IS THERE SOMETHING WRONG WITH ME.?
It hits me harder when a good friend loses his Best hunting buddy,Sally, then some people that have passed away.
Maybe it's Because:- A mans dog stands by him in prosperity and poverty,in health and sickness. He will sleep on the cold ground where the wintry winds blow and the snow drives fiercly, if only he may be by his masters side.He will kiss the hand that has no food to offer, he will lick the wounds and sores that come in encounter with the roughness of the world. He guards the sleep of his pauper master as if he were a prince.
When all other friends desert, he remains. When riches take wings and reputation falls to pieces, he is as constant in his love as the sun in its journey through the heavens. If fortune drives the master forth an outcast into the world, friendless and homeless, the faithfull dog asks no higher privilege than that of accompanying him, to guard him against danger,to fight against his enimies. And when death takes his master, and his body is laid away in the cold ground, no matter if all other friends pursue their way, there by his graveside will the noble dog be found, his head between his paws, his eyes sad, but open in alert watchfulness, faithfull and true even in death.
Lost my # 1 hunting partner ....
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schnarrfuss
- Posts: 516
- Joined: Fri Aug 13, 2004 10:41 pm
- Location: Kitchener, Ontario, Canada
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LondonDave
- Posts: 402
- Joined: Thu Oct 11, 2007 2:34 am
- Location: London, Ontario Canada
Best friend
I'm right there with you friend. Some will remember I posted losing my best friend last October. My 4 yr. old beagle, "Tanner" injured his back playing and had to be put down. It has taken us 4 months to think about another dog. We had got Tanner from a beagle rescue and wanted to do the same again. My wife found "Luke" on the internet in a shelter in Kentucky. We drove 180 miles to check him out on Wednesday. Some bonehead breeder had thrown him and his brother out on the road when only 2 months old because they were "less than perfect". They are pure bred tri-color beagles but have a pronounced over-bite. I think it gives him personality. We adopted Luke on the spot and brought him home with us. He has already stolen our hearts. I can tell you are a dog lover and hopefully you'll find a new best buddy like we did.
R.J.
I am soooo sorry that you have lost Sally.....
The love and care that you showed her was as equal in return~!
Although little comfort I'm sure....she spent her last hours in the field~!
I found this quote and thought I would share it with you:
Not the least hard thing to bear when they go from us, these quiet friends, is that they carry away with them so many years of our own lives.
John Galsworthy
Respectfully,
Robin
I am soooo sorry that you have lost Sally.....
The love and care that you showed her was as equal in return~!
Although little comfort I'm sure....she spent her last hours in the field~!
I found this quote and thought I would share it with you:
Not the least hard thing to bear when they go from us, these quiet friends, is that they carry away with them so many years of our own lives.
John Galsworthy
Respectfully,
Robin
Wildlife Management & Reduction Specialist
Rick,
I am just reading this now and want to send my condolences also. You gave us only a glimpse of Sally's time afield and I could tell from those photos that she was truely at her best while hunting with you. I'm sure this is a very tough time for you and your family. It was nice that she ended her days right where she loved to be.
I am just reading this now and want to send my condolences also. You gave us only a glimpse of Sally's time afield and I could tell from those photos that she was truely at her best while hunting with you. I'm sure this is a very tough time for you and your family. It was nice that she ended her days right where she loved to be.
I hunt for memories, the meat's a bonus!
Very Sorry!
I know what it's like to lose a dog and it's damb hard. You were closer to that dog than I have ever been in the past with mine because they were kept outside. Believe me, it was still a hard loss. Now we have one in the house, I'm sure that will be nasty.
Once again, VERY SORRY!
I know what it's like to lose a dog and it's damb hard. You were closer to that dog than I have ever been in the past with mine because they were kept outside. Believe me, it was still a hard loss. Now we have one in the house, I'm sure that will be nasty.
Once again, VERY SORRY!
rutman
paradox
graphite goldtip laser II's
wasp 100gr. jakhammer sst expandibles
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paradox
graphite goldtip laser II's
wasp 100gr. jakhammer sst expandibles
Love it all!!!!!!!!!
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jpscribbler
- Posts: 33
- Joined: Sat Nov 24, 2007 12:30 am
- Location: Hamilton, Ont.
Hunting partner - newspaper story -- LONG POST
Hi. I read your post and am truly sorry. I've lost two dogs - an chocolate lab and a britt. Both were excellent hunting partners and friends. I stioll grieve for my lab. Her name was Emma. I wrote a story about her and the day I had to put her down. It was published in several newspapers and later by Readers Digest magazine. I'll enclose it here for your reading. I'd enclose the photo, but have yet to master that on this board.
I hope it helps.
