22 Nov OUTSIDE: CURLY

The dog I own is a certified, bird-obsessed, bad-to-the-bone English springer spaniel. Both parents are field-trial champions. She is gaunt and intense, and an absolute killer when it comes to pheasants. Drive is not an issue. Last year, on opening day, she jumped out of the truck and flushed three roosters, one after the other, before we even got the guns loaded.

The farmer, a friend of mine, saw it all. He’s an old guy who’s heard all about my springer and her champion bloodlines. After the yelling stopped, he spoke up.

“That sure is a smart dog you got there. How much you pay for that smart dog?”

Plenty.

I still recommend choosing a bird dog from proven hunting stock. You know what you’re getting. But I have to admit the finest hunter I ever saw was a poodle. Or a poodle-cocker mix, depending on the angle. The truth is, Mike didn’t know what kind of dog Curly was, or even how he came to own him. It all happened during a divorce with broken dishes and late-night shouting and cars screeching out of driveways. A time of much confusion, cursing, and door-slamming.

One day the wife vanished. The dog appeared at the back door — skinny, homely, and hungry. Being pheasant season, Mike took him hunting. And that was that. “I never taught Curly anything,” he said. “He just did it.”

Curly owned a fine coat of gray fur, tightly spun. He had a brown, pleasant eye, a bit on the sad side, as strays will. He swam well and knew how to handle creeks and ponds. After you shot a duck, he would circle the water and take the shortest swim to retrieve it. In creeks, he knew the trick of running downstream and snatching a bird as it floated past. A smart duck dog doesn’t have to swim very much.

Curly had more horse sense than most people. You could trust his judgment. He liked decent folk and wouldn’t go near a liar, a thief, or a fool. Mike is in land sales, a profession crowded with sharks and contract breakers, and I believe Mike introduced him to people just for his opinion.

Curly was a good boy. But not a real affectionate dog. He only just tolerated being petted.

In the field, he worked slowly. He loved pheasant hunting and specialized in birds other dogs overran. He could confuse me, like working behind the hunter. “Stay with him,” Mike would yell. “He knows what he’s doing.” Sure enough, out would jump a smart old rooster, one who fooled everyone. Everyone, that is, but Curly.

Mike and Curly made a good team. Mike is quick, intense, athletic. If he shoots a bird, he doesn’t bother to wait. He just keeps hunting while the dog trails off: “He’ll find us.” And in a few minutes, there was Curly with the pheasant.

As Curly grew older, he would pick and choose his hunting days. He’d simply wander away to do his morning business and not return.

“Where’s Curly?” I asked, the second day of a hot, early season hunt.

“He wanted to stay home,” Mike said.

In the evening, we returned to find him in the backyard, dozing in the shade. It’s not much fun to hunt on a hot day. As I said, that dog had good sense.

He ignored rabbits, didn’t bark at strangers, and comported himself as a gentleman. I never worried leaving Curly with my own nervy little springer, who is terrified of other dogs. Both would wait patiently in the vehicle when Mike and I stopped for a burger in some prairie saloon. They were buddies.

He could be too polite, though. Once, we towed a trailer of goose decoys a half mile through picked corn fields. At the top of a rise, we started unloading. I got my dog out of the truck, and we realized Curly was nowhere to be seen. Just then, he came struggling up behind, tongue hanging out.

“He ran behind the whole way,” Mike said, giving him water. “Why I believe that’s the saddest thing I ever saw.”

A couple of years ago, Curly went on to the Great Hunt in the Sky. Mike needs another hunting partner but is having a hard time with it. There just don’t seem to be many good dogs, Mike told me. But everyone who loses a dog says that. You want the same dog, but in this case, it wasn’t possible. Curly was a breed of one.

Richard Donnelly chases birds and trout from Minnesota to Montana, and back again. The birds and trout usually win; richarddonnelly.substack.com.

Bob White is an artist and author whose work expresses a misspent youth. Instead of doing his homework, his nose was constantly in the outdoor books and sporting magazines of the day. Consequently, he has wandered between Alaska and Patagonia for over three decades as an itinerant fishing guide looking for gainful employment. He now paints and writes for a living; which is to say, he’s still searching.