Authors: Steve Gannon
“Tough,” I laughed. “It’s about time he showed his mother a little respect.”
We set out once more, working a fence line downwind, then back to the northeast corner. Though we hunted the area thoroughly, we only scared up a couple more hens
, possibly the ones we had seen earlier
. After giving the dogs water, we tried the west edge of the cornfield, following an overgrown irrigation ditch bordering the stubble. A half hour later two roosters got up together—one to the left, one to the right—a perfect shooting situation. Rob fired first and dumped his into the fallow. The dogs immediately raced to retrieve it. I took my bird a split second later with a long going-away shot, but the rooster locked his wings and glided another sixty yards before falling dead in the stubble.
Max and Sammy returned, Rob’s bird in Max’s mouth. Rob stuffed the pheasant into his vest pouch. “Get the other one?” he asked.
I nodded. “It’s out in the stubble.”
“Did Sam see it fall?”
“Nope.”
“See if you can handle her to it.”
“Okay,” I replied. “It’s been a while. She could use the practice.”
I called Sammy to heel and lined her up on the fallen bird, my hand
positioned
just above her
head
, indicating the direction I wanted her to take. “Dead bird,” I said. She stared ahead intently, focused and ready.
“Back!” I
said
.
Sammy took off like a shot. She ran straight for close to fifty yards before drifting to the right. I hit the whistle and stopped her. She turned and sat, waiting for directions. Using hand and whistle commands, I sent her left, then back again, straight to the downed pheasant. A field-trial champion couldn’t have done better.
“Impressive,” said Rob as Sammy returned with the rooster.
“You know it,” I agreed with a grin.
I had
trained Sam, starting her at seven weeks, but the truth was
,
she deserved most of the credit.
She had
always been more than willing, wanting to please with all her heart. When she brought that bird back to heel, I thought I was going to burst with pride. As for Sammy—well, she
simply
delivered the pheasant to hand and started hunting anew. No big deal. As I shoved the rooster into my vest, I realized, not for the first time, that of all the things I liked about hunting, I most enjoyed working the fields with my dog. Without her it wouldn’t have been the same.
At that point Rob and I needed one more bird apiece to fill our limits, but over the past hour
the wind had continued to rise. W
e were getting cold. We decided to speed things up by hunting the
final
irrigation ditch separately, beginning at opposite ends and
working toward each other,
pinching any runners
between us.
I don’t
normally
like knowing someone’s approaching with a gun pointed in my direction, but Rob and I had worked ditches that way in the past and
I trusted him. Plus,
it was an effective strategy.
Sammy and I hunted for the next twenty minutes without success. As I approached
a right-angle bend in the ditch
, I noticed Rob
approaching
from the left, still a few hundred yards out. Sammy was ahead of me, rounding the bend. I lost sight of her as she entered a thick clump of thistle, but let her go and took a shortcut across the stubble, planning to catch up with her on the other side.
I’ve
mentally
replayed what happened next at least a thousand times. It’s always the same. For some reason I see it in slow motion: A bird gets up in front of Rob. It veers down the ditch, flying low. Rob’s gun comes up. The bird falls. I hear Sammy
yelp
, then the shot.
I ran. I knew she was hurt. Even as a pup, she never cried. Never.
My heart was pounding when I reached her. By then
she had
crawled from the ditch and was lying on the ground licking her flank. I knelt beside her. She’d taken pellets in her hind leg,
some
in her side below
her
ribs, another near her shoulder.
Rob arrived moments later. “What happened?”
“
Rob, you shot her.”
“Jesus. I . . . I didn’t see her.”
“Why didn’t you wait till you saw sky before shooting?”
Rob’s face turned ashen. “I . . . I had to be at least
seventy
yards away. Those pellets couldn’t have penetrated.
“I hope you’re right,” I said, examining Sammy’s wounds. The worst bleeders were on her leg.
They had
already slowed considerably. Teasing back the fur, I checked her side. I found several round holes in her skin, wet red tissue glistening beneath. I couldn’t tell whether the pellets had gone any deeper.
Seventy
yards
is
a long way. Maybe they
had
just bounced off.
Abruptly, Sammy rose to her feet.
“She’s fine,” said Rob, clearly relieved. “I told you she was okay.”
“Let’s go, girl,” I said, praying Rob was right. I started walking, watching
Sammy
carefully. As usual, she took her position out front, glancing back to see which direction I wanted to take. She was moving well, not even limping.
“She’s fine,” Rob repeated.
“Thank God,” I said, calling Sammy back and ruffling her ears. At my touch, she pulled away impatiently. She didn’t want to be petted; she wanted to hunt.
Rob had limited with his last bird. I still needed another, so we split up again. I headed toward a stand of willows
that we had
skipped earlier. Rob decided to work the northern fence line, hoping to scare up a few quail.
A quarter hour later Sammy began to lag behind
me
.
I turned back to see what was wrong. I wanted it to be her leg. But as much as I hoped to see her limping, I knew that wasn’t it. She was still moving all right, but slowly—tail down, head drooping. I
hurried
toward her, my thoughts racing. The nearest vet was an hour north.
Could she make it?
I kept remembering those pellet wounds in her side . . . and the other one higher up on her shoulder.