Cheers,
Jp
By Jim Poling
One of the deceitful things about a friendship is you
believe it's never going to end.
The autumn evening that Emma and I slipped out of
the marsh marked the close of another successful hunt. A
dog and a man working in perfect tandem. My skills
as a huntsman worked to lure and drop fowl. Her
prowess as an expert retriever made sure the game was
found and returned to hand so it could be prepared
and make its way to table.
We had a rare black duck and two mallards, only
half our bag limit. But they were large birds and
sufficient for my needs. One for the smoker, two for
the roast pan. She was reluctant to leave the marsh.
Always was. Next to the bulky duvet at home, it
was the place she loved best. It contained all the
elements that make a Lab true -- water, retrieving and
companionship forged in the lake air.
"We'll be back, girl. Stay steady," I told her. Strange
when you think about it, how we talk to dogs.
But it was a habit I had, for she was
always at my side, especially during the dusk when I
trudged through mud and cattails and knee-deep water picking up
decoy after decoy.
After the blocks were all accounted for and piled into
the bow of the boat, Emma would climb over the
aluminum gunnel and point the way back to landing.
Waterfowl season opened two weeks ago. This year, I'll hunt
alone.
Six weeks before the season opener, just as flocks of
geese were starting to dot the late summer sky, her
body gave way to cancer. She was barely seven years
old. She was brutish for a chocolate Lab, hardy, headstrong,
jowly and driven to retrieve.
We tried fishing for awhile. That was expensive and nasty,
and as a team neither of us had much fun.
I spent more time scolding her for pushing her boxing-glove-sized
nose through my tackle box or trying to keep her
still while fish were being netted.
Our angling partnership ended the day she consumed a large
lure with three hooks on it. Two of the barbed
trebles pierced her nose and lip. The other ripped a
six-inch scar through my chest as she shook her head
to rid the bait.
From then on, she sat on the dock and watched
as the boat pulled away, although more than once she
followed the boat and swam to the bay that was
being fished. It became a summer routine to haul her
into the boat in the middle of the lake and
drop her off at the dock.
If it wasn't ducks she was retrieving, it was balls
or sticks or rocks or slippers or whatever it took
to get your attention. We never lost a bird, whether
it was the mild fall when the reeds are green
and thick or December when the snow is deep and
hunting is tricky.
Once when we came out of the marsh, another hunter
was waiting. He had watched us hunt and he wanted
to know about Emma.
"Will you sell her to me?" He was bold and
serious.
I couldn't. I wouldn't. I took his offer as a
huge compliment and felt proud and privileged to handle such
a fine beast. For no creature can teach unconditional love
better than a dog, and Emma was a master.
You never plan for goodbyes, and ours was in the
sterile room of a vet's office. Dr. Bennett's known Emma
since she was a pup, and he's one of the
best Lab docs going.
Before entering his country clinic, I tossed a ball into
the high grass, which Emma heartily retrieved. She was slow
and gaunt. But I only saw a robust dog in
the bow of the boat, nose high in the air,
scenting roosting geese and ducks as we crept into the
pre-dawn marsh. It was a part of the day she
loved most. Morning moonlight and frigid air mixing with the
anticipation of the hunt was and continues to be a
magical elixir. We were miles from the marsh, but I
smelled the hunt that final morning.
Together we pushed open the clinic door, my eyes red
and streaming, her legs trembling. She rested on the table,
kind of a gurney for dogs. And from my back
pocket I pulled out a bag of feathers, scooped from
my fly-tying desk. They were feathers from one of the
hunts last fall. It's a habit of mine to pluck
prime feathers from each bird as fly-fishing material for the
trout season ahead.
I fingered a few mallard breast feathers and a pair
of mottled brown and beige grouse feathers, and cupped them
tight to her muzzle. She breathed deeply, twice to be
exact, her great nose moving back and forth, dark eyes
wide open staring straight into mine, until she breathed no
more.
For the first time in our lives, we were on
separate journeys.
I fished later that day, the only sensible thing to
do when trying to soothe a broken spirit. The sky
overhead rumbled with thunder. Not booming claps. Just steady rolling
grumbles.
Sadness, then the sound of my laughter. I knew Emma
had made it through to wherever it is that retired
gun dogs go. There are no ends, only beginnings. And
the bossy horse of a dog with mitts as large
as a child's hands was dancing on Heaven's floor, chasing
a new flock of birds.
------
Jp
I hope it helps.
Cheers,
Jp
By Jim Poling
One of the deceitful things about a friendship is you
believe it's never going to end.
The autumn evening that Emma and I slipped out of
the marsh marked the close of another successful hunt. A
dog and a man working in perfect tandem. My skills
as a huntsman worked to lure and drop fowl. Her
prowess as an expert retriever made sure the game was
found and returned to hand so it could be prepared
and make its way to table.
