Mulak Reader - Meat Dog

Here’s one I wrote specifically for Brown Feathers. Brittany people like it, and it has been included in a couple of collections of bird dog stories. It’s based on an outing I had with my very first Brittany back when I was a young man. As a bye at a shoot-to-kill trial, Winnie and I came in with six pheasants. Six seems a bit of an exaggeration, so I only had Sandy and Annie take five in the story. I had a lot of fun inventing the Fox Pass Sportsman’s Association, and in creating a cast of bad guys and good guys. While I was writing this, the Exxon calendar hanging above my desk featured pictures of vintage automobiles. Several of them make guest appearances in Meat Dog.

Meat Dog

                                               "I spent half my life teaching dogs to honor

                                                a point and behave like decent human beings,"

                                                the Old Man said, "Now I got a friend who don't

                                                even know how to behave like a decent dog.  I

                                                think maybe we don't hunt with Joe no more."

                                                               Robert Rurark

           Sandy fought the wheel as the old Chevy bounced along the gravel road, bottoming out on nearly every bump. In the back seat, both bird dogs complained in low mutterings, not quite barking out loud. The car hit a particularly large pothole and, on the passenger side, John's head hit the roof. "Christmas! Slow down, for cryin' out loud."

          "Sorry." Sandy shrugged. "I'm just about moving."

          "You're doing 15 on a 10 mile an hour road." John pointed at the floorboard.  "The one in the middle—that's the brake. See it down there?" Sarcasm had been an integral part of their friendship since high school. After a moment, John asked, "Is The Greek still behind us?"

          Sandy reached back to move his Brittany's head out of the way, then glanced in the mirror and gave an affirmative nod. George's Chrysler, with its massive hood and fenders, pitched and yawed like some ocean vessel as it labored over the rutted road behind them. The spray of water that erupted each time one of the wheels hit a pot hole only added to the illusion. Through the Chrysler's visored windshield he could see Jimmy sitting on the passenger side, holding on with both hands. Most likely he was pointing out the brake pedal to George, too.

          After a moment, Sandy said, "I don't think George and Jimmy are too crazy about this field trial idea, either." He referred to an earlier conversation.

          "Shoot-to-kill trials are different—It'll be a good time."

          "Well... You know me and field trials."

          John considered his reply for a moment before he spoke. "With you, I don't think your problem is so much with field trials as field trialers."

          Sandy smiled, but said nothing.

          When they reached the clubhouse, Sandy parked next to several other cars in the lot. John let the dogs out, but held their collars. Both men wore rubber-bottomed pacs with their pantlegs tucked into the tops.

George pulled up next to them. The Chrysler's door swung open. "What a miserable road. I just had the wife wash the car, too." He opened the trunk, letting two dogs out. George the Greek, as they called him, insisted in the face of criticism that the trunk of a car was the right place to transport a bird dog.

          Sandy tapped at the window of the passenger side where Jimmy sat immobile.  "Are you going to get out?"

          The gray-haired senior member of the group rolled the window down, affecting disbelief. "The Greek is crazier than you are—He was going to pass you back there—On that road!"

          George patted the woodwork on the '47 Town & Country. "This baby would have done it, too. Except I changed my mind at the last minute when I saw you go out of sight in that pothole."

          Their four dogs, once released, raced past the clubhouse and ran to the pheasant pens beyond. Two dozen roosters flew up at their approach, only to hit the overhead netting and fall back to the ground. The two setters and the springer ran back and forth excitedly, unsure of what they were expected to do with the penned birds, but Sandy's Brittany stood back, trembling as she watched more birds than she had ever imagined existed.

          The dogs were whistled in. His companions headed for the clubhouse, but Sandy walked with his Brittany beyond the pens, as much to see the grounds as to stretch his legs after the hour's drive. Despite the melt going on, patches of snow still clung to the north sides of the hills and in the shadows of the rock walls that criss-crossed the fields and woods. Winter-as-usual in Connecticut was a tenuous season at best: cold one week and thawing the next. The potholes in the roads gave testimony to that fact.

          His Brittany had a lengthy pedigree and a formal name, both in French, but his children had called the puppy Annie, and the name had stuck. As Sandy climbed the hill back to the clubhouse, an older man in a red plaid jacket crossed toward the pheasant pens.

