Issue link: https://www.e-digitaleditions.com/i/116174
DON'T TOUCH HIM!" but it was too late; the old dog rubbed up against my new hunting pants as I backed away. I could see the smell on me; I thought I'd have to burn my clothes and trot along behind the car on the way home. Dad vomited again, which Lightning promptly ate. Then we all three vomited in unison and it took ten minutes to regain some semblance of decorum. The dog stayed close to me as we passed through the gate, then Dad said "Hunt 'em up!" and like he came off a catapult, Lightning shot out in front of us. He made 20 feet at that first jump and transformed before my eyes from an old, lazy, foul and forlorn animal into a bird dog, a perfect picture of youthful canine energy tempered with pure joy and resolute purpose. sprang. He was a blue-spotted-on-cream English setter, big for the breed, rangy with a long head and long legs, and somewhere between 7 and 20 years old, no one was exactly sure. He did not bound around like a pup or strut like a finished dog, he plodded like each step could be his last. I don't know what he had been in to make him smell the way he smelled, but it was obvious he couldn't get enough of it and it turned the air green around him. I suppose that's the case with most dogs that roll in stuff to hide their scent. The old setter had found something to his liking and availed himself to it at every opportunity. Since the pens were fenced dirt, I figured that 20 years of "processed" dog chow and a thousand gallons of urine had sweetened the soil to his liking. In any Rock steady he stood, the slight breeze moving only the long feathering of his tail, a lone white figure in the brown of the buckwheat and the silver of the frost with the blue sky above. It was the most marvelous thing I'd ever seen. Lightning swept out in a wide arc in front of us and started taking the stubble apart in quartering runs, back and forth, while we followed, Dad close to the overgrown fencerow and me parallel out in the field about 30 yards from him. I carried the Fox with the action open as I had been taught and was watching the blue-and-white dog cutting through the stubble when he stopped so fast that he actually slid along for a few feet, his legs ramrod stiff and his nose nearly on the ground, locking up into the first point I'd ever seen. Rock steady he stood, the slight breeze moving only the long feathering of his tail, a lone white figure in the brown of the buckwheat and the silver of the frost with the blue sky above. In that splendid, unforgettable moment all transgressions were forgiven; the hair stood up on the back of my neck, my palms started sweating on the stock of the little gun, and I thought it was the most marvelous thing I'd ever seen. Dad looked over at me and I don't remember ever seeing him smile like that before. "Load your gun," he said, "and do exactly what I say." He had my full attention. We covered the 75 yards to the point in a steady walk and as we moved to opposite sides of the blue-spotted statue, the breeze quartering from behind us kept the smell to a tolerable level. We stopped when we drew up just short of the dog. "Pick one bird and stay with it," the old man said, in a tone of voice I had only heard him use when talking to other men, never taking his eyes off of the dog. "Shoot only at birds on your side of the dog; don't swing past him and no low birds." We eased up beside Lightning, who was transfixed event, he seemed to wear the stink with great pride. I knew nothing about bird dogs back then, except that they had to smell their quarry to function properly, and honestly, I could not imagine how he could detect any odor beyond the one he carried. I had faith but it was sorely tested. Dad pulled the old dog out of the kennel by the collar and only vomited once while he was fixing the chain to him, which impressed me greatly, and said something like "Oh, dear God" while my eyes started tearing up and for a moment I swear I could taste the aroma on my tongue. Putrescent was not a big enough word. "We can't put this rotten son-of-a-bitch in the car," Dad choked out while Lightning looked up at him forlornly, slowly wagging his tail, which succeeded in fanning the horrid vapors over us. "It's not far to the field, I'll chain him to the bumper and drive slow." He got no argument from me. Once he had Lightning chained, Dad started casting around in the tall grass and I asked him what he was looking for. "A cow pie to wash my hands in," he said between gasps. We hung our heads out of the windows into the wind while we crept up the farm road to the buckwheat field, Dad repeatedly spitting out into the morning air. Meanwhile, Lightning trotted along behind, as unconcerned as if this was routine. The old setter easily kept up with the station wagon and the wretched stench kept up with him. When we stopped at the gate to the field and released our prisoner, Lightning approached me for affection and Dad hollered "FOR CHRISTSSAKE, S P O R T I N G C 132 L A S S I C S