As the waterfowl season was drawing to a close, I didn't have a lot of time to get out to the blind, so many of my hunts were jump shooting then catching a few in passing before packing it up for the day. This day was no different. I was three birds shy of my limit and had, through poor planning on my part, three lonely shells left for the day. And so we set out. I would whoa Shai and work from sagebrush stand to juniper then call the dog behind me. We could hear the Mallards and Canadas chattering away on the other side of the brush in the warm water of East Idaho's Rainey Creek and Shai was quivering. Not yet wet from the river, she was electric as she stood and waited. Not wanting to spoil it, I parked her, readied the 12 gauge and stepped out...
The water explodes in every direction. BANG...goose drops to the right. Down, but not out. Swinging. BANG...Mallard drake. BANG...huh...a wayward Teal drops.
Shai had broken on the second shot. It was all just too much. She brought it to hand and I sent her on the Teal, which had dropped somewhere in the cattails. Now where was that goose? A few minutes later I spy it walking up the far bank, a wing dragging beside. FETCH! While not yet force fetched, Shai does very well at moving in the direction she is sent. So she goes out, steadily, until that goose flaps a wing and ploughs into the water. Shai loses her mind. Half yelp, half bellow and across the ice like a freight train. I watch in momentary entertainment, then in silent panic. The goose has paddled into the middle of a large pond and, as the dog approaches, it slips beneath the black surface. A bark and a whimper and the dog treads water. 30 feet away the goose resurfaces, paddling in the other direction. And the dog begins chasing again. This repeats again as I weigh options. Shai is a good dog, but while paddling a couple hundred feet away commands are lost in translation. I'm empty, and not about to wade.
I set out for the truck. A half mile away and 10 inches of snow make for slow going. I run, gasp, walk and run again. Finally arriving at the truck, I double over trying to catch my breath. One shell, that's all I need. I rifle through pockets and bags. I find my missing sun glasses and an old sandwich, but no ammo. Finally, under one of the seats, two glorious, black shells are waiting. Now running I can still hear the dog yelp and bark as the goose avoids her and mocks. I show up a full 25 minutes after the dog went in the water and just in time to watch the big bird slip under again. Waiting. Still waiting. Now up...BANG! Not sporting, I know, but I'd had enough! I can only imagine the string of obscenities running through the mind of my sweet puppy as she hauled her prize to shore.
With all six of our legs wobbling with exhaustion, we slowly make our way back to the truck. I couldn't have been more proud of my dog. The time she spent in that wintery slick with nothing but a desire to please driving her was incredible.
As we finally arrive back at the truck, her reward waits in a warm truck cab. Mine, on the leg of an Alberta Mallard!
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