Issue link: https://www.e-digitaleditions.com/i/652998
T he guy's name was Charlie, I think. The one time I met him, at the now long-defunct Gustav Pabst Invitational Hungarian Partridge Shoot, he showed up in a Jaguar sedan with his German short-haired pointer riding shotgun. That was pretty cool, but what made an even deeper impression—and permanently endeared Charlie to me— was that after a full day of hunting in the fencerows and stubblefields of east- central Wisconsin, he opened the door of the Jag and let his wet, muddy, stinky dog jump right in. It probably goes without saying, but the Jag's upholstery was leather— white leather. I'd call Charlie a man who had his priorities in order. As Gene Hill (who also had his priorities in order) might have put it, he was the kind of guy who, upon finding dog hair in his drink, wouldn't have batted an eye. He would have raised his glass, said "Bottoms up!" and knocked it back. Then he would have smacked his lips and asked for a refill. Speaking of dog hair in your drink, the story goes that shortly after the legendary King Buck won the first of his back-to-back National Retriever Championships in 1953, his owner, the equally legendary John Olin, hosted a party in Buck's honor at his duck- hunting lodge in Arkansas. One of the championship trophies was a silver bowl, and at some point Olin poured a little champagne in it so the black Lab could enjoy a bit o' the bubbly. Then, when Buck had had his sip, Olin filled the bowl to the brim, tilted it to his own lips, and proceeded to pass it around the room. S P O R T I N G C L A S S I C S 5 6 Eventually, though, someone balked. "I'm not drinking out of the same bowl that dog drank out of," he sniffed. Olin let him have it with both barrels. "You're not good enough to drink out of the same bowl that dog drank out of!" he roared. "Get out!" That may not be verbatim, but you get the idea. The bottom line is that Olin showed the guy the door. Insult me, insult my wife, insult my kids—but don't you dare insult my dog. I f I couldn't hunt with a dog, I wouldn't hunt at all." How many times have you heard that sentiment expressed or even expressed it yourself? It's become a cliché, yet even with the new worn off, it crystallizes something true and deeply heartfelt that resonates at an almost cellular level with us gundog folk. Dogs simply bring so much more to the party; it's like going from two dimensions to three, from black-and- white to color. Energy and excitement, artistry and athleticism, tenacity and courage, instinct and intelligence, drive and desire: All are embodied and made manifest in the dogs that point, flush, and retrieve for us. (And track, tree, bay, and course for us as well.) They rivet us aesthetically, engage us emotionally at a depth we can scarcely fathom. I'm not speaking figuratively here. In the summer of 2000, when it became clear that my great setter, Emmylou, was dying, I felt my soul come unmoored. It was as if a part of me had broken off and was drifting away, and I was powerless to steer it back. I began having episodes of disconnected consciousness, moments in which time seemed to stop and then skip ahead, leaving gaps in between that I had no memory of. Driving at highway speed, the relative motion of the landscape If we could only be the people our dogs think we are. Tom Davis u n d o g s G