Lucky
Looking back over some of my old photographs, it doesn’t seem as though I’ve had much luck over the last few years with my dogs. Two terriers and a lurcher have gone to the happy hunting grounds fairly recently and all of them before their time was due. I could look at these statistics and come to the conclusion that I was a Jonah of some sort, but when you look at things realistically then it’s merely the nature of the game. You hunt the dogs hard and you test them hard and if there’s any justice, then the dogs live to enjoy their retirement. Sometimes there are accidents and mishaps and this occasionally costs you a lay-up and a vets bill at best, and the departure of a dear companion and work colleague at the other end of the scale. Out of the three I’ve lost recently, two have been accidents and one was down to the individual dog concerned not knowing when he was beaten. You can’t legislate against those kinds of occurrences and it’s all you can do to soldier on and keep taking the knocks when they happen. It’s well we remember that nature is cruel and we, as hunters know this more than anyone. We are the ones at the sharp end, who see the fox as something other than something to be fed cat food from a saucer on a summers evening, who see him for the sly killer he really is, rather than how Walt Disney would have us believe. There is no room for sentimentality in hunting and we can well do without the anthropomorphism that pervades society today. That being the case, losing a dog is always hard but it’s either a case of give up or carry on, for as sure as the sun’s going to rise tomorrow, death will visit your yard for certain at some point or other.
With this in mind it was time to get over the loss of my young lurcher and get the pack back together and keep hammering the vermin on the farms, because although the farmers genuinely feel for the loss of a dog, they aren’t going to be very happy with an extended period of mourning. Charlie is still running amok on their patch and the need for pest control waits for no man. So it turned out that the two fit dogs I had remaining were to be joined by the old dog, retired in March of this year and brought out of his rest and relaxation in August. I wasn’t sure how he’d take to being press ganged back into labour like this but I needn’t have worried. It had got to the point where he didn’t even move when the other dogs were brought out of the kennels for the days sport, preferring to lay in his chair and look at me with his aging, amber eyes. With the young lurcher not around anymore, the other dogs knew something was amiss, particularly the collie cross bitch as she was behaving very puppyish again and giving me her full attention, which I guess was due to the fact that there was no one for her to run around with anymore. I am sure she is delighted the young lurcher is dead as she now has the run of the property again! Old Sam also knew something was up too, as he was out of his chair on that first morning without Sal and was almost fit to burst when I fastened the collar round his neck.
Since March I’d kept the old dog fairly fit as although he never came hunting anymore, he still got his walks and he was in no way forgotten or neglected. Time had sapped some of his playfulness but his desire for a walk had never diminished. I was a bit worried about how he’d cope with a days work again; after all, I had retired him for a reason. He used to be good for an hours work and then he would start to flag, but with only the two dogs left, I was going to have to rely on him and that exceptionally sharp nose of his, which I hoped hadn’t been dulled through under use.
As soon as we had hit the farm, the back door of the Land Rover was opened and the dogs spilled out onto the field, and as usual, ran off before I could take their leads off. With boundless enthusiasm, Sam jumped up at me and you could see that he was a very happy chap to be out on the land where he’d worked so valiantly before. With the leads removed and the shotgun loaded, we moved off to where the corn had been recently cut.
Looking around me I could see the black bitch and Rose, the collie cross, about 10-15 yards away in the long grass and dying cow parsley, but the old boy had picked up where he left off, charging away to where he’s found so many foxes in the past, regardless of his age or the fact that he hadn’t been here for four months. Running straight to a gap in the mesh fence, he was through and away out of site, leaving me making up the ground slowly and shaking my head at the nature of this geriatric Dog. Part of me was convinced that he wouldn’t last long as despite being fairly early, it was already warm and the old boy was out of condition. No matter though, we’d take things easy and ease him back into the routine and hopefully get a run for him.
