A Violent Streak of Viciousness (From the "Riley" Series)
Posted: Monday, August 08, 2011
by Jack H. Schick
My gun dog, Riley, had an uncontrollably vicious streak. It was an actual insanity, a dangerous mental disorder. He would occasionally completely “snap out” and erupt into loud, snarling dog fights. He could not be ordered to stop. He had to be physically restrained or he would continue the fight indefinitely. Fur and blood often flew. This problem made it difficult or impossible to hunt with any other dogs. There were more than several frightening dog fights in the house between his brother and him that left tables and footstools overturned and lamps broken.
Riley never tried to bite me during these episodes—he never attacked a human, only dogs--but the insanity in his eyes was like that of a rabid animal. His only thought was to attack and kill. I’d securely hold him and keep yelling “Riley, Stay! Riley, No!” His body was tense and quivering, his eyes distant and unseeing, blood-shot red. He struggled to get up and away from me. He was completely out of control, totally insane and nothing could stop it but time.
After a few minutes he would start to calm down. His breathing would become deeper and slower. He would relax, but there would be more spasms, and he would verge on ‘snapping out’ again. Sometimes, for a few seconds he would lose control again, thrash and growl for a moment. I stayed with him, on top of him holding him down, until the “fit” was completely over. These outbursts completely exhausted us all.
After it was over, Riley always was ashamed. He’d stay alone in his room for a while. When he finally came out he hung his head and had a subdued, embarrassed look for an hour or two. It was clear that he realized he had “been bad.” He would often go up to Cody and seemingly offer an apology. There was something primal and beast like deep inside of him that flared to the surface and over powered any training or civil control. Perhaps it was his wolf genes. Perhaps it was same things that made him the premier, once in a lifetime, gun dog that he was that caused him to have the violent fits. Fortunately, it didn’t happen very often.
Including many of those at home, the majority of Riley’s fits centered on hunting or dead game animals. He was obedient, but adamantly in control during all of his hunts. Pepper, a Curly Haired Retriever of my friend Scott, was the best bird dog I’d hunted with before Riley. He was Riley’s first hunting partner and the first non-family victim of Riley’s violence. Scott and I went to the bird preserve to hunt pheasants after a big snow storm. They were repairing their pens and could not stock birds for us that day. They did permit us to do a ‘scratch’ hunt to see if we could find stray birds in the fields. Pepper was a flushing dog, while Riley was a pointer. As most who hunt with dogs know, they do not hunt well together.
There was some rudeness on Pepper’s part during the hunt, I have to agree. Riley would find a bird, lock-up on point, and Pepper would charge in and flush it; or, Riley would point a bird, we’d flush and shoot it, and Pepper would quick retrieve it before Riley could. Riley considered them his birds. He was still pretty young and Pepper was much bigger, so he let it go. I could tell he was building up resentment, though.
We got a couple pheasants each, threw them in the back of Scott’s SUV in plastic bags, loaded up the dogs and headed back to the preserve headquarters. Having built up the grudge and being in proximity to the dead birds, Riley had finally had enough. He tore into Pepper in the back of Scott’s vehicle while we were driving. I got a hold of him and dragged him by his collar into the front seat onto my lap and restrained him. It wasn’t a severe ‘snap out,’ but it scared Scott and Pepper. Pepper kept his distance from then on and I was beginning to learn just what kind of personality my dog had.
It was the same way with any dog who Riley even encountered in passing while we were hunting. If we met another hunter with a dog while we were in the field, I holler a warning, “Keep your dog away. I have a fighter here,” and get Riley on his lease. Too often they didn’t believe me and the dog came over to sniff noses. Infallibly, he ran back to his master having been snarled and snapped at.
When Riley was seven and I had to grudgingly admit he was in the last half of his hunting career, I got another dog, Dobie. Brittanies, classically, hunt in a brace of two dogs. I wanted to try it and give Riley a helper for when he started to get old and slow down. My concern was how he would react to a partner. I knew I was taking a chance. I was less than diligent in Dobie’s training, spending the first months letting him learn how to hunt from Riley, and for both of them to learn to get along together. I couldn’t have him treat his ‘new brother’ like he did all other dogs who intruded on his hunts. They became great friends.
I started by training Dobie on birds by himself, but finally got the courage to run him with Riley. I could only hope he would pick up some intensity and skill, and that there would be no fights to break up. I got a couple of gunners to come along so I could concentrate on handling the dogs. There was no problem with the first couple of pheasants. Riley got to one first, and Dobie got to the other. The gunners missed the first shot at the next bird and it dropped a good way out in front of us; exactly half way between the two dogs.
I could only see the tall grass moving and an occasional streak of white, but it was clear that they were going to get to the downed pheasant at the same time. I panicked. I knew there was going to be a fight. I ran as fast as I could, but had no chance of getting there in time. As they converged, I saw a lightening fast ripple of tall grass that went five yards off to the left. I thought maybe the bird had not been killed and had run. As I closed in I wondered why there had been no snarling, why Dobie not at least hadn’t been driven off. Riley would never tolerate him trying to retrieve a bird from under his nose.
When I got there Dobie was on the bird, by himself. It was dead. He picked it up and I took it from him. Riley was no where to be seen. I walked in the direction I’d seen the grass move and found him. He was sitting about ten yards away with his back toward Dobie and the bird. He was violently quivering and panting. He shook and drooled when he turned his head to look at me. His eyes were bugged out and red. He was on the very brink of a fit. I got him on his leash and led him a few yards away. The gunners continued hunting down the field with Dobie. In a few minutes Riley was okay. He did his standard, superb job hunting pheasants, with no problems, for the rest of the day.
Riley always knew it was wrong to snap out like he did. He was ashamed when it happened, but there was noting he could do to stop it. That day, when he found himself about to attack his friend and brother, he quickly removed himself from the scene. It was him sprinting to a safe distance I’d seen moving so fast through the grass. For the rest of his career, Riley hunted with Dobie. There were not fights. Several other times, though. I saw him start to shake and get that insane look in his eyes. Each time he moved away and sat by himself, looking the opposite direction. I’d talk to him, console him, tell him I understood. I could see the desperation in his expression. “Help me. I can’t help it. I don’t want it to happen,” I could almost hear him say.
I’ve not heard of such a strong vicious, violent streak in other gun dogs. But, during his career, there were few or no others that compared to him in intensity or skill in all aspects of the hunting sport. You have to take the good with the bad, I guess. Human geniuses frequently have strange idiosyncrasies. I can name a couple dozen people who think that Riley was in that special class.
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