Gimme a Goose (From the "Riley" Series)
Posted: Tuesday, August 09, 2011
by Jack H. Schick
When I got home from work, I grabbed my shotgun, my hunting license and my dog and threw them in the truck. It was goose season. Riley (the dog), and I drove over to the old brick yard quarry where there were usually some paddling around on the water. We parked out of sight and crept through the bushes up to the shoreline. There were a couple mallards and a merganser way out in the middle, but no geese. We were a little disappointed, but I had a suspicion where the birds might be.
He knew exactly what we were after as soon as we’d gotten to the quarry. He was all alert and jittery, like he always got when he knew the hunt was on. He closely watched the flocks as we drove up the industrial park driveway. When I told him to “Get ‘em,” he hopped across my lap and out onto the pavement. As a pointer, he was inclined to freeze when he saw birds. He began to slowly creep, in stop and go fashion, the fifty yards across the lawn toward the geese. They kept an eye on him, were honking and quite alert.
Riley hesitated, knowing he’d never get close enough to grab one. He looked back over his shoulder at me. I gave him a hand signal to move to his left. He slowly made a wide loop that direction and was soon out in the middle of the field between the geese and the highway. I got out of the truck and waved my hands in the air. It was too much for them and half the birds took off. Riley broke and ran at them, flushing the rest of the flock.
He knew there were going to be no kills, since I’d never taken my gun out. We watched the noisy flock clear the tops of the building, then the patch of trees behind them along the railroad track. Before they were out of sight they began to lose altitude and started to lock their wings to land again. The entire bunch had merely made a short hop from the grassy fields to brick yard quarry. We’d pushed them right to where we wanted them. I called Riley back over and we got in the truck.
We drove past the quarry on our way back toward the hidden parking place. Riley watched out the window. He got excited and began to shake. There were now at least a hundred geese on the lake, most of them out in the middle, but a few within gun range of the far shore. We drove around to the other side and parked at the end of a cul-de-sac in a housing development. It was the only way to get near the shore on that side.
There was a thicket of wild roses along the shoreline. I told Riley to stay while I carefully crawled on my hands and knees through the thorny brush. I tore my shirt and cut my face and arms getting through. It was impossible to be quiet. When I got close enough to see, all the geese were looking straight at me, some had started to paddle further from shore.
It was the best I was going to get so I stood up, waved my arm and yelled. The flock flushed with a honking, splashing din. I fired all three shots. One dropped into the water and thrashed around. Another’s wing tip crumpled and a foot flew off. It glided a moment and splashed down about 50 yards from shore. I quickly reloaded and fired another shot at the second bird that was paddling further away. Water sprayed in the air all around him. I stunned him further, but at that range did not kill him. He continued to splash and move a little.
Riley came running as soon as the shooting started. When he got to me I pointed out to the first bird, which was motionless maybe 30 yards from shore and said, “Fetch.” He plunged into the lake and went after it. It was dead, so he had little trouble getting it in. Brittanies are not large dogs, though. Retrieving from water an animal that was half his size was not an easy job. But, Riley was a powerful swimmer and had an insatiable desire to get a bird in his mouth.
I let him rest for a minute then pointed to the other bird that was now at least 60 yards from shore. It had recovered its senses some. It head was held high, but with the damaged foot and wing it did not swim fast or straight. Riley jumped in and swam for it. It took almost minute for him to get close. Then the struggle began.
It dove and dodged. He finally got a grip on it and starting bringing it in. It beat at him with its good wing and broke free. It dove under again and popped up behind him. He didn’t see it and started swimming in the wrong direction. He finally spotted it and got a hold of it again. I could tell he was getting tired. There were times, when he was younger, that geese had almost swum him to death. There was no way for me to call him off. His job was to bring in the goose and nothing but death would prevent him from doing it.
He persisted. It got away from him a couple more times before they got to shore. I was seriously worried by the end. It took nearly ten minutes of constant swimming and fighting. He was exhausted as he dragged it, still thrashing, up onto the shore. He let it go and flopped down panting. It tried to get back into the water but I grabbed it and killed it.
That was probably Riley’s toughest retrieval. He brought in many others over the years, but none that fought him so hard. He learned something that day and, from then on made an effort to subdue or kill the bird when he first swam up to it. He looked beat, but had a glow of pride and satisfaction on his face on the ride home. I gave him a couple of goose livers to eat when I cleaned them. He got his usual post-hunt warm bath and massage. He went into his room early that night, hopped up onto his bed and slept like a puppy. Occasionally I heard him dreaming, yipping and twitching. Visions of geese danced in his head, I suppose.
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