The Best.

In the early sixties, a steady stream of hunters and dogs traversed our farm. Many never asked for permission to hunt. There was a private road that lay north of the South Grand River that split the farm. The land and road belonged to my father and our neighbor’s farm to the east. The road was open to allow us to move about freely with farm equipment. It was a different time than now, and dad never felt like he was the owner of the land, anyway. He would say that he was the land’s caretaker for the Lord, until the next man came along. Though he didn’t like trespassers, dad rarely ran anyone out as long as they closed gates and respected the farm. Many nights we could hear coon hounds being run through our many woods and apple orchard. Once in a while, come daybreak, there would be one or more hounds laying between the barns and our house waiting to be found or fed. If the dogs had names on their collars, we’d feed them, then drive them home if local. If the dog had no identification, dad would post in the local paper or put up a notice at the local barbershop. It was a man’s gathering place to chew, spit, read newspapers or magazines in the rack for such, and tell stories. If they felt like it, they’d get a shave and a haircut for a dollar fifty. Within a day or two, people would drive in and ask if we had seen this dog or that. Usually it was back of the house eating from a pan my mother had filled. Once we obtained our half collie, half German Shepard farm dog, Sport, the back door welcome came to an end.    

Sport was inseparable with dad or us kids about the farm, and he guarded his rights to the large acreage with a vengeance. He had a beautiful, long silky reddish blonde coat over his entire body, a heavy bushed tail he held upright, the head of a German Shepard, and one of the fastest dogs I have ever seen. He is the only dog I’ve known that could run down a rabbit as readily as a fox. Not a large dog at only about forty five pounds, it was forty five pounds of nimble greased sinew. He could herd, retrieve, faithfully guard the chickens at night, ran off all sorts of vermin, and easily whipped any stray dog that came too close. He loved to play with us kids. Strangers who came in to visit gave Sport a wide berth, but as with many animals, he had a knack for determining a person’s intentions.           

Dad taught high school besides farming, leaving mother and three small children to run the farm and fend off or welcome traveling salesmen, windmill repairmen, or electric-meter readers. Mother would stand safely at the back porch talking to unknown folks as they often stayed in the car afraid of the staunchly supportive dog at her side. He was better than a shotgun for menacing effect if Sport thought you were up to no good.  A steady flow of people came in and out of our farm to buy and sell eggs, apples, cattle, feed, seed, fertilizer, deliver fuel, or the clergy that often dropped by. Sport would enthusiastically run alongside their car wagging his tail and allow them passage as they stopped. How that super intelligent dog knew how to sort out the purposes of people, I don’t know. I doubt he read my mother’s tone of voice, because she was always pleasant to everyone. Maybe he recognized from their tone of voice or body language. But, he certainly could peg a malicious intruder. I remember Sport treeing a would-be gas thief in a smallish ash tree until dad leashed the gnashing flailing menace below. The poor guy probably considered falling to the dog compared to being bludgeoned by the knotted, gnarled, farmer-tanned, old man approaching with a lantern and a billy club. Dad didn’t need a gun, and really didn’t need the bludgeon. I think he used it in that instance for effect. He filled the man’s can with gas, and sent him down the road.    

Sport’s specialty was chicken house defense. At the slightest cluck in the middle of the night, the napping night-watch would perk his ears the direction of the brood. He’d open his eyes from slumber laying in front of the porch way’s door, and would keen-up, often sniffing to better assess the situation. His powerful legs coiled ready to defend his duty. In a blink of an eye, he would jet across fifty yards of lawn to jump the four foot chicken wire fence. Then jump the front Dutch half-door entering into the hen’s abode flushing, routing, and most often turning whatever predator had entered into his prey. The raucous of the melee rarely lasted but a few seconds. Raccoons, skunks, opossums, snakes, coyotes, civet cats, owls, and weasels were often seen running away badly mangled or found dead inside. I know the denizens of the coop loved him as much as we did.

Though my brother, sister, or I would beg to claim Sport, he was my father’s dog. Sport jumped to greet the old farmer when he arrived home from school, and would run to the pasture. He knew that was the first place dad would go, to count cattle and check fences. Dad often called upon him to sort cows or chase a truant calf back through the broken fence. Sport followed him where ever he went on the farm. Mother knew when we were coming back from working the fields, cattle, or chores as Sport would run home ahead of us and announce to her our coming arrival. Even when the superb athlete, who once double stepped at dad’s side, got much older and arthritic, he would painfully step beside dad as they walked together. He’d often stop, waiting for the old man to stop and scratch his head. As Sport got too old to follow us, dad would often scoop him up, tuck him under an arm of his jacket and off they’d go. Dad wouldn’t go for a walk without a dog, especially Sport. Dad had many stories about some of his past dogs we never knew. Rex and Boscoe were heralded in days ago, but Sport had surpassed them all. Dad could get that dog to do anything.    

