Todd Duncan Tennyson
Well-known member
i never mentioned my last hunt with the old boy
it has been a year now
& i reckon it’s time to tell his last story
………………………………………………………………………………………………
about a year ago
i climbed out of bed and stumbled down the hall
down the dark stairs to the woodstove
put a few pieces of maple on hot coals from the night before
and batted back the smoke
“ol’ alex” finally got up when he felt the door on the wood stove latching up
he was deaf
& always slept with 1 eye open
he was a working dog
in another life, he’d run sheep off of the highlands of idaho and into the valleys before the snow came
his life was whistles and hand signals and endless miles over hills and canyons
he was hard and stubborn
he was smart enough to make you question yourself.
we left in the dark
not because we had to
but because we always did
we stopped in the milltown to gas up the bomber
to get a cup of coffee
all of it a part of the routine
i fumbled with the knots on the launch and muscled the boat into the darkness
o’l alex slept in the truck
he’d made the run hundreds of times
anyone that ever hunted with alex will attest that he wasted no energy
he was efficient
i suppose that is a good quality
i launched just before dawn
shook the old boy awake and picked him up to put him into the bomber
he wasn’t built like other waterfowl dogs
he was about 78 lbs and quite tall
he had a very deep chest and not a lot of cork to his body
if he stopped paddling, he’d sink like a stone
when he was younger
we ran jackrabbits out on the sage
by god, he was a turbocharged hound
i have never seen a dog cover ground like alex did
he took position on the bow and i fired up the motor
hit the headlights
plowed through the waters until we started to glide on plane
we found a cove where the lighting might lend itself for a few photos and a memorable day
he watched me put out a long line and a few singles
he slipped into his m.o. and stood point
his ears were shot
his body sore
his fortitude remained
i always admired ol’ alex
he never gave up
he was not a quitter
he worked it out
until it all worked out
we had some birds come by
finally a shot made itself available
the old black dog was on autopilot now
i didn’t have to tell him where to go
i didn’t have to tell him what to do
because it was all a part of him
it was the final chapter in his life of work
it was something to see
i stood there and watched the dog that was going to be put down about 12 years earlier
because he was “ill tempered, not trainable, and stupid”
as he brought back his bird
all on his own
i laughed and yelled at him when he was about 40 yards out “you realize that you are “ill tempered, not trainable, and stupid?”
he did not care
he was too busy working to care
soon he was back in the boat and ready to work some more
i sat with him a while and we thought about things
i remembered all of the times we went out to chase grouse and rabbits and badgers
i asked the old dog, “do you think we did everything we were supposed to do?”
the old boy looked back at me
his fur a mess
his muzzle frosted with years of service
his nose scraped and scarred from barbed wire and fights
“i am certain that we did” he said
we sat for a few minutes just looking out over the water
waves lapped gently at the side of the boat
the little propane heater letting out heat
soon more birds to get to
and he was off and into the water
“good boy alex” i yelled
he brought his bird aboard the bomber
and shook off
that was our limit
i took a photo of the old boy with his birds
we sat in the boat for a few more minutes and watched the birds landing in the spread
bufflers, bluebills.
the sun was on the water and it reflected right on us
especially on us
i said, “well, i reckon we’d better pull in the lines and make it back to the launch”
the old boy agreed
as we were idling and pulling in the lines
ol’ alex made a strange sound.
he was never a very vocal dog
never ever heard him howl
never heard him whine
but he was whining now
i looked him over, and he was ok, no blood or fish hooks.
he took up a spot on the bow of the bomber and let out a long howl
he did it a couple of times
it was haunting and beautiful
i cut the motor and let the old boy sing
we drifted along on the glassy water
his calls echoed off of the canyons
through the cottonwoods
all up and down the riverside
never in my time with him had i seen witnessed this kind of behavior
i guess it was his death song
he came down from the bow and stretched and yawned
then he pissed on the propane heater til he doused it entirely
i laughed,
“well i said, i suppose that the boat never did have a proper christening, maybe this is appropriate enough”
a thick blast of steam and a smell i’ll never forget rolled like thick white smoke out along the river
it hung in a cloud and blew out to sea over the big water
“i reckon you’ve left your mark and staked your claim alex, this boat and this place on the river is yours now”
we made our way back to the place we started from
gliding along the glassy water
the old black boy took up his post on the bow and stood up strong
his chest out
his tail held high
he never looked back once.
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