Judy

by W. GORDON MEANS

1

JUDY was a gift, a gift it would be extremely difficult to repay, for while it would be easy to send the friend who gave her to me a likely puppy, it would be more than miraculous if I could pick one that would turn out as well. She was just like any other pup WHEN she arrived at Turf Meadow in the spring of 1936, six weeks or so after she was whelped. She had the run of the place all that summer, and by fall had grown into a gangling fair-sized dog with all the faith in and the affection for mankind with which setters seem to be endowed.

The dog I was counting on to help fill my game pockets that fall was Buddy, a big stalwart grandson of Dave’s. Unfortunately he had inherited but little of his grandsire’s savoir faire. He wasn’t too bad on grouse, but the smell of woodcock seemed to befuddle him completely; apparently he could not differentiate between body scent and the smell of droppings, and when he got into a woodcock cover he would sneak about as though he expected a lion to jump out and bite him at any moment. Buddy and the pup Judy were all I had, so I had to make the best of it. Judy, of course, was too young to be of much use in the field, but I often took her along so that she would get the smell of birds and become accustomed to the noise of a gun.

One day WE were out wilh a nonshooting friend who had come along just to see the sport. We were working up a boggy swale banked on either side by fairly firm ground, not too thickly grown over with birch and alder. My friend, who was on the bank to my left, almost stepped on a woodcoek that flushed and flew directly across my bow. At the time, I was ankle-deep in mud, so I could not sw’ing properly on the bird; but with the shot it seemed to wince a little in mid-air. I believed it had been hit, but on it went to vanish into the trees on the other side of the run. I called to Buddy, who was some distance ahead, and with Judy at heel we started off on the line the bird had taken. When we arrived on terra firma, Buddy began to creep about as though he were walking on thin ice and did not want to break through. Other woodcock had probably fed or “used" there shortly before. I followed him aimlessly around, hoping he’d locate something either dead or alive. All of a sudden I missed Judy. Looking back, I noticed her half pointing a little to the right of where Buddy had been tiptoeing about. On going over to her, there to my gratification was the woodcock, lying dead almost under her nose. Right then I decided to bounce Buddy after the season closed and to concentrate on this puppy for another year.

Judy, it is true, did not have what could be called a complete first season; still she had enough experience to initiate her into the joys of both partridge and woodcock shooting. She grew into a truly lovely dog, much gentler than her immediate predecessors.

I think I worried through the second season with Judy more than I ever did with any other. I hated to brush her up for fear of spoiling her disposition; yet, at that time, I knew no other way to correct a dog while breaking it to the gun. Somehow we got through it, more because of her magnanimous and forgiving nature than because of any act of mine. The following spring, however, we joined an obedience class; and from then on, it was a lot smoother sailing for both of us.

After perfecting the routine she had learned in class Judy developed rapidly. I never taught her the stunts I did Dave, such as carrying meat in her mouth or flushing birds on a command, but she really didn’t need it, for the training she had received was enough. She would retrieve partridge and woodcock equally well, and the distance she pointed from a bird Mas ample proof that her nose was as perfect as a dog’s could be. She detected a partridge at truly sensational distances, but a grouse won’t lie the way a Moodcock does.

Whenever we were hunting woodcock and she pointed, there was sure to be a bird in front of her.

I never knew her to make a mistake and jack up on chalkings as so many good dogs will do once in a while. Sometimes it was hard to believe she was not false pointing. One incident in particular comes to mind.

We were hunting “cock” in a lovely cover we called the “Mother Pine,” where an old pine tree had sown and raised a large family of stout saplings all about her. This group of pines stood in a cow pasture on the bank of the Exeter River and was fringed by low alders and some scattered clumps of birch trees. The cattle had kept the ground clean and it was in every way an ideal spot for timberdoodles to drop into on their fall migration to the Southland. Judy and I had just arrived at “Mother Pine” and were proceeding along the fringe of alders when she made game and whipped into a point. She was a lithe creature, very graceful, and when on point usually crouched, her head, back, and tail perfectly parallel with the ground, but her body bent slightly either to the right or left. I made in and by her and had gone two or three yards, but still no bird got up ahead of me. I pushed on cautiously through the alders until I was at least twenty feet from my dog. Could she be fooling me? Keyed up as I was, I turned to see if she had shifted, indicating that the bird might have run; but Judy was still as immovable as a stone fence. Just then the bird got up at least another two yards behind me. I whirled about, and this time I didn’t get my feet, crossed up or hang the barrel of my gun on a branch. I took my time and down he came on the first shot. What a satisfaction!

2

Most of the shooting I do at Turf Meadow is confined to ducks. I do shoot squirrels in the woods and have also killed a couple of deer there, but my bird hunting usually takes place much further afield. Every year, in the season, however, I have what I call “Old Home Day,” and with my bird dog I go into our woods for a mixed bag of upland game. One morning Will, our valued general factotum, arrived while I was about to get dressed, announcing that he had seen a cock pheasant at the foot of our hill as he was coming to work. Hastily I pulled on a pair of old pants and slipped into a shooting coat, grabbed the Sauer 20-bore, and coasted with Will down the driveway in the car.