We had a rare black duck and two mallards, only
half our bag limit. But they were large birds and
sufficient for my needs. One for the smoker, two for
the roast pan. She was reluctant to leave the marsh.
Always was. Next to the bulky duvet at home, it
was the place she loved best. It contained all the
elements that make a Lab true -- water, retrieving and
companionship forged in the lake air.
"We'll be back, girl. Stay steady," I told her. Strange
when you think about it, how we talk to dogs.
But it was a habit I had, for she was
always at my side, especially during the dusk when I
trudged through mud and cattails and knee-deep water picking up
decoy after decoy.
After the blocks were all accounted for and piled into
the bow of the boat, Emma would climb over the
aluminum gunnel and point the way back to landing.
Waterfowl season opened two weeks ago. This year, I'll hunt
alone.
Six weeks before the season opener, just as flocks of
geese were starting to dot the late summer sky, her
body gave way to cancer. She was barely seven years
old. She was brutish for a chocolate Lab, hardy, headstrong,
jowly and driven to retrieve.
We tried fishing for awhile. That was expensive and nasty,
and as a team neither of us had much fun.
I spent more time scolding her for pushing her boxing-glove-sized
nose through my tackle box or trying to keep her
still while fish were being netted.
Our angling partnership ended the day she consumed a large
lure with three hooks on it. Two of the barbed
trebles pierced her nose and lip. The other ripped a
six-inch scar through my chest as she shook her head
to rid the bait.
From then on, she sat on the dock and watched
as the boat pulled away, although more than once she
followed the boat and swam to the bay that was
being fished. It became a summer routine to haul her
into the boat in the middle of the lake and
drop her off at the dock.
If it wasn't ducks she was retrieving, it was balls
or sticks or rocks or slippers or whatever it took
to get your attention. We never lost a bird, whether
it was the mild fall when the reeds are green
and thick or December when the snow is deep and
hunting is tricky.
Once when we came out of the marsh, another hunter
was waiting. He had watched us hunt and he wanted
to know about Emma.
"Will you sell her to me?" He was bold and
serious.
I couldn't. I wouldn't. I took his offer as a
huge compliment and felt proud and privileged to handle such
a fine beast. For no creature can teach unconditional love
better than a dog, and Emma was a master.
You never plan for goodbyes, and ours was in the
sterile room of a vet's office. Dr. Bennett's known Emma
since she was a pup, and he's one of the
best Lab docs going.
Before entering his country clinic, I tossed a ball into
the high grass, which Emma heartily retrieved. She was slow
and gaunt. But I only saw a robust dog in
the bow of the boat, nose high in the air,
scenting roosting geese and ducks as we crept into the
pre-dawn marsh. It was a part of the day she
loved most. Morning moonlight and frigid air mixing with the
anticipation of the hunt was and continues to be a
magical elixir. We were miles from the marsh, but I
smelled the hunt that final morning.
Together we pushed open the clinic door, my eyes red
and streaming, her legs trembling. She rested on the table,
kind of a gurney for dogs. And from my back
pocket I pulled out a bag of feathers, scooped from
my fly-tying desk. They were feathers from one of the
hunts last fall. It's a habit of mine to pluck
prime feathers from each bird as fly-fishing material for the
trout season ahead.
I fingered a few mallard breast feathers and a pair
of mottled brown and beige grouse feathers, and cupped them
tight to her muzzle. She breathed deeply, twice to be
exact, her great nose moving back and forth, dark eyes
wide open staring straight into mine, until she breathed no
more.
For the first time in our lives, we were on
separate journeys.
I fished later that day, the only sensible thing to
do when trying to soothe a broken spirit. The sky
overhead rumbled with thunder. Not booming claps. Just steady rolling
grumbles.
Sadness, then the sound of my laughter. I knew Emma
had made it through to wherever it is that retired
gun dogs go. There are no ends, only beginnings. And
the bossy horse of a dog with mitts as large
as a child's hands was dancing on Heaven's floor, chasing
a new flock of birds.
------
Jp
Thanks to all for your kind words , awsome poems and stories ....
I'm so sorry too see her go , but looking back , I'm glad she spent her last moments in the field and a quiet drive beside me before she drifted off ...
She will live on in the memories of friends and family ... Thanks again for your much appreciated condolenses and kind words ...
I'm so sorry too see her go , but looking back , I'm glad she spent her last moments in the field and a quiet drive beside me before she drifted off ...
She will live on in the memories of friends and family ... Thanks again for your much appreciated condolenses and kind words ...
See Ya. ... R.J. > " Remember , Trophies are measured by the time and energy expended to get them , not the size or quantity of the quarry "
