Hunting dogs are the epitome of the phrase, "Mans best friend."

Over the years, my family has owned several hunting dogs.  They have been the source of joy, fear, amusement, and sorrow.  Hunting dogs are the epitome of the phrase, “Man’s best friend” and it’s apparent every time I look back at some of the best friends I’ve ever had.

First off, there was Ol’ Red.  He was a Chesapeake Bay Retriever and I’m afraid I don’t remember much of him, only the stories I was told.

Apparently, when I was a little boy, sitting on the front steps of our house, some folks came to the door.  Dad told me that when he came to the door, Red had imposed himself between the strangers and myself.  The people weren’t coming or going until Red or my Dad said it was okay.  I don’t really know the story about what happened to Red.  All I know is that Dad sold him to a guy down in Iowa so Red could enjoy his retirement without a youngster yanking on his ears.

The next dog we got was a young black lab by the name of Shadow.  I grew up with that dog and she was fond of her little boy, I’m sure. 

She was also the way I was introduced that dreaded thing called “chores”.  It was my responsibility, when I was old enough, to take her water and food every day.  But I didn’t care, she was my playmate for a lot of years. 

How fondly I recall the days when my father and I were forced to share the back end of his Ford Ranger with her when we first hunted down in Iowa. 

Ah yes, Shadow was my first real hunting dog, she retrieved my first duck and flushed my first pheasant.  Then, when I was probably around 12 or 13, she was playing with a younger dog that belonged to our neighbor.  We discovered that she had fallen into one of the storm windows in our basement.  Her hips were crushed.  I still remember the tears that filled my eyes when I realized that she wasn’t coming home from this trip to the vet.

I believe I was 15 years old before we got another dog.  My dad got him from a guy who lived in the Cities and just didn’t have room for a hunting dog.  This wild man’s name was Smoke.  He was blacker than the Ace of Spades and goofier than a pet coon. 

Unlike my old dog Shadow, Smoke was not inclined to sit idly by while you petted him.  No, Smoke got right into your face and just panted on you.  You look him in the eye and say, “Go away Smoke, nobody likes you!” (which of course, was a lie as everyone liked him).  With that, he’d tear off a warp speed!  He’d run circles around the yard and huge clods of dirt were left in his wake.

There was one more dog that we had, but my brother got him while I was away in Montana.  For some reason, my brother named the dog “Daisy”, though it was the only male Daisy I had ever known.  When you walked out to his pen to let him out, he’d jump like a gazelle on acid!  I swear to this day that, had he wanted to, he could’ve cleared that kennel.

It wasn’t too long after my brother passed away that Smoke and Daisy went to join him.  Maybe I’m just being superstitious, but it seems like there was too much going on to blame on poor old coincidence.  Smoke was getting on in years and he was the first to go.  When the news came, I had to call in sick to work… yes, he meant that much to me. 

Then, just a few weeks ago, Daisy was found to have two large tumors on his liver.  It was decided that, due to the extreme pain and the fact that he couldn’t eat, that he be put to sleep as well.

I thought it odd at the time that they both went so close together.  But it was after looking through those old pictures that it finally dawned on me.  My brother was trying to hunt without a dog.  I believe, and will continue to believe, that those two dogs left this world so they could continue to hunt with someone they did on this earth. 

When my son is old enough, and is a little scared by a thunderstorm, I’ll be content with telling him, “The flashes are Uncle Mikey shooting geese.  The loud bangs are the barking of two dogs that are heading out for the retrieve.” 

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