          "What kind of a dog is that?" The man called.

          "A Brittany Spaniel. I brought her back from Europe with me in '45."

          "Make sure you get braced with a springer, then."

          "Oh, she points just fine." By now, Sandy was used to conversations like this.

          "A pointin' spaniel, eh." The man squatted to rub the Brit's ears. Sandy noticed he held his cigarette away from the dog. "She must be quite a meat dog."

          "She's been called worse. Sometimes by me."

          The man smiled, then stood and offered his hand. "Tom Lamica. I'll be judging today."

          Sandy introduced himself and shook the man's hand. "This is quite a set-up you've got here—And that's certainly a nice touch." He indicated the pheasant pens.

          The older man laughed humorlessly. "Yeah, it was a good idea during the summer, but people don't turn out for a shoot-to-kill once hunting season's over."

          "Your club should get some business today: I came with three other guys, and I hear Brownie and his bunch are bringing their dogs up today."

          Tom squinted through his cigarette smoke, examining Sandy closely. "Are you part of that Windsor crowd?" From the way he spoke the term it was evident that Tom didn't have much use for anyone who was.

          Sandy searched for an answer. No matter that "the Windsor crowd" looked down their noses at Sandy and his non-field trialing friends, geographical association said that he was guilty as accused. "Naw," he answered, "We don't have much to do with those chowderheads. We're the Fox Pass Sportsmen's Association."

          "Well," Tom smiled, and clapped Sandy on the shoulder, "Glad to have you boys with us today."

          They were sitting with their dogs in the morning sunshine on the clubhouse porch when Brownie's car pulled into the parking lot. It was a new '51 Ford convertible that had somehow survived the trip down the muddy road with its white wall tires and shine intact. Walt Christian's car pulled up next to the Chevy, and next to that, Bobby Bowman's truck with dog boxes on the back.

          "Nice car." Jimmy observed.

          Sandy looked from his old stove bolt six to the new Ford, dazzling with chrome. He grinned. "I prefer running boards, myself"

          "I think you left yours in that pothole back there." Jimmy replied seriously.

          With little more than an exchange of nods, Brownie and his two friends walked past and into the clubhouse to sign-up. Like actors, their dignity seemed controlled by a vague idea of their own importance. The door closed behind them.

          "When people ask me about Mister Homer Brown," John said, "I tell them we have a nodding acquaintance—I say hello, and he says nodding. Me, I've stopped saying hello, but I notice he still says nodding."

          Minutes later, Tom Lamica opened the door of the clubhouse. "Okay—It's ten o'clock. We've got seventeen entries. If you Fox Pass fellows want to come inside, we'll have the draw."

          They looked at each other for a long moment. "Fox Pass?"

          "I think that's what he called us: 'You fox pass fellows'."

          Sandy held up his hand. "For today, we're the Fox Pass Sportsmen's Association."

          They turned on Sandy. "Are you serious?"

          "It was either that or be part of "That Windsor Crowd"."

          There was a silence, then Jimmy nodded. "Fine. I'll even be the president."

          They started into the clubhouse. "How do you spell that? Fox Pass or faux pas?" George had a way of laughing as he spoke.

          John added, "I'm not sure I even want to be a part of any association that would have a low life like me as a member."

           Inside, file cards with the names of the entrants and their dogs were placed in an empty number ten can, then drawn two at a time in the order they would run. The two men with springers were purposely paired in the same heat, but the rest of the draw was random. When eight pairs of cards were thumbtacked to the wall, there was one card left in the can. Tom took it out and double-checked to make sure it was the last one before reading the name that would run the final heat alone. The name on the card was Sandy's.

           Jimmy ran his springer, Max, in the first brace, and although Max performed in his normal workmanlike manner, the dog he was paired with ran out of control and after wildly flushing both of the planted pheasants, chased one of them back to the pens. The rooster landed on the roof netting, and the other springer stood barking up at the bird. Jimmy just smiled and heeled Mac in, but there was little humor in his eyes when he rejoined his friends on the club house steps.

