October 2023 - 46

October, the Dog
I
Story by Tom Reed | Illustration by L. Eslick
start this tale by saying that I mostly detest social media and
for many reasons. The inane mind-puke people throw out
there for all the world's wincing. The posting of pictures of
food by those who are not somehow tied into the food business
strikes me as the acme of buffoonery: grilled apricots with
huckleberry compote and goat pistachio cheese, sockeye over
garden veggies in coconut sherry rice and fresh dill. How nice for
you. The cowardly fearlessness the cyber bully displays at random
to people who are completely unknown to him. The scams, trolls
and all the politics. The deleterious impact on our children.
But recently, I got a reminder from one
of my social media platforms in which I was
reminded my No. 1 bird dog just turned 9
years old. Two things happened: " Nine years
old, how can that be? " And, " I need to hunt
my butt off with her this year. " I was glad
of the reminder, yet sad at the same time.
Her name is October's Mountain Mabel
and of the eight or nine bird dogs I've had
in my life, she is the North Star in a sky full.
Either that or I am forgetting how good my
first October dog was as I step into the tailend
of my blessed hunting career.
I have written this before, but it's worth
saying again. The fact that a hunting dog
only lives a baker's dozen years while a man
can go as many as 80 into the field with a
gun is evidence our gods neither care one
whit about our feelings or they enjoy our
pain. It is a sad tragedy to put a partner
into the ground almost every decade, cover
it with a favored blanket, place upon it a
feather or two from the birds that fell before
its expert nose, shoot a double gun in salute
and put the empties in there, too, and then
shovel dirt and worms upon your beloved
and gone pal. Once a decade. This, if it lives
a long, good-old dog's life, to say nothing of
the misfortunes that can afflict our canine
46 | October 2023
brothers and sisters such as disease, rattlesnakes,
cliffs, inattentive drivers and a dog's
sometimes unfettered disregard for its own
skin.
So seeing on my social media feed that
my Mabel is now 9 was a gut punch. Nine?
Nine? How can that be? Nein!
Picking up a magazine 30 years ago changed
my life. I don't remember what the magazine
was other than it was a hunting dog magazine
and I was on a quest. In those days before
social media, there was a thing called advertisements
in many magazines. In the back of
this magazine was a kennel that advertised
the breed of dog I wanted, an English setter.
I hunted with a mentor who had setters and
I loved everything about them: their kind
heart, keen nose, water-flowing-over-stone
movement across an autumn field. The kennel's
name was October and October Setters,
was and still is, located in a tiny Idaho town
across the Wyoming line called Last Chance.
Prophetic.
That first dog was Hank and he was a force
of nature. I was going through a divorce in
his formative years and I found solace in the
wild, public land of Wyoming while Hank
found birds. I cannot remember how many
days I hunted that year, but I know it was
more than 100 and as luck would have it, it
was a high-water mark for Huns and chukar
in Wyoming's Big Horn Basin. Has not been
that high since.
After Hank followed a string of October
dogs, all good, some golden. As my dad used
to say, " If it ain't broke, son, don't fix it. " So
I went back to the same kennel year after
year, after year and will go back until my
friends who run it, Cliff and Lisa Weisse,
decide to retire.
October 2023

Table of Contents for the Digital Edition of October 2023