Not seeing where he’d gone, we moved through a field of stubble, through a hedge and emerged into a crab apple orchard and sure enough, the old sod was charging around in the distance. This orchard holds a deep earth and has been the place of many runs for the dogs in the past, some successful but most being good exercise for the foxes. From the way the dog was running I could tell that he’d picked up a line and the other two dogs could tell this as well as they raced after him, gazing around for any sign. As I neared the edge of the orchard, two foxes got up from the long grass and split, with one fox running at right angles to me, which to my frustration all of the dogs followed, and the other fox running towards me but about 20 yards to my left. Lifting my Beretta to my shoulder, I tried to get a bead on this audacious fox, but as he was going at some pace and my shooting isn’t amazing, I hesitated with my shot. Just as well I did really for as soon as the fox realised he wasn’t being chased by the dogs, he slowed to a trot, showing his contempt for me as a hunter. With the fox practically walking past me, with about 30 yards between us, his unconcern for the threat I posed to him cost him his life as I squeezed the single trigger and old charlie dropped to the stubble. At this point I was praying for a double so I had an ear out for any sign of contact with the dogs, but all I heard was the collie cross barking angrily which meant that the hunt was still on. If Rose was on the foxes brush that meant that she was right up there with him, but it also meant that the fox was probably going to get away as Rose simply doesn’t do foxes. She handled her first four very well, but she’d been in company which just goes to show that doubling up dogs on foxes tells you nothing. Her first out in the open genuine single hander was a totally different matter. This happened a few weeks previously, and with an outstanding view of the hunt, the farmer and I watched as Rose scented a fox in the corn and after bouncing around like a springbok for a few minutes, she managed to push it out and all that was needed was the coup de grace. Turning the fox once, Rose then put the moves on which resulted in the fox hitting the ground. With baited breath the farmer and I waited for the kill, but all we saw was the fox getting up and running off and Rose returning to us thoroughly pleased with herself! She is content to chase them away, although she’ll rag them if the others catch them. What can I say? She’s not a fox dog although she’s a great fox finder.
Anyway, as usual my story is meandering, so back to the action at hand. After three or four barks, Rose remained quiet and I was hoping that this signalled that Rags or Sam had kept up with the pace, however unlikely that might sound. It wasn’t to be though as another few minutes saw the dogs return to view, casting around for scent like mad, which indicated that the fox had made good his escape. Whether that was to ground or through some long forgotten gap in a fence I wasn’t to know.
By the time the dogs had got back to me, they all had their tongues hanging out and this meant that it was time for a rest and a drink.
We moved over one of the last remaining puddles and with the collie cross lying in it, the other two drank their fill. Once their sides had stopped heaving and their breathing had become more regular, the dogs and I walked over to another side of the farm, close to where the bales where and where Sal had died only a matter of days before. This place held a small wood that was the home to two badger earths but also held foxes too. I’d walked this wood a few months before when my mate Dave was down with his bitch, but the cow parsley had been thriving then and the going was too difficult for me to make progress. This time it was a different matter. The hot spell had killed the undergrowth off and even the young Elders were dead, making progress much easier. With nothing much to obstruct them, the dogs tore though the wood and as usual, I had the lurcher and the black bitch close by but the old dog was gone, even though I could still hear him crashing through the brittle stems of the cow parsley. It wasn’t long before we’d reached the other side of this wood and emerged onto a stubble field with the two ever present dogs beside me. As we waited for the old dog to turn up, the terrier and lurcher sat themselves down and gulped down great lungfuls of cooling air. Resting the Beretta in the crook of my left arm, I stood and wished I’d brought a drink with me as the day was getting really warm. As I turned towards the wood, a fox calmly trotted out about 20 yards away and stood on the grass verge that separated the wood from the stubble. I must have done a double take for a split second, as it took me what seemed like ages to raise the shotgun to my shoulder, but raise it I did and a 42g No.3 shot brought the fox to the turf. With the shot still resounding in my ears, the terrier and the lurcher were up and looking around for what caused the commotion. They are completely tuned to the gun now and the flick of the safety is enough to bring their full attention to matters at hand. Within seconds they were upon the fox and ragging it to their hearts content. The shot also brought us to the attention of the old dog and it didn’t take him long to turn up at the party, but unlike the other two, he didn’t join in the rag. I’m sure he’s in this for the chase and not the kill sometimes as he sauntered over, tail wagging as if to show me that he’s still got a day’s honest graft in him.
The absence of a foxing lurcher in my pack is showing and although I have been offered a few dogs after my advert was placed on the internet, I have decided that I will see this season through with what I’ve got. I’ll probably take something on at the arse end of next season, but there’s too much going on in my personal life at the moment to take another dog on. I honestly think I wouldn’t be able to do a new dog justice at present. I was offered a bull cross bitch a while back off a very good pal of mine, but at that time I had the wheaten cross so I declined. This bitch has now gone to another mate of mine and is excelling at her game down in south Wales. She’s a smashing young dog and she’s got the right home with a bloke who lives for the sport.
As we are approaching the season proper, the old dog’s fitness is increasing and his recovery rate after a days work in improving too. It’s strange as I’d been trying to persuade my Mother to take him on as her house dog since March and now he’s been drafted in to help me out of a hole. It just goes to show that even when you think they’ve finished, there’s still use in the old dogs if you give them half a chance. Whatever happens this season, this is definitely his last as he has done more than enough to earn his proverbial pipe and slippers.