           John had drawn the third heat against one of Brownie's dogs. Sandy went with him to the breakaway, then stood talking with Tom and the other judge while they waited for Brownie to bring his dog to the line.

          "So you do this once a month. I can see where it can be fun: Hunting with a little competition thrown in."

          "Competition does funny things to people." Tom lit a Lucky as he spoke.  "Hunting isn't enough for 'em. To have a good time, they've got to outdo somebody at something, so they take up skeet shooting or field trialing. This..." He motioned to the course they were about to run. "...is supposed to be just for fun, but there's some that get mighty serious about it." He lowered his voice. "Watch out for this Windsor crowd - They'll beat you to the bird field and shot both birds if you give 'em half a chance."

          "I've run with this guy before," John motioned to Brownie, who was just approaching. "I won't let him get in front of me."

           The back course was fairly short, and within ten minutes of breaking away John's all-white setter appeared in the bird field, with Brownie's not far behind. By the time the judges and handlers appeared, both dogs were on separate points. Brownie hurried to his dog, but missed an easy shot on the pheasant. The bird sailed over the trees beyond the bird field and, in answer to the hopes of everyone who had yet to run, headed for the back course. Brownie directed his setter to where John's stood on point, hoping to get credit for a back, but John knew the game, too, and flushed his bird quickly. The shot was an easy one, and John's setter was credited with a retrieve.

           In the back seat of George's Chrysler, Sandy opened his thermos and poured coffee into four paper cups. "I'd say they've got you in first, John."

          "Aw, it really doesn't matter much to me—I got a nice point and saw a pretty retrieve, and for a moment I thought it was October again." He turned to Jimmy.  "You and Max got a raw deal."

          Jimmy waved his hand in dismissal. "You pay your two bucks and take your chances. That's the luck of the draw."

          "Yeah, but it's not right." John shook his head as he handed a paper cup into the front seat. "Everybody's here to have a good time, but that guy had no business entering a dog that isn't interested in hunting."

          "Well, Max hunts for my pleasure, not to impress some judge." Jimmy sipped his coffee, then added, "But still, I'd have liked a chance to make my own screw-up."

          George laughed. "You got plenty of practice last fall." The two hunted together each weekend during the hunting season. "Where is Max, by the way?"

          "He's in the trunk."

          Sandy grimaced. "You're as bad as George. You could have put him in my car."

          Jimmy looked out the side window at Sandy's dilapidated '37 Chevy. "I offered Max that choice," He said earnestly, "But he said he'd rather the trunk."

          From the car they watched as the fourth brace arrived in the bird field: Out beyond the tree line, Walt Christian's big pointer topped a rise and streaked through the bird field and out the other side without slowing down at all. He ran past the pheasant pens and circled behind the clubhouse and parking lot and was just coming back into sight when the judges and handlers came into view. Walt was making obscure hand signals in the air, hoping to fool the judges into thinking his dog was doing just as he wanted him to. The pointer found a bird but never stopped, and although there was a moment when it appeared that the dog was going to fly into the air and catch the pheasant, at the last instant the pointer rediscovered gravity and the bird sailed over the trees.

          "You're still in first, John." Sandy had rolled down the back window and was peering out at the action. "But wait a minute..."

          The other man's dog had pointed, then began to creep forward. The rooster could be seen walking away in the short grass. The man quickly raised his gun and strafed the pheasant, then raced his dog to the bird.

          "...Naw, you're safe."  Sandy said.

          "That guy must go through a lot of dogs."  George imitated the man's shooting form. "'Move your tail, Sparky—Ka-blam!'"

          "Yea, he's mean all right." Sandy observed. "He probably keeps that dog in the trunk of his car."

           The day wore on, with pheasants being planted in the field in front of the clubhouse for each successive brace of dogs. And as Tom Lamica had predicted, several men who had been unlucky enough to find themselves paired with one of

"the Windsor crowd" found that when they reached the bird field both of the birds had already been efficiently removed. There could be no argument that the field trialers had good dogs: with the exception of Walt Christian's flying pointer, all of their dogs had at least one find, and Bob Bowman's classy setter had pointed three pheasants. It was the fierce competitiveness of Brownie and his friends that seemed so out of place among the casual hunters who had come to enjoy a warm winter's afternoon.

