A Grouse Hunter’s Almanac: The Other Kind of Hunting

Ox

39 Ox Perhaps it was a matter of false expectations, of building sand castles in the air, of counting chickens before the eggs had even dropped into the nest. In October of 1996, we bought an English setter pup from a friend and hunter who had been breeding and hunting setters in north-central Wisconsin for years. Although our decision to buy the setter pup was a hasty one, we have never regretted it. Ox was four months old when we drove out to pick him up, a dark, tricolored setter some people have mistaken for a Gordon setter. The breeder’s five-year-old son, Casey, in a sudden fit of inspiration while the family was driving down the road, had named the pup Ox. We decided to keep the name—it seemed to fit the dog and sounded bold and sharp when yelled. At eighty-five pounds, Ox was, well . . . oxlike. Twice potential buyers had spoken for the pup, even put money down, but for whatever reason hadn’t followed through. Maybe it was his unusual coloring or maybe it was happenstance. Serendipity, my wife says. 40 Ox came from proven lines, Twombley and Old Hemlock, setters from old New England lines. I’d hunted over his uncle and heard tales of other uncles and his grandfather. We knew his parents Boone and Hope. In short, he had the promise of good breeding and a blank slate. In the spring I started to train Ox in earnest, mostly the basics, the WHOA and HERE commands. He was plenty birdy, with an unquenchable desire to hunt. He’d hunt anything: turkeys, rabbits, chipmunks, june bugs, and butterflies. Later, in early August, we went back to the breeder, who helped me break Ox on pigeons. After a few sessions, he was steady to both wing and shot, solid as we flushed the bird and fired overhead. So we took him down the road a mile or so from the breeder’s home to see what he would do on wild birds. We got him into woodcock along the Rib River, in the tag alders along the river. A few minutes into the cover, Ox locked up, black and white tail straight out and twitching ever so slightly. This was the moment I’d been training him for, and I wasn’t disappointed. I stood motionless, the intensity of his point making my eyes well with tears. “Well, there’s your bird,” Dan said matter-of-factly. “Are you gonna just stand there or walk in and flush it?” Thousands of points and years later, the magic of the point still thrills me, and, although Dan was rather nonchalant about Ox’s first point of a wild bird, he seemed equally pleased. Ox pointed two more woodcock, but later, farther down the river, he bumped a skittish grouse. Then another grouse vaulted from the tags directly overhead, and we jumped, it flushed so close. Early Season 41 In time Ox would learn to handle these wary birds. Regardless of the bump, I was pleased with his performance. As we were driving away from the river, Dan suggested that I run Ox in an upcoming local field trial. “I’d maybe even run him in the championship round,” he said, as we bounced along down the rutted road. I said I’d think about it, but I felt that the puppy stakes would probably be enough for both of us. After all, I had just a little experience training dogs and no experience field trialing. Ox was just as green. And so we trained even harder. I got Ox into grouse and woodcock about every other day, especially when the weather was cool. By the end of August, he was solid on nearly every bird he encountered— grouse or woodcock. He ran hard and maybe a little too big for my taste. But he held birds. Which led to my decision to enter him in the trial and ultimately my delusions of winning first prize, Ox and me state champions, posing with a tall trophy between us, the envy of all. The trial was held in early September, the weekend before the season opened. We arrived at the trial grounds and set up next to a truck with Massachusetts plates. What have I gotten myself into? This is serious business. I felt like leaving, but I’d already paid...