The Day He Quit (From the "Riley" Series)
Posted: Thursday, August 04, 2011
by Jack H. Schick
One warm autumn afternoon when Riley was about 18 months old, two buddies and I went goose hunting on a local farm. One friend, Joe, and I had already done a lot of hunting with Riley and appreciated his enthusiasm and dedication to his “job.” He lived for the kill. He relished the chance to get a hold of a dead or wounded animal. He was more anxious to ‘bag some game’ than any hunter ever was. That day, we saw Riley demonstrate such an intense frustration with anyone who didn’t feel the same way that we talked and laughed about it for years.
Pepper, Scott’s curly haired retriever, stayed near his master. Riley hated it when other dogs were involved in his hunts. He’d had some serious confrontations with “intruders” before, including Pepper, frequently drawing blood. The two dogs had kept their distance from each other all morning. We relaxed in our “blinds” and waited. Scott occasionally blew on his goose call. Joe dozed off.
Ahlum’s farm was mostly open fields. He leased the planting rights to another local farmer. We ‘sat’ in the corner of a 10 acre hay plot with un-harvested soy bean fields on the other three sides. We faced the barn and corn crib about 300 yards straight across the fields from us. Our vehicles were in plain sight next to the barn. The weather was gorgeous. The sky was cloudless, the air still. We chatted and waited for over an hour before we finally heard geese coming in.
We hunkered down under our netting. A flock of about 25 Canada geese came flapping in low, right over the barn. They glided straight toward us, locked their wings and landed right among our decoys. While they were approaching and after they landed, Scott loudly whispered, “Don’t shoot. Let them get closer. Hold your fire.” Joe and I were flat on our bellies aiming. The geese were wary and noisy. They meandered around, curious about their plastic, silent “friends.” Several of them stared at us, but didn’t spook. Pepper and Riley were now standing up in plain sight.
I couldn’t understand why Scott wanted us to hold our fire. I said, “I’m going to shoot. I’m going to shoot, now. Are we going to shoot, now?”
“Not yet!” Scott insisted. “Let them get closer.”
“They aren’t going to get any closer,” Joe groaned in frustration.
At about that time, Pepper started walking out, across the open field toward the geese, who, naturally, became especially nervous and noisy. When Riley saw what Pepper was doing, he started out toward them too. He wasn’t going to be left out of the action. I told him “Stay,” which he did. Scott issued increasingly frantic instructions to ‘stay,’ that Pepper completely ignored. He continued his slow, deliberate walk toward them until the flock of geese flushed. They flew directly away from us. We had no shots. Everyone was angry at Pepper (and Scott), but no one was more angry and frustrated than Riley.
I told Riley, “Okay,” to break his “Stay” command. He slowly walked out to where the geese had been. He sniffed around on the ground to make sure he hadn’t been hallucinating. He couldn’t believe what he had just seen. When Pepper came too close, Riley snarled at him and the bigger dog backed off. I called, “Riley, here,” for him to join us back in the gully. He gave me his familiar look of haughty disdain. I could almost hear him saying, “You idiots! I’m here to get geese! Why didn’t you shoot?” Actually, I agreed with him.
Riley ignored my instructions. He turned and walked away. He did not look back. He crossed the hay field to the dirt road. He did not trot or change his pace. He continued to slowly walk away in disgust. He crossed the drainage culvert, went up the lane and laid down in the shade next to my truck by the barn. We watched him cover the entire 300 yards. He stayed at his spot in the shade by the truck for over an hour until we, allegedly hunters, had had enough and quit for the day, too.
On the way home, I apologized to him for not shooting at the geese. He was not interested in forgiving me. His disappointed, reproachful look, his refusal to make more than brief eye contact with me before quickly turning his head, said as clearly as if he spoke it in English: “If you are not serious about bagging game, I’ll find someone else to hunt with.” I got the point. From then on, I strived to meet his expectations and standards. I can’t say he didn’t glare at me like that again over the next ten years, but I tried harder to be what he expected his hunting partner to be.
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