           George's turn came up. After the judges had entered George's name and the name of his setter, he asked, "Any wild birds here?"

          "There's always a few that escape from the pens. The place is pretty well hunted out during the fall, though." Tom turned to the other judge, "Sonny saw a rooster down by the swamp, when, Sonny? Last week?"

          "Yeah, he was a big sommabitch." Sonny held his arm out to indicate that the pheasant was five feet long.

          If one expects to win a field trial, one should refrain from laughing at the judges. George did not expect to win. "Jimmy," he said, "Do you have an extra deer slug? Just in case we run into this bird?"

          Everyone laughed, but Sonny just looked away.

          George's Llewelyn was paired with a dog that appeared to be his twin. The other setter's name was Freckles, and it seemed his owner had a running argument with him as they walked the back course: "Freckles! What're you doin'? Get over here! Now get out front! What'd I tell you?! Freckles!"

          George said later, "If I had a dog that was smart enough to understand all that, I wouldn't even have to take him hunting.  I'd just leave a note by his dog house and tell him what I wanted."

          Freckles pointed a planted pheasant, but when his owner missed the shot, he took out his frustrations on the setter: Freckles was put on a short lead and hauled off before the judge signaled "Pick-up".

          "That poor dog." Jimmy shook his head. "I wonder what he did to deserve an owner like that."

          "Maybe he was a Nazi in his last incarnation." John offered.

          The last brace finished at 2:30, and after taking a 5-minute breather on the porch steps, the judges got to their feet. Tom waved to Sandy. "Okay, lets have a look at that pointin' spaniel."

          His friends gathered around Sandy as he started for the breakaway. Jimmy put his hand on Sandy's shoulder. "Now listen, you've got to find more than just one bird. They must have that twerp Bowman in first with his three finds."

          "Yeah, it's down to you, Sandy." John had his other shoulder. "Judges don't like to see a bye win, so you've got to do something really spectacular: Find a couple birds on the back course."

          Sandy smiled. "Hey, aren't you the one who said 'Who cares about winning?  We're here "just to have a good time.'?"

          "Yea, but this is the Windsor crowd against... Who are we again? Fox Pass?"

          Jimmy knelt on one knee as he spoke to Sandy's Brittany. "I counted five birds that flew onto the back course—Think you can find one or two, Annie?" The Brit smiled her open-mouthed dog's smile back at Jimmy, and he turned and announce, "She says, 'It's a piece of cake.'"

          "How are you fixed for shells?"

          Sandy dug into his jacket pocket and brought out just a pair of green paper cases.

          "Two!"  George took a double handful of 16 gauge shells from his own coat and put them in Sandy's pocket. "Here. These aren't doing me any good now. But remember what my grandfather used to say: 'Donna you miss the fezz.'"

          Sandy worked the action of his old 97, chambering a shell. He grinned at John.  "You told me this was going to be fun."

          "It would be a lot of fun to beat Brownie's crowd." John said wistfully. "Find a few birds first, then have fun."

          George waved a finger in his face as he started off: "And donna miss!"

          At the breakaway, Sonny looked at the Brittany and asked, "Without a tail, how do you know if she's pointing?"

          Tom answered before Sandy could. "You won't have any problem. These Brittany Spaniels are supposed to be the coming thing. I remember reading something about them: they used to be poachers' dogs in France." After a moment, he added, "And if that ain't the definition of a meat dog, I don't know what is."

          When she was waved ahead, Annie cast to the left into the woods instead of straight ahead. Sandy whistled for her. When she didn't return, he left the path and went into the brush himself. Tom went with him.

          The Brit was standing on a set of pheasant tracks in the snow, pointing into a barberry thicket. The pheasant got up before Sandy was in position, and, unsure of where the judge was, he hesitated until he heard Tom behind him saying, "Shoot, dammit!" The bird tumbled at the sound of his gun, and Annie brought it in.