The pheasant, a fine big bird, was still standing about where Will had seen it, between the drive and a little pond where we used to keep our live decoys. I hopped out of the car and started for him, expecting any minute to see him take off; but true to pheasant nature he preferred to scoot, for some low thorny bushes that grew near the edge of the pond. Fearing he might escape me entirely, I let him have it and he turned a complete somersault and lit on his back with his feet in the air. One would have supposed he was done for, but as I went to pick him up, he somehow turned over and limped off into the bush. Will, in the meantime, had gone back and soon reappeared with Judy. She, I’m glad to say, quickly retrieved the bird; it had evidently died after its final skulk into the bushes.

With this propitious start, it seemed like a good idea to proclaim “Old Home Day” for that season, and accordingly, after I had gotten myself properly clad and had stuffed down some breakfast, Judy and I started off for the hills that surround Turf Meadow. The lane that leads from the open fields goes by another little pond and through some stately beech woods, thence across a brook which feeds into the meadow; it then climbs Crafts Hill, where the growth is a jumble of cedars and birches, cat briers and high-bush blueberries. It is rugged going for a while; so the sensible thing to do is to stick to the lane and let the dog work on either side. Also, even with a close-working dog, a bell helps keep you posted as to his whereabouts.

As we neared the top of the rise the bell stopped and, peering under the berry bushes, I saw Judy pointing. It was a difficult situation, for if I went to her, the density and height of the bushes would make a shot impossible. Resorting to an old trick, I threw a handful of pebbles where I figured the bird might be; instantly there was the sound of a bird getting up through the thick underbrush, its wings striking on twigs and little branches. Something skimmed along the tops of the bushes, and I was gratified to see a puff of feathers fill the air at my shot. I waited a moment, but Judy failed to appear. Again I looked, and she was still on point as rigid as a telegraph pole. Another handful of pebbles produced nothing, but on the third try a nice timberdoodle whistled skyward. Judy brought it to my waiting hand after an easy shot. But what had become of the first bird? We hunted and hunted and, good as she was, Judy could not “find dead. At last I went back to where I had fired the shot, and took a line to where I expected the bird would have fallen. There were plenty of feathers on the ground, but as Judy still could not find, I looked on top of the bushes, where lay, to my utter astonishment, a fat cock quail. I have never believed Judy smelled the bird, but he evidently was near enough the woodcock she was pointing, to have been scared out by the first handful of pebbles.

The morning was wearing on. We turned north to where the country was a little more open. Judy was downhill to my left when a grouse flushed to my right and swung diagonally across me. I led him into a small pine and fired. I knew instinctively that I was on the bird, even though I did not actually see it fall, and when the dog took a track on the spot where it would have hit the ground, I felt certain I had scored. Judy made off in a great hurry and was soon out of sight. I followed along after the bell, AND presently I realized she was coming toward me. When she reappeared, however, there was no bird in her mouth. As soon as she was sure I had seen her she turned and walked very slowly away. I followed her to a wide though low juniper in the center of which was a rabbit hole into which she was smiling ominously. It was all too evident that Mr. Grouse had taken refuge in the hole and she was trying to tell me so.

I found a rock nearby on an old stone wall and blocked the hole completely. Then, as it was getting near lunchtime, we went back to the house. I also wanted to get a special steel trap which I use on the top of poles to catch hawks alive. The jaws of the trap are ground back and then wrapped with cotton and electric tape, so that if a bird becomes ensnared his leg will not be crushed in the process.

I intended to set this trap in the rabbit hole, hoping the partridge would walk into it when he came up for air. It was a good idea but proved unnecessary. for when I rolled I lie stone away on getting back to the juniper bush, Mr. (Grouse was already suffering from claustrophobia and came out into my hand. “Old Home Day was a I ready becoming memorable. We picked up two more woodcock in the afternoon, and I missed a long shot at a pair of black ducks which jumped from a little puddle deep in the woods.

But it mattered little, He would indeed be a greedy hunter who complained at a bag of one pheasant, one partridge, three woodcock, and a quail. The high point in the day occurred emphatically when my wise Judy led me to the rabbit hole and told mo as plainly as if she had spoken that the grouse was hiding therein. I ask you, was that instinct or brains on her part ? Assuredly it was brains, and a high order of brains at that: and many were the times she did use them on the wonderful hunts we had together.

She was not without her eccentricities, however. I never could get her to retrieve ducks which I occasionally shot along the banks of some river while after upland game. Once while we were out shooting with Hilbert Hinsdale, Gib killed a duck which fell across a narrow but deep stream and lay in full sight Oil a grassy bank. I induced Judy to swim to the other side and she went up and sniffed the dead bird, hut no amount of coaxing would induce her to bring it back, and we had to make a long detour to get it. Also, she scorned pen-raised pheasants and would only pick one up. if I were right at her side and forced her to do it.

Judy, like so many good dogs, lived to a reasonable old age, but after she was twelve she begun to fail rapidly. I took her to a veterinary to find out what the trouble was, and he told me she was suffering Irom a shock. We kept her along for several months, but she evidently was growing worse instead of belter. Then I felt I had to make the hardest decision a man who loves his dog has to make. Accordingly I asked my son, bus, to put her away while I was gone on a trip out West. Shortly after my arrival he wrote me a letter which told of the end and from which I quote in part: “We found Judy very uncomfortable, Rather than let her drag on we put her to sleep and she is now buried down among the hemlocks. There was no pain or discomfort to frighten her and she passed off very quietly as in a sleep. She was a wonderful dog and served you not only as an excellent bird dog but as a companion as well. I was sorry to see her go but I know she will have a place in dog heaven as well as in our memories. And so ended the life of a gentle, lovable creature who will always have a very special niche in my dog hall of fame.