We arrived at the parking area 30 minutes before the legal hunting start time. I counted 14 vehicles already parked, and at least twice that many hunters with their dogs nervously ambling about. And they were BIG dogs Labradors, English Springers, Brittanys, and German Shorthairs. By comparison, my little Scottish Terrier, Rusty, looked like an out-of-place child's toy. We were surrounded on all sides by confident, heavily-equipped, big-time hunters and their huge, muscular, experienced bird dogs.
My confidence withered. I was totally intimidated. But seeing Rusty's eagerness, I somehow hung on to my determination that, no matter what, my bird dog with a brogue was going to go out and hunt with the best of them!
I got my gear ready and collected my courage waiting as long as I could before getting Rusty out of the Jeep, trying to avoid the scrutiny and hard looks I knew we would get. Finally, with 15 minutes to go, I hooked the bright blaze-orange lead to his bell collar, took a deep breath, and stepped into the parking lot.
There was an immediate hush among the hunters, followed by harsh whispers as we crossed the lot and set out for the hunting area. "No matter what they think," I said to Rusty, "we're here to stay!" Little did I know what my bird dog with a brogue had in store for his partner that day.
 My adventure with Scotties as bird dogs started several years ago when my previous Scottie, Piper, accidentally flushed a big rooster pheasant and the rush of that excitement left him and me forever eager to track any fresh pheasant scent. Over the years Piper and I shared many special hours together in the field bird hunting. My fond memories of those adventures with Piper led me to try to teach my young Scottie, Rusty, who is 1 1/2 years old, to track pheasants.
I placed a telephone order with a hunting supply company and in a few days their package arrived at our door. It contained a large canvas dumbbell, a 4 ounce bottle of liquid pheasant training scent, and thin brochure which outlined how to use the materials to train a bird dog. I quickly discovered that the large dumbbell, while suitable for an adult pointer or retriever, was much too big for my 20 pound Scottie. And the booklet wasn't much help, either. We postponed the start of our training and reordered a "puppy" sized dumbbell.
When the replacement order arrived I started by putting Rusty on a `sit-stay' in the living room. After smearing a little of the pheasant-scented liquid on the canvas dumbbell I tied it to a string and dragged it across the room. Then, with great enthusiasm I shouted, "Find the bird!" He shot across the room in a blur to investigate the marvelous new object. As he ran, I voiced my encouragement loudly, and when he `found it,' I rewarded him with a stream of praise and a small treat. After a few more `finds,' he was hooked! It was a wonderful game full of suspense, excitement, lavish praise and best of all, topped off by a tasty treat every time he responded to "Find the bird!"
We repeated these exercises almost daily, as I dragged the dumbbell a little further away from him each time we practiced. When he proved he could "Find the bird" anywhere in the house, we graduated to the yard. I began to leave him inside the house while I went outside to lay the track. I would bring him outside to the starting point and cheer him on as he unerringly followed his nose to the hidden dumbbell.
Next we graduated to the local parks. I laid scent trails through tall grasses and over rougher terrain and gradually lengthened the distance. Rusty improved to the point he could consistently track the dumbbell through 50 or 60 yards of rough cover. As he successfully handled each new challenge my appreciation of his ability grew. Of course, he always got plenty of praise and a small treat when he accomplished the `find.'
In September Rusty went along on a three week traveling vacation. We played "Find the bird!" at campgrounds in Kansas, Missouri, Arkansas, Oklahoma, New Mexico, and Colorado. Despite the
unfamiliar settings, he almost always earned his treat. My confidence was growing that he might soon be ready to go after the real thing.
After our vacation I took Rusty hiking a few times in the mountains near our home in Longmont, CO.  It's an area where upland game birds are occasionally found and I wanted to expose him to the scent of the real thing. These hikes didn't directly improve his pheasant skills, but I learned a great deal about reading his body language and his vocal signals as he demonstrated ability to distinguish fresh deer trails and to track ground squirrels. I knew he had real scent abilities. But was he ready for an actual pheasant hunt?
In late October it was time for my annual pheasant hunting trip to my brother-in-law's in Wisconsin. Don and his veteran Brittany Spaniel, Bingo, are serious, no-nonsense pheasant hunters, so the prospect of a would-be bird dog with a brogue tagging along gave me serious pause. I believed in his ability, however, so I decided it was time to sink or swim. He was coming with me to Wisconsin!
I didn't let Rusty go with Don and me on the hunts over the span of Don's vacation. Don's dog, Bingo, showed her magic and we brought home many pheasants. Rusty carefully examined all the birds we brought home, and seemed to say to me after inspecting each lot, "OK. When is it MY turn?"