          They came out of the woods into an open field that was the back course. The weight of the pheasant in his game pocket did little to ease the tension Sandy felt.  He knew he was supposed to be enjoying this, but he felt not only the scrutiny of the judges but also the critical eyes of the several watchers who trailed along behind in entourage fashion. In the snow, the footprints of the other hunters who had passed earlier showed they all had followed an old cart road along the wooded edge. Sandy tried to picture where a pheasant that had been flushed and missed in the bird field would have flown. He whistled to his dog and angled across the field, making new tracks in the snow as he went.

          The Brit crossed a low stone fence and cast ahead on the far side. Suddenly, she turned and pointed back at the wall. A pheasant ran out from between the rocks, saw the men, and sprung into the air. Sandy waited, then, when the bird was at the top of its climb, he centered the rooster. Annie was there when the bird hit the ground, and brought it proudly in to Sandy.

          "I'll carry that for you—You don't want to get weighted down." Tom winked as he spoke. He turned to Sonny, "Any questions about how a Brittany points without benefit of a tail?"

          "No." The other judge shook his head. "But shouldn't the dog wait to be told to retrieve?"

          Tom laughed. "Sure. But this, Sonny, is a real meat dog." He motioned to Sandy. "Go ahead on up to the bird field."

          Minutes later, as they were crossing back toward the cart road, the Brit caught scent and began working toward a cattail swamp below the field. Sandy turned to Tom. "She's got a runner. I'd like to follow her."

          "I'll kick you in the pants if you don't."

          Just a few scattered patches of snow remained in this end of the field, but here and there the tracks of a pheasant were intermingled with the Brittany's. The field ended abruptly at a beaver pond, with the swamp stretching away beyond. The dog stopped, pointing into a seemingly barren patch of snow.

          "She's got him pinned." Having said it, now Sandy tried to believe it himself.  Tentatively, he approached the point. The rooster that had somehow hidden himself in the sparse grass jumped into the afternoon sky. The shot was an easy one, but the bird took a pair of hits before falling just as Sandy was about to fire for the third time.

          The pheasant lay across the pond in plain sight, but the Annie veered into the cattails when she was sent after it. Sandy whistled and waved her to the left, but she paused only long enough to glance back at him. He recognized the signs and quickly searched into his pockets for more of George's shells.

          His Brit could be heard breaking through thin ice in the swamp, then yet another pheasant clattered into the air in an extravaganza of color and noise. Sonny had exaggerated about the size of the rooster, but not by much: The bird had in- curved spurs and a half-inch of fringe on his yard-long tail feathers. Later, the part Sandy remembered most clearly was the way the bird's wings struck the head of a cattail during the moment it sprung from the frozen swamp, and the small cloud of fluff that floated on the breeze afterward. That, and the unforgettably image of Annie coming out of the weeds into the December sunshine with the copper-breasted bird held high.

           As Sandy came into the bird field with the judges close behind him carrying the four pheasants, the scene could have been out of one of Rudyard Kipling's stories. Annie hunted through the maze of old scent in the field to find the one bird that had been planted just for her. Sandy lifted his cap and approached her point.  His phantoms of tension had vanished, and he grinned as he recalled John's parting words: He was now going to have some fun.

          The bird flushed and crossed the field, gaining the altitude needed to clear the tall maples beyond. The moment when he ordinarily would have taken the bird passed, and the cross shot become a quartering shot and then a very long going-away shot when Sandy finally put the 97 to his shoulder and fired. There was a long instant when he was sure he'd missed, and he regretted showing-off on this last bird... but then the shot string caught the pheasant and it fell through the bare branches, tumbling to finally land beyond the wall at the edge of the field.

          George and Jimmy and John came out into the bird field to shake Sandy's hand. Amid the laughter, brags, and praise, Annie delivered the final pheasant of the day to her master. After Sandy took the bird from her, he lifted his dog in his arms.  "You're a good girl, Annie."

          "I guess she is." John scratched the Brit's ears.

          "Look at that." Jimmy pointed to the parking lot, where the three vehicles of the Winsor crowd were just pulling out.

          George laughed. "I guess they're not going to stick around to find out who took second and third."

          Sandy put his dog back on the ground, and they all started back toward the clubhouse. "So what do you think of this pointin' spaniel, judge?"

          "My hat's off to her." said Sonny. "Tom's right—she's a real meat dog."

          "Meat dog, hell." Tom said. "That is one mighty fine bird dog."

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