A Note From Scout

[Beaton]

Oh. And they love Cabelas too!

[CatfishKev]

44 minutes ago, Beaton said:

So tough. Ive had chocolates my whole life. Last one was 12 lost him to cancer. I cried like a baby. We have a male and female now.  Both are awesome.  Love people and kids. The are bird hunting machines and love camping and hunting and fishing trips with us.

Beutiful pups!

[Beaton]

Thanks!  I think you said earlier in this post you wanted a chocolate. If you get one you won't regret it!

[Outdoor Writer]

I wrote this many years ago for my column in AZ Hunter & Angler. 

LAST SHOT 

by Tony Mandile

GOODBYE TO MY BEST FRIEND

   It was nearly 12 years ago, and I had just returned from a bird hunt at a preserve near Mesquite, Nevada.  My wife, engrossed in a late-night soap on TV, paid little attention as I carried the box into the room and set it down on the floor. At the exact moment I dutifully bent down to give her a greeting peck on the cheek, the cardboard box whimpered. 
   Ellen immediately knew the source of the noise.  Normally, she would wait for a commercial break before we could talk.  Not this time, however.  "You had to do this to me, huh?" she said. 
   Rather than answer, I quickly removed my latest acquisition from the box and sheepishly raised its wiggling body.  I figured even Ellen couldn't resist a cuddly, 8-week-old puppy. 
    "Isn't she cute?"
   Ellen's cold stare became a faint smile. "I just knew when you called the other night you already had made up your mind. I know you too well."
   Per my normal routine on trips lasting more than a couple days, I had called two days earlier to check in. During that conversation I mentioned that the preserve manager was selling pups from a litter his German shorthair bitch had dropped.  
   Ellen's comment was expected.  "You're not buying one, are you?"
   "You've got to be kidding.  "He wants $500 apiece for them."  I quickly changed the subject. 
   My wife really loves dogs. At the time all this occurred we actually had two of them. Thus her reluctance when there was even a hint of me getting us a third one. Of course, she wasn't too enamored with the $500 price tag either. The latter objection became meaningless after an explanation of how I traded a $200 S&W revolver for the dog. 
   So with the tension eased, I set the 8-week-old pup on Ellen's lap, and within minutes the new family member was sound asleep. Before we went to bed that night, Ellen already had named the liver and white puppy "Ginger." 
   I had planned to have Bruce Ludlow train her to hunt. He suggested I wait until she was at least six months old, which I did. Over the next five months, though, the house seemed like a three-ring circus.  Having three dogs running around was bad enough; having one that showed excellent retrieving tendencies produced a constant state of alertness, however. 
   From the second day she arrived in the house, Ginger would fetch anything she felt capable of carrying.  Nothing was off limits; socks, tennis shoes, boots, empty film cans, and towels were key targets.  And the larger she grew, the bigger her "toys" became.  Fortunately, she rarely chewed them. Bruce had told me it might happen.  He also said I should take away the object of her affection gently, without scolding her.  Most of the time, she gave up her playthings without resistance by promptly dropping them into my hand.
   Finally when Ginger was nine months old, Ellen and I took her north to Ludlow's place in Chino Valley.  To gauge her readiness for training, he planted a live pigeon and worked the pup on a long lead rope.  Within seconds, Ginger picked up the bird's scent and locked on point as if she had been doing it for years.  Bruce dropped the rope and flushed the bird. 
   Ginger broke point when I shot the pigeon, but she ran directly to it, picked it up and brought it back to me.  Like she did with my dirty socks, she dropped the dead pigeon in my hand
   Bruce smiled. "It looks like you'll have one heck of a new hunting partner." 
   I looked at Ellen; she was smiling, too.
   At the time, neither Ellen or I realized just how much Ginger would become part of our lives. Over the next seven or eight years, we had to have the other two dogs put down. Only Ginger remained, and from that first night she fell asleep on Ellen's lap,  she became a very important part of our family -- a hunting companion for me and a dear friend to both of us. 
   Ginger refused to believe she was a dog. With the run of the house, she adopted two couches and a recliner as her own. Often, when I stretched out on one couch to watch TV, Ginger would curl up between me and the back of the couch.  Sometimes she would put her head over my body and under my arm. At other times she would rest her chin on my shoulder, her nose within inches of my ear.  This wasn't too bad until she began snoring.
   If there was anything Ginger disliked, it was being alone. She followed me throughout the house from room to room, including the bathroom. If I stayed in one room, so would she, usually curled up within a foot or two of my feet.  If I was gone on a trip somewhere, she followed Ellen.
   Ginger was also a watchdog - sort of. Her bark was VERY loud. No one could come on our property without hearing the bark. But in all the years, she never once growled at or bit anyone. Actually, she was kind of afraid of strangers that came into the house. Once someone had pet her, though, she turned into an instant friend.
   A few months ago, Ginger began eating less and losing weight. At first I thought her new eating habit was merely due to her advancing age and inactivity.
    I was wrong.
   After a while she became listless, even to the point where she stopped following me around. I knew something was definitely amiss. All too often, she would climb on the couch and stay there most of the day. Her bark turned to a yelp. 
   A few visits to the vet included myriad tests and various medications for her fever and growing arthritis. At first the vet thought she had tick or valley fever, both of which would have been treatable. Several hundred dollars later and two weeks before I planned to leave on an extended trip to Mexico,  however, the diagnosis became final: -- cancer of the pancreas.  She might live anywhere from a couple weeks to three months. 
   Over the next week,  while Ginger's condition worsened,  Ellen and I discussed the options. I didn't want to go off to Mexico and leave her to deal with the inevitable.
    Finally, on Feb. 23, two days before I left Phoenix, I brought Ginger to the vet's office for the last time. I held her as her life slowly and painlessly ebbed away.  Although I had done it many times before with other dogs, saying "goodbye" this time wasn't easy. I shed a lot of tears because Ginger was my best friend. 
   
   
   ----- 30 -----
   

 

 

[AZkiller]

On 8/12/2020 at 5:20 PM, 360 0r Better said:

The heck they can’t they can tell you everything with their eyes, ears and movements. All you dog loving guys and gals know exactly what I’m saying.

They don't have thumbs

[360 0r Better]

9 hours ago, AZkiller said:

They don't have thumbs

That’s what dew claws are for so unless they have been removed they have thumbs