When I got to S
ammy, she settled to the ground. She
looked up at me, her eyes filled with confusion. She thumped the dirt with her tail, then lay still. She was having trouble breathing. Worse, her belly appeared swollen. Gently, I ran my hand over it. It felt hot and tight and full. I
looked around
for Rob, spotting his orange vest three quarters of a mile away. Too far to call. Pointing my gun in the air, I discharged a round. Then another. Seconds later he turned.
I waved my arm. After a slight hesitation, he started toward me.
I slung my gun, picked up Sammy, and headed back
toward the farm
.
I know it
hurt her to be held, but she didn’t make a sound. When Rob saw
me carrying Sammy, he stopped. Then he
turned and
began running
for the truck.
Now that I knew
that
Rob understood the situation, I found a spot out of the wind behind some farm equipment. I laid Sammy on the ground and sat beside her, waiting for Rob to arrive. Sammy’s breathing got worse. She started to shiver. I couldn’t tell whether she was cold or
just scared.
I took off my coat and wrapped it around her. Across the field I could see Rob racing back toward the road. He was still a long way from the truck.
Sammy and I waited. The wind blew harder, cold and biting. Far to the north I could make out the snow-covered peaks of the Pioneers—Hyndman and Standhope
Peaks
rising against the horizon—tearing at the sky like giant white teeth.
We
waited
there together for what seemed forever. When Rob finally arrived, Sammy was dead.
Rob and I rode home in silence. I didn’t want to talk; I didn’t have anything to say. I felt numb, and angry, and sad. But mostly
,
I just felt empty.
When I got home, I placed Sammy on her rug by the stove and covered her with a blanket. She looked small lying there in the corner. My wife, Cynthia, put her arm around my shoulders and led me from the kitchen. Over the years I’ve noticed that when the chips are down, most people generally face their losses
bravely and with dry eyes
.
With dry eyes
, that is, until someone shows a little sympathy, gives them a kind word. I was no exception.
That night I left Cyn sleeping in bed. After dressing, I descended to the kitchen, made a pot of coffee, and tried not to look in the corner. The clock over the stove said the sun wouldn’t rise for hours. I sat at the
kitchen
table, not thinking about anything in particular, just letting my mind drift. Partway through my third cup
of coffee
I heard a soft rapping at the front door. At first I thought I’d imagined it. Moments later I heard it again. Someone was there.
I found Rob on the porch, Max on a leash beside him. It was the first time
in years that I had seen Max on a leash
. “I was outside in my truck,” Rob said quietly, lowering his gaze. “I couldn’t sleep. I planned on waiting till morning to talk with you. Then I saw your light.”
I remained silent.
“I’m
so
sorry about Sammy, Matt,” he went on, his eyes still not meeting mine.
“More than I can say.” H
e handed me the leash. “I . . . I want you to have Max.”
I knelt and took Max’s face in my hands, once more struck by how much he resembled his mother. His head was broader, but his eyes were the same. I slipped the leash from his neck. He licked my hand, then trotted into the warmth of the house. As I rose, Rob started to leave.
“Wait,” I said.
Rob turned.
“Max is your dog, Rob. I can’t take him.” Rob started to protest but I cut him off. “Let me finish.”
Rob gazed at me uncertainly. I could see he was afraid to hear my words, but I continued, telling him what had been in my heart all along but that until
then
I had
been unable to
say. “It was an accident, Rob
. An accident. I know you didn’t mean it.”
“Matt, I . . .”
I shook my head. “You don’t have to say anything. I know how you feel. Let’s just put this behind us.”
Rob looked at me and saw that I meant it. Tension seeped from his face, but a deep sadness
still
remained in his eyes. He took a deep breath, let it out, and nodded.
We stood facing each other awkwardly for a long moment. Finally I lifted my hand and closed it, making a fist. Numbly, Rob raised his fist to mine, just as we’d done a hundred times before. We locked knuckles and punched. In one respect, the gesture didn’t seem enough. But in another, it felt . . . right.
Dropping my hand to my side, I glanced into the house. “C’mon,
Rob,” I said. “Let’s go find Max
.”
* * *
Later that morning I set out at first light. Rob offered to accompany me, but for what I had to do, I wanted to be alone. I headed up the East Fork of the Wood River, taking an old mining road into the mountains. When snow made the going too tough for my Jeep, I proceeded a good distance
farther
on foot.
I left her high on the pine-covered slopes of Mount Hyndman, burying her deep and piling rocks atop her grave so the critters couldn’t get her. Afterward I sat in the cold morning air thinking back on the time
s
we had
spent together. I remained there for hours. Finally, when the sun was well up over the valley, I started home.
I don’t know whether there’s anything
left of us when we die. It would be comforting to
believe so, but somehow I’m not so sure
. But if there is, if there is a place where part of us winds up after we’re gone, then surely there’s room for dogs there, too. So if you’re
up
there, Sammy, maybe I’ll see you again someday, and we’ll hunt the fields together one more time. Till then, take care, pup . . . an
d may your skies always be blue.
Acknowledgements
I would like to express my appreciation to a number of people who provided their assistance and expertise while I was writing
Stepping Stones
.
Any errors, exaggerations, or just plain bending of facts to suit the story are attributable to me alone.
To Susan Dunning, my muse with a sharp eye for detail, to
my
friends and family
for their support and encouragement
, to my eBook editor Karen Oswalt,
to Karen Waters for her work on the cover,
and especially to my core group of readers—all of whom made critical suggestions for improvements—my sincere thanks.
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