The Partnership
“Load up,” the man asked of the dog as they stood in the garage behind the pickup’s lowered tailgate. Having anxiously awaited those very words, the rawboned liver-and-white pointer leapt eagerly onto the truck bed and entered his box. Once secure, and the insulated cover zipped shut to ward off the early morning cold, the pair backed out into the still-dark driveway and embarked upon their journey to the rugged ground on the eastern edge of the Badlands in hope of encountering sharp-tailed grouse there.
While the area wasn’t known as an upland hunting destination, the expectation of a finding a covey there was not unreasonable if one was willing to burn a little boot leather and employed the service of a good dog. The man preferred the pursuit of sharptails to that of his state’s more-famous ringnecks, as these native birds took him to wilder, more remote grounds, providing solitude and elbow room, along with the opportunity to watch his long-legged pointers run as wide as they wished. This sprawling country still appeared more or less as God had created it, making any time there well spent. He occasionally shared these hunts with a close friend, or sometimes with his wife or daughter walking along; but more often than not, these were solo expeditions, just he and the dog. They were comfortable with each other’s company and accustomed to hunting alone.
This November morning’s hunt would take place on an expansive Badlands table towering hundreds of feet above the adjacent prairie, with jagged clay buttes interrupting the surrounding skyline. The three square miles on top, carpeted in prairie grasses, and peppered with yucca and sagebrush, had likely harbored grouse for thousands of years. The day was just beginning to break as the man parked his truck on the side of the two-track dirt road near the southeast rim of the plateau. He loaded his battle-scarred Ruger and freed the whining dog from confinement. An attempt was made to water the big pointer, but his enthusiasm for the task ahead overrode any concern for hydration, and the bowl was ignored, to the man’s chagrin.
He’d learned to stay silent during these late-season excursions, minimizing spoken communication with the dog, who was familiar enough with the drill that he rarely required suggestions anymore. While holding well for pointing dogs early in the season, prairie grouse become far less cooperative after a month or two of being disturbed, often departing at the first hint of company. Loading his pockets with a few handfuls of fives, some water bottles, and a sandwich, he checked the wind, issued the dog a quietly spoken, “Hie-on,” and followed the dog west through the waving sea of grass, the morning sun’s inaugural rays on their backs.
The dog, ecstatic with this opportunity to do that which he had been born to, made long casts, quartering to use the brisk breeze to his advantage. Years back, as a headstrong pup, he’d been reprimanded for his independence and lack of handle, as well as an inclination to bump birds by approaching too closely. The man had patiently remained confident that the instincts ingrained through his pupil’s field trial heritage would eventually surface, and the gangly Carolina-bred pup with one eye patch had indeed evolved into a pleasurable field companion. Covering big stretches of ground while still maintaining contact, and locating birds via a sensitive nose, he pointed them with acceptable style, often from impressive distances. He had his faults, but staunchness was no longer one of them; he hadn’t broken a point for many seasons. A soft-mouthed retriever, he could be counted on to return with birds, although he was typically more concerned with commencing his exploration for the next covey.
A mile into their foray, the dog suddenly pivoted and began to work his way into the north wind, nose in the air, enhanced focus and purpose in his gait. The man, trailing some distance behind, looked on as the dog’s tail slowed from a furious wag to a more cautious rhythm, and finally snapped rigidly skyward. His sinewy body locked into a taut pose with head held high, fixated intently on the crouching bird concealed somewhere upwind, appearing to be carved from stone. But as the man drew closer, he saw the dog quivering with intensity. He smiled and thought back to the countless times he’d witnessed dogs on point over the years, grateful the simple majesty of the act still mesmerized him as it did. He circled around to the left of the dog, whose eyes occasionally glanced over to monitor his progress.
A dozen strides ahead, the man cut back in front, his heart pounding. He was amused by these walking-in-on-a-point palpitations. It’s just a bird, he’d often reminded himself, yet his heart ricocheted inside his rib cage as if a snarling lion or roaring grizzly was liable to burst out of the cover at any moment. He cast back and forth, with no result. Suspecting a false point, a habit the dog was not immune to, the man softly encouraged him to relocate, at which the still-transfixed pointer cautiously tiptoed several steps before locking up again. Convinced now of his partner’s honesty, the man strode farther, and was immediately rewarded with the fluttering of wings accompanied by the trademark staccato clucks articulated by sharpies as they rise.
Picking a bird among the five that appeared, he lined up the Red Label. His first shot was hurried and wide. Disgusted with failing the opportunity for a double, he refocused and fired again, relieved to see a solid hit. The dog broke upon seeing the bird fall, quickly reached the spot where it lay, and triumphantly returned it to the man. Impatiently tolerating some praise and an affectionate pat, the dog quickly bolted off in quest of more game. Pushing west for another half hour, they bumped a pair of nice mule deer bucks and were privy to coyotes serenading from a distance, but the sole grouse they came across was a single that flushed wild, far ahead.