When my father had a stroke that left him in wheelchair, the old faithful dog took a sudden turn also. The once beautiful sheen of his coat dulled. He no longer dug up moles or field mice. He didn’t even run off the guineas that pranced too near. Two candles were flickering before us, and it was heart wrenching to see their souls slowly fade away. When father’s daily walks died, Sport died soon after.    

I have had many good dogs, and even a few great ones.  Dad had the best.

By: Bob Ross, March 2020

The Passion

I remember admiring the movement of two stylish pointers as they worked the fence-row of my childhood friend, Paul’s, old farmstead. I was about eight years old and he was seven, and this was the beginning of what would become a life-long passion for us both. We admired Paul’s uncle’s hunting prowess with a brace of well-trained dogs. With simple shouts, and an occasional tweet of a whistle, he controlled the driving primordial instincts of these swift hunters. They had extreme high tails, and long, chiseled bodies—formed from a life of chase. To watch the galloping gates and the picture-perfect points of one big liver-headed male and a slightly smaller lemon-headed female was like watching Olympic ice skaters glide smoothly across the ice.

Paul’s father had fought in WWII, and he had a magnificent collection of older military rifles. Mr. Mallett (Paul Sr., we never addressed an adult by their first name) occasionally allowing us to watch him shoot or clean the weapons, I’ll admit, was my biggest draw to Paul, as I had a passion for hunting and we had no guns in our home. We rode the same bus to school; shot bows and arrows; did 4-H projects together; fished, hunted, and trapped together on White Oak Creek, which ran between our farms; did chores; and played together. The man with the hard-charging bird dogs was Mr. Mallett’s brother, whom I never met formally. I cannot recall his first name, but it doesn't matter. He was still Mr. Mallet. Except for the nod of his hat, an admonishment to stay back, or a broad smile at us boys as we watched his dogs retrieve a downed bird, that was his rare interaction.

With the farming methods employed in the early sixties, Mr. Bob White was in every hedge row in the fall. The dogs would give us a grand display for two or three hours. We weren’t allowed to interrupt or go near his uncle and his two rangey English Pointers during their weekend quail hunt. But we were allowed to watch from a distance and admire the dog’s abilities. The dogs weaved back and forth methodically along the corn field edges at great speed. Spin like a Messerschmitt fighter on the tail of allied bomber, the dogs would almost somersault into a locked, sculpted point on a errant single away from a covey. If the single was found before the covey, it was allowed freedom. The dogs never advanced on the birds once locked down, until the man gave command. The dogs were even more impressive when they winded the covey. Inching slowly as they deemed necessary, weaving the brush ignoring frantic cottontails, back-tracking on occasion as they lost the scent, but always relentless, and the result was breathtaking. The dogs would judiciously return the dead, and aggressively hunt out the wounded. To me, they were the ultimate hunting machine.

No more than two were shot by each, Mr. Mallett, or the other person who on occasion joined the outing, on the covey’s burst. Getting the legal limit was a guarantee early in the year, as there were at times four or more coveys on one-hundred and sixty acres. After the limits were obtained, the dogs loaded back up into the back of the Country Squire station wagon, while the men cleaned birds in the field. The four-legged hunters would be looking out the back window, as the big Ford rolled away on the dusty gravel road, and the man I thought was Teddy Rosevelt, himself, gave a grand wave of his arm out of the car’s window, and a saluting blast of the auto’s loud horns.

At the time we raised cattle, had horses, a pony, chickens, guinea fowl as various points when they decided to stay home, and an utilitarian farm dog, Sport. Paul and his father primarily raised pigs, chickens, and a few ducks. I really didn’t like pigs, but for a smaller investment than cattle, they made farm payments. Seeing those magnificent canine specimens working in the field, was akin to gazing longingly at the thirty-dollar Buck bone-handled hunting knife in the glass case in McDonald’s hardware store, while rolling my cheap, dollar twenty-five Imperial single bladed pocket knife in my trouser pocket.

Like some boys wanted a Tonka Truck, and girls wanted an Easy Bake Oven, I wanted a bird dog.

By Bob Ross, February 2020

Bob’s granddaughter is quite the artist!