quail had formed their winter coveys, it was time to make the final cut. Only two, maybe three, of the derbies would be kept, and those for only one season.
Unlike his father and grandfather, Taylor only campaigned derbies. One season and then the best derbies in the nation were sold to the highest bidder. These would be the best of the best and, for a season, carry the Red Oak banner throughout the southern states from Georgia to Texas.
Mr. Reed finished his light breakfast and readied himself with chaps and a light jacket.
“Oh, Taylor,” his wife called as he was leaving. “Dr. Hill called yesterday while you were out. Said he’d call back.”
“He’s probably wanting to get on the cull list,” Mr. Reed answered.
Taylor Reed never liked the name “cull list,” but that’s what it had come to be called. The cull list wasn’t a bad list to be on. Red Oak Plantation sold the young dogs that didn’t make the cut for a paltry portion of the sum Red Oak had spent on labor, feed and other expenses in developing the young dogs. So friends or others recommended to Reed would call to get on the list each year in hopes of either getting an excellent hunting dog, or perhaps a field trial gem overlooked by the experienced eyes of Taylor Reed.
All was ready when Mr. Reed arrived at the kennel. They would start from just behind the barn paddock. Mr. Reed and Kent each led their horse and a pointer to the back gate and released the dogs. Mounting the horse seemed to take a little more effort than it had a month earlier, and a burning across the small of Mr. Reed’s lower back caught him off guard.
“Not as young as I used to be,” he muttered. “Let’s loop through the new cut and then across the stocker pasture. I’d like to look at the calves you’ve been telling me about,” Mr. Reed said. A tractor pulling the small wagon loaded with the other barking, whining candidates followed the route as best it could.
The first pair of dogs on the ground raced off across a corn stubble field and disappeared toward a tract of timber that was clear-cut in July. It would be rough running once the dogs reached the cut, but that’s where the birds were. Quail aplenty lounged among the fresh pine tops and pecked the low-hanging cones full of seeds that were just for the taking. Logging roads winding through the 800-acre tract offered relief from the jagged snags, splintered stumps and new briars, but the comfort of those same roads often meant sure elimination from team Red Oak. But so far, the two dogs on the ground had no need to fear elimination. They were both hunting the cover and seeking the limits of the plantation before them.
The Pointer by Edwin Megargee.
Both dogs pointed single quail several times throughout their time in the cutover. No doubt, one or both young dogs had busted the coveys, but it wouldn’t hurt their chances. Older dogs would have found whole coveys, but it wasn’t older dogs that appealed to Mr. Reed. There was something about the energy and recklessness and hope exhibited in a derby that excited Mr. Reed. He had a special knack for picking the best of the young dogs. His picks were not always the fastest or strongest, nor were they always the most biddable, but he could pick ’em. If Mr. Reed kept a derby, you could bet it was the best.
As Mr. Reed and Kent swung their horses toward the stocker pasture, one of the dogs caught sight of the men turning and raced toward them. In a few minutes he claimed the front and beat the pair to their destination. The dogs slipped under the aluminum gate and ran off to search the small islands of pin oak thickets dotting the pasture’s expanse. The other dog heard the riders calling, but took no heed to their voices. He was a strong and steady hunter, but this lapse in judgment may have cost him.
The entrance to the stocker pasture offered a convenient place to change dogs. A thermos cup of drink was passed around. The forward dog had sensed his outing was over and returned to the gate. The latter dog, the one hunting for his self, would have to find his own way home at some other time. New dogs were released by the wagon driver.
“I like that one we just picked up,” Mr. Reed offered to Kent.
It went on like this for most of the morning. Each dog was given a second and occasionally third chance on the ground. Mental notes of each dog’s performance were taken and that afternoon, if tradition held true, Kent and Mr. Reed would decide which dogs stay and which dogs go. Quite out of character though, Mr. Reed tied his horse to the wagon and rode uncomfortably back to the house. The burning pain hadn’t gone away. It was worse. He’d be in the hospital at three that afternoon and at death’s door by four.