Reaching the plateau’s western edge, they paused near the steep precipice there. The man sat down, absorbing the breathtaking view as he took a break, sharing his water bottle and sandwich with the dog. He’d grown up close by, and the area would always be home to him. His infatuation with hunting had begun as a kid, tagging along in similar places behind his father, whom he’d lost a few years back. He reflected on the many times he’d visited this very spot, with this dog and others before it, and found himself wondering where the years had gone.
Seemed like just yesterday he’d been a young man with a spring in his step and no limit to his energy. Now, in his sixties, the passage of time had left him with deteriorating feet and a limp he could no longer conceal. The horizon had moved further away than it had been just a few years ago. The dog, too, was beginning to show wear. Now in his eighth season, the aging pointer still displayed admirable work ethic, but his pace was slackening, and he’d begun to pay painful prices on mornings following their hunts. This country they traversed also had a way of reminding the man that time was catching up, as the slopes somehow became longer and steeper each fall, and the ravines deeper and more challenging to cross; yet the allure of the hunt still resonated deeply within him. Knowing the clock was ticking had made him more appreciative of each outing. The man had vowed to tote his shotgun behind a dog until his protesting feet abandoned him completely, praying he’d be allowed enough years for just one more pup, and maybe a chance to introduce this passion of his to a grandchild or two. Time would tell if those prayers would be answered.
The respite completed, the pair turned into the north wind and resumed hunting. The dog took a wide cast and disappeared over a distant ridge, which always caused the man to worry about coyotes, snares, and deer hunters who might shoot what they perceived to be a feral dog. Cresting the rise moments later, he discovered the dog on point, patiently waiting for him. A skittish single flushed just at the edge of shotgun range. The shot was quick, and the aim true. As before, the dog raced ahead, combed through the tall grass, and trotted back with the prize.
The bird was dead upon delivery, as retrieved grouse almost always were. Tucking its still-warm form into his vest, he pondered on how a bird tenacious enough to survive South Dakota droughts and blizzard, and evade the endless onslaught of predators stalking it could give up the ghost so easily, sometimes from just a pellet or two. The pheasants the man hunted rarely succumbed as quickly and were frequently very much alive when retrieved. He’d always been surprised that grouse didn’t cling more fervently to life, while at the same time relieved with the quick, clean kills they typically afforded.
Years ago, the man had been very intent on shooting his limit. Too much so, he had come to realize. Success was now defined by a few bird contacts, a dog performing as it was bred to, and maybe returning home with a bird for supper. He and his wife relished the flavor of grouse breasts sautéed with mushrooms in olive oil and balsamic vinegar, resting on a bed of steaming wild rice, and accompanied by a glass of wine or a cold Rolling Rock. Even so, he’d begun feeling a pang of regret with each bird taken, aware it had overcome almost insurmountable odds to survive as long as it had, and would now no longer be available for he and the dog to match wits with.
They worked their way to the north end of the table without any additional encounters. Upon reaching the plateau’s edge, they turned and advanced southeast, toward the truck waiting some two miles distant. Maintaining his animated pace, the dog stopped once to pull cactus from a pad, and the man supplied a shot of water before they resumed their trek. Two more singles flushed wild, well out of range, and although disappointed they’d not held long enough to reward the dog with points, the man was more than satisfied with the weight of his vest. The temperature dropped and the wind picked up, pushing them back across the flat. He’d covered close to six miles when they reached the truck, the dog likely having roamed two or three times that. Not bad for a couple of graybeards, the man mused.
He broke open the Ruger, laying it on top of the dog box, and filled a water dish to provide his companion a well-earned drink before the trip home. He called for the dog twice, to no avail, then walked around the truck to find him posed motionless, a football field or so to the south. Grabbing the gun, he hurried to the dog, anticipating an early flush and hoping to be within range when it happened. As he reached the sculpted pointer, three birds launched, surprisingly close. His shot took the last bird to clear the grass, as the other two vanished over the edge of the table, gliding down into the vast basin below, where they would live to see another day. The pointer, now spent, made his final retrieve of the morning. The man knelt, granting the dog prolonged possession of the bird while appreciation was conveyed through quiet words and a soft touch. Sensing the hunt was over, the dog at last appeared to relax and savor the attention rather than racing off in pursuit of another covey.
They made their way back to the pickup, the dog proudly transporting their trophy. Pausing behind the dusty vehicle, the man set the water bowl on the ground and accepted the sharptail from the dog, who this time obliged him by taking a satiating drink. He laid the trio of grouse in the back, closed the tailgate, set the gun in the rear seat, and opened the passenger door for the dog, whose efforts had merited a comfortable ride home in the cab rather than the more spartan accommodations in back. Dog hair, after all, would be easier to vacuum following a performance as memorable as this morning’s.
The two of them basked in the heater’s warmth as the truck bounced over the rutted road on the way back to the highway, Merle Haggard and Willie Nelson wistfully reminiscing about Pancho and Lefty on the radio. The dog gazed at the man, who wore a wide smile as he negotiated around the most formidable potholes in their path. A limit isn’t such a bad thing after all, he thought to himself, grateful for this lonely, magnificent ground to walk, the primitive and mysterious birds it held, and a fine dog with which to share it all.
An hour later, the truck pulled into the driveway, the dog asleep on the floor, and the smile still etched on the man’s face.
