copyright 2000-2003 Terry L. Bechtold
He was unwanted, unloved, and only had one testicle - a pretty sorry speciman. Already had one strike against him. But some friends in Birmingham knew I was looking for a dog and called me anyway. I took a chance and flew him up to Virginia.
His training regimen started with basic obedience. I thought my left arm would fall off before I could get him to heel. He was (and still is) hard-headed and passive-aggressive - unfortunate traits not at all uncommon in Brittanies. Bird season was fast approaching so he was pressed into service, still raw and green. After the first covey rise and hunter's volley, I had to go back to the truck to retrieve my dog cowering from underneath it. It was my fault for not doing a better job at introducing him to gunfire. Nonetheless, strike two.
Later that day, as we were heading back, the two older, trained dogs were hunting out in front while my raw pup was exploring our left flank. One of my companions for the day, Ozzie, suddenly asked me, "what is your dog doing?" I replied, "It looks kinda like he's pointing." I walked over, shotgun dangling loosely from my left hand, to see what the heck he was doing. He was, in fact, pointing a covey of quail. With a loaded piece of steel and wood hanging limp in my arm, I watched the birds fly away. Was this a hit? A ball? Certainly no strike.
Later, back at home, Corey decided to consume a leather chair upon which I had snoozed away many a lazy evening. I loved that chair and now it was destroyed and I, demoralized. Strike three. Corey had yet to point a grouse and I still was undecided about the covey point. I had already resolved not to waste time on a bird dog that was no good. What should I do? For days and nights I pondered the issue and finally decided to get rid of him at the end of the season.
On the very last day of grouse season that year, Corey and I were on our final hunt. We found few birds that day - none of which cooperated with my shotgun. Finally, darkness began its inevitable victory and we turned toward the truck. Corey explored the laurel to our left, began frantically running back and forth, then screeched to a tense point. My heart raced, "could this be it?" I approached and the grouse flushed. Rattled, I whiffed a relatively easy shot. I marked the bird down and pointed us in the right direction. Another point, another shot, another miss. I marked him down this time too. Again we pursued the bird. Again Corey pointed. But this time, I held up my end of the deal.
That was over six years ago and Corey is still with me today. I committed my time to train him. These days he seldom lets me down. I've heard comments from others like, "He's got a great nose," or "I can't believe he found that bird," and "Is that dog for sale?" Corey taught me not to make rash decisions. He taught me to take a stand and to stick with it.
I've carried this lesson with me as I've proceeded through my life. Oh sure, he still tests my patience and sometimes I call him "damn dog," but all-in-all, I've gotten back far more than I put in. My outlook has changed. And I think, "If I'll give a dog another chance, shouldn't I do that for people too?" Thanks Corey.
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