The Last Hunt (From the "Riley" Series)
Posted: Tuesday, August 02, 2011
by Jack H. Schick
Riley died a couple months ago. Of course, I knew it would happen sooner or later. I’ve out lived quite a few dogs and hope to outlive a few more. It’s just that he was that one, special dog a guy gets once in a lifetime. I knew when I got him that American Brittanies were excellent all round hunting dogs, both pointers and retrievers, but I never expected him to become, as he did, the best gun dog this side of the Schuylkill River. I was almost glad that I was out of town when he died and didn’t have to be the one to find him on the living room floor or to bury him.
I’d done very little grouse hunting, so when friend Denny invited me to go up to Clearfield County in west-central PA where there was a large population of them that year, I eagerly accepted. As was often the case, I was probably only invited because of the reputation of my dogs. It’s not that I’m unpopular, but I doubt that I would have so many hunting buddies if I didn’t always bring my best dog along.
Denny suggested that, for grouse in the deep woods, we needed a dog that would stay in close, not range far away from us. At his age, eleven and a half, Riley was the only one I could be sure would, so I reluctantly brought him out of retirement. I was concerned for his health on a tough, all day hunt. I’d always thought that the perfect way for Riley “to go” was dropping dead from a heart attack on a bird hunt, though. I brought along a big trash bag in case it was too much for him and he had to “ride” home in the trunk.
Pennsylvania’s state bird, the Ruffled Grouse, is notoriously difficult to bag. They flush with a startling fury and seldom fly in a straight line, making what seems like ninety degree turns behind cover and trees. I’d spent most of my hunts of the previous decade handling the dogs and not carrying a firearm, so I was a mediocre shot to begin with. Riley had never specifically hunted grouse before. I was a little apprehensive with just reason. With his diminished senses he tended to flush the wary birds rather than point them. Both Denny and I got plenty of shots. He bagged a couple, but I missed every shot.
We’d covered a lot of ground. Both of us and the dog were getting tired. Frustrated with my marksmanship I changed my 12 gauge from a modified to a cylinder choke. I loaded up with low brass #8 shot dove loads to give myself as many pellets as possible. I didn’t want to ride all the way up there then go home skunked. Denny mocked me a little, but he’d missed quite a few shots himself.
Riley and I were working our way through a grove of medium sized, second growth white pines. Knee high grass covered much of the ground between the uniformly spaced trees that were obviously planted as part of a strip mine reclamation project. There were a few patches of briars that re-directed our travel. Suddenly, I noticed Riley perk up. He was on a scent. From the thousands of times I’d seen it, I could almost identify the species by the way he acted. This time it was odd. I thought maybe he was on a rabbit. It was definitely not a pheasant, and he’d not done well smelling out the grouse, so I didn’t know what to expect. I was on high alert, gun at the ready. Riley got a little further out in front as I moved to an area where I had better vision and fewer obstructions. His docked tail was twitching as it always did when he was closing in on his quarry.
I was looking in the complete opposite direction when there was a tremendous flurry of sound--flapping wings and rattling branches. I was startled and spun around. About five yards to Riley’s left, a huge bird surged straight upward out of a thicket. It turned and angled back slightly toward me dodging between the upper branches of the pines. It was a large wild turkey, a Pennsylvania big game species.
I instinctively shouldered my shot gun and fired. The bird crumpled in mid-flight, crashed down through the branches and hit the ground with an audible thud. Within seconds, Riley was on it, but it was already dead. He tried to pick it up, but it was too heavy. He straddled it and looked over at me with what could only be described as a look of pride and glee. I’d never bagged a turkey before. He’d never seen one. It was certainly one of the memorable events in my hunting career. I was glad Riley was with me.
Riley slept on the back seat most of the way home that evening. He was a tired old man. I smiled and reached over to pet him many times. I could not have written a better ending to his career. From his first hunt he showed something special. On his last hunt he helped me fill my turkey tag for the first time. He lived for another 18 months, but we never went bird hunting again. I didn’t want to spoil the success and memory of Riley’s last hunt.
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