My plan was to give my Scottie his hunting debut after my brother-in-law's vacation ended and he returned to work. I still wondered whether we were ready for `the big time' so on Monday morning Rusty and I drove to the 4,500 acre Bong State Recreation Area in southeastern Wisconsin to look things over together. I intentionally timed our trip so that we arrived well after most of the hunters were already gone for the day to minimize the confusion and disruption I feared other hunters and dogs would cause us. Once there Rusty worked the cover, explored the scents, and heard his first sounds of nearby gunfire. I was very pleased with how well he handled his initiation experience he was well behaved and poised, very attentive to the bird signs all around us. I knew then we were ready.
So there we sat the following morning surrounded by veteran pheasant hunters and their incredibly athletic bird dogs, waiting for the start time to enter the field. I felt like David against Goliath. Would we be the laughing stock of everyone present that day? I could imagine the sneers about my bird dog without legs! I took a deep breath and opened the door. Rusty was going to have his chance! Ignoring the hard looks and chortles, we headed for the field.
It was very cold as we walked into a stiff wind. Hard for the shooter, I thought, but good for the dog. As we headed into the wind and down a long narrow strip of field created by two loose boundaries on either side, I rubbed my watering eyes and chanted, "Find the Bird!, Rusty." He worked eagerly, left and right, keeping abreast or slightly ahead of me.
Fifty yards ahead a white speck caught my eye and I rubbed my eyes and squinted to make out what it was. I couldn't believe what I saw! The white spot was the ring on a rooster's neck. Suddenly two roosters shuffled nervously at our approach. My mind raced furiously, trying to develop a plan as we continued to close on them. I knew the birds would probably run, and that only strong pressure would force them into the air for a shot. Oh, what to do next?!
Then, at 25 yards, the two roosters ducked their heads and ran. I took up the chase, running as fast as I could, with a bewildered Rusty struggling along behind, trying to keep up. The two birds split, and I raced after the one angling off to the right. I soon lost sight of my quary but kept running hard after it, following the direction it was heading. After another 25 steps it suddenly flushed 25 yards in front of me. I stopped, braced, fired, and then fired again. On the second shot the rooster tumbled down about 50 yards away.
Any experienced pheasant hunter will testify that a downed pheasant is the most elusive thing on earth! I grimmaced and threw down my cap to mark the spot where I thought the bird landed. I
immediately began searching, but I knew my chances were bad and getting worse with each passing second.
As I bumbled back and forth looking for the wounded bird in the thick grass and weeds, Rusty finally caught up with me. I quickly showed Rusty the place marked by my cap and half-heartedly urged him to "Find the Bird!"
To my surprise Rusty picked up the scent at the spot and began tracking the bird for 15 yards to where the pheasant was hiding. I heard the exploding of wings as Rusty flushed the bird and turned to see him bounding along almost directly under the rising rooster! This time my shot was accurate. A moment later we tucked one handsome rooster into our game pouch.
I was so proud of Rusty! I'm convinced we would never have gotten that bird if Rusty hadn't tracked it down and flushed it the second time. The nearest hunter to our position, who witnessed the whole episode, paused briefly as he passed by to ask, "What kind of dog is that?" When I replied, "A Scottish Terrier," he didn't seem to believe me. But as he walked away he shrugged and left us with the compliment that he didn't think anybody could do much better than we'd just done.
But my `bird dog with a brogue' wasn't finished showing us his stuff. After his rightful praise and a treat, we got reorganized, and set off again. After just a few minutes, Rusty picked up a really hot scent. He pressed hard following the track and I had to hurry to keep up with him. I kept peering ahead, hoping to catch a glimpse of whatever it was we were chasing. Suddenly, there it was. I was stunned to see a rooster and two hens on the run only 40 yards in front of us! Then a third hen emerged and caught up with the others. A few seconds later, they all disappeared into the thick cover ahead of us.
I took off at a dead run, rushing after them in an attempt to flush them into the air. After sprinting 40 or 50 yards, the rooster and two hens flew up well ahead of me. I shot twice and the rooster dropped without moving.
 What a day! I couldn't believe all that had happened. In just 25 minutes Rusty and I had our legal limit of two fine rooster pheasants. I caught my breath, gave Rusty his treat and a drink of water, unloaded the shotgun, and started planning our `victory walk' back to the parking lot! I carefully positioned the birds in my game pouch to gaudily display gorgeous rooster tails sticking out of BOTH sides for all to see. I kept a few steps behind Rusty all the way back to the parking lot, and flashed a Chesshire Cat smile each time we passed one of the other hunters. Rusty and I were so proud of ourselves I believe we could have walked on water!
Back at the parking lot, we were the only ones there everyone else was still in the field trying to fill their limit. Out of all the hunters with their classy bird dogs, Rusty and I were the first to get our limit that morning!
What a feeling! I was still shaking from the experience when we got back home and I haven't fully calmed down yet. Even now, I can relive the thrill of that day in my mind with perfect clarity. 
What a triumph for Rusty! What a day together! It was one small step for a pheasant hunter; one giant leap for a bird dog with a brogue!
*Reprinted from GSM, vol 1 no 2 (Mar/Apr 1996) |
