Toward the end of 2022, I picked up the book A Feisty Little Pointing Dog, A Celebration of the Brittany, edited by David Webb. It is a compellation of sixteen stories written by various authors, published in 2000. The same year I graduated high school.
In fairness, I’ve only made it through the first handful; it’s an awful book to read when you’re already feeling sad about the age of your first bird dog, which, for the same reasons, also makes it totally inappropriate to read on an airplane.
Before I purchased the book, I didn’t know that a handful of these people were or are part of the Pennsylvania Brittany Club, the first place I traveled as a Brittany owner to compete in a fun hunt with the breeder of our first dog, Utley. This gave me an immediate connection to some of the experiences.
The book got me thinking – these stories – the love that goes into raising a bird dog, the time, the connection, the pure connectedness we experience with some. There was a time in my life when I yearned for the experience – in work, in my personal life – to write stellar stories and to share wisdom. Although time fixed most of that, this book reiterated it, particularly regarding your first bird dog.
The smarts packaged into a 30 – 40 pound animal is intense. But these dogs can learn about anything you have the patients to teach them. From finding wild game, being steady to the wing, or remembering the names, humans provide to each of their stuffed toys. When Utley was a puppy, I wanted all of the experience – from understanding how AKC Hunt Test worked, to ecollar training, recall while hiking, and a well-trained fly-fishing friend. I wanted the Garmin Alpha tracking collar, the collection of orange vests (for him and for me), the shooting experience to be an Upland Hunter. I wanted it all the weekend after I brough this little dog home.
Until I picked up A Feisty Little Pointing Dog, I failed to understand what those skills, and the decade, would teach me. And that time, and those memories, would ultimately result in the most profound love story and pile of grief. To tell the story and have wisdom, the cost is love and loss.
About two months from his 9th birthday, my heart dog lives with a low-grade heart murmur. Although I know he can still be around years from now or potentially collapse on his way out to chase a rabbit he does not intend to catch, I know we’re on the downward slope of our time together. The comfort of an older dog you’ve raised their entire life is impossible to create in any other way. Yet, these once-in-a-lifetime moments – are fleeting and truly a snapshot.
There are always more memories, new dogs, and, likely, some really great dogs in our future. But, none will hold the stories of love and personal loss like Utley has for me. He oversaw my marriage to Steve, and in time, the loss of our babies. He’s been there for all the birthdays, all the new years, and the death of my father. He’s rolled with the flow of new cars, new homes, and the physical distance between us and Pittsburgh.
One day I would I love to lead the charge of a second edition of A Feisty Little Pointing Dog with stories from friends, near and far, with their own firecrackers.
With that, I’ll leave this post with an excerpt from the book that reminds me of our second bird dog (yet first to cross the bridge), Lily. She was all piss and vinegar when we brought her home at age 6. Never to be defined by where took her, she became the leader of our pack – scratch that – the leader of our house. Once Lily crossed the bridge, we no longer had our own time teller in the house and had to start relying on alarm clocks. She was our live and white, grounded by Utley and deeply fond of my husband. She would not release any game to me and would surrender it with pride to Steve. I miss that girl more than I could have comprehend.
As we wrap up Women’s History month, may we all carry with us a little spark of bird dog . . . to be whatever the hell we want to be.
“It was her way, all of it – the putzy style, the fundamental believe that she was entitled to be whatever the hell she wanted to be, and the ready willingness to bitch about any slight, real or perceived, at the top of her lungs. I did at least as much to create that attitude as I later did to curb it, so in the spirit of fair play, she allowed me to be in charge often enough that I was able to retain some measure of dignity in the relationship, even though she taught me that there’s no use pretending to be any better than I am. Since she left, I have never felt more keenly the truth of Burton Spiller’s lament that the life of a dog is not as long as the life of a man.” – Michael McIntosh
A photograph from 2018 at Hunters Creek Club in Metamora, Michigan with my husband, Steve, our Orange & White, Utley, and Live & White, Lily.