At school that day, Lane, remembering his mother’s voice, was careful not to get his britches or his Sunday shirt dirty. Just after lunch, Ms. Priddy instructed the class as to how the pictures would be taken.
“When the photographer calls for us, we will line up and go to the library. When we get there, girls take a seat in the front. Boys, ya’ll stand behind the girls.”
The photographer’s assistant knocked on the classroom door and peeped her head in. “We’re ready Ms. Priddy.”
Ms. Priddy assembled the class in somewhat of an orderly line and ushered them down the hall. It was a little scattered, but all in all, the children sat in the chairs or stood where they were supposed to. The photographer and his assistant arranged the group with the taller boys in the middle of the back row. Lane’s place was near the left end of the row just behind Lexie. His white shirt made the perfect backdrop for her curly red hair.
The crowded room was becoming warm and quite uncomfortable to Lane. The neck of his buttoned shirt and its long cotton sleeves were more than he wished to bear, but for his mother’s sake, bear it he would. Having never been a sickly child, Lane did not recognize the fever inching its way from his core to all parts of his body. This was all very new to him. As the photographer’s voice faded into a distance and the bright light flashed, Lane’s knees buckled and he melted onto the floor.
Dr. Hill’s call the day before wasn’t to talk about dogs, it was to tell Mr. Reed that high enzyme levels had shown up in recent blood tests. The doctor had thought the levels indicated weeks or months before kidney failure would occur. He was wrong.
Lane lay on the floor surrounded by classmates and a fanning Ms. Priddy. The symptoms were prominent and within moments Lane was rushed to the hospital. The same Dr. Hill met Ms. Priddy and a school janitor as they carried Lane’s limp body on a stretcher. The boy’s jaundiced face and fevered condition led Dr. Hill to test for the same enzymes shown in the results of his other patient. Both patients, critical, were ambulanced to Jackson’s UMMC and the nearest dialysis equipment.
The pair of patients were each attached to two of the treasured dialysis machines just before midnight. Lane’s mother, who was alerted early that afternoon and still frantic, rode the two hours to Jackson with Kent and Mrs. Reed. For three days and nights the machines slowly and rhythmically pumped and purified and returned blood to both patients.
Mrs. Reed knew of Lane and his mother but had never met either. The common link spanning the wide chasm of wealth and status was Lane’s father, Brady Sharp. He, off and on, had trained dogs for Red Oak Plantation, but was for the most part not a part of either family. Mr. Reed once said, “Brady Sharp could rule the world of dogs if it wasn’t for alcohol. What a waste of talent.”
So, the link was fragile to say the least, but Mrs. Reed, during the ride to Jackson, saw through the murky circumstances. She covertly and un-embarrassingly arranged for the stay in Jackson to be as comfortable as possible for Ms. Sharp.
Likewise, Mr. Reed knew of Lane and his mother as well, and of course he knew Brady Sharp. Mr. Reed had often watched from a secluded Red Oak knoll as Lane and a liver-headed pointer skirted the outer edges of Red Oak Plantation. He saw on many occasions the stylish pointer from afar and knew he wasn’t common. And the lad didn’t seem common either. Rather calm, the youngster approached each point and first stroked the pointing dog’s tail and then pushed the dog ever so slightly into the scent. Then, when the pup was as rigid as an ash sapling, the uncommon lad walked out front, flushed bobwhite and always downed a bird. Mr. Reed also knew the mother of the uncommon pointer the boy called “Rusty.” She was out of a bitch Red Oak had culled four years earlier.
“We missed that one,” Mr. Reed had more than once told Kent.
For the next two weeks, as the patients recovered, Mr. Reed would come to know Lane very well. In 1966, dialysis in the state of Mississippi was scarcely available and very cost prohibitive. Just how Lane was allowed the luxury of life late that night was never discovered, but I do know that Taylor Reed has always had a keen eye for and a special fondness toward derbies who have great potential.