My dog Rex taught the judge a lesson
Published 8:52 am Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Column: Tales from Exit 22
My world stretched 10 miles north and 15 miles south.
I was a homebound farm boy who loved the outdoors.
I learned to read by turning the pages of Audubon, Outdoor Life, Sports Afield and Field & Stream. I cut my reading teeth on small words like “fox,” “quail” and “moose.” I was a toddler who knew a hawk from a handsaw.
Later, I found joy in the dry wit of Ed Zern in his “Exit Laughing” column in Field & Stream. The eloquent words of Hal Borland, John Muir, John Burroughs, Jack London, Sigurd Olson and Aldo Leopold thrilled me.
Maybe that’s why I raised pheasants and mallards with the help of banties. Banties were small hens with strong maternal instincts. Hay mowers sometimes hit nesting pheasants and mallards. I gathered the eggs and placed them under cranky banties. The chickens did a wonderful job of incubating the eggs and raising what hatched. There were tense moments when ducklings entered water and swam about. The foster mothers thought this was inappropriate behavior and squawked loudly. The pheasants wandered away when the call of the wild took them.
We ate wild game on occasion. Some of the senior women in my life made unidentifiable dishes that included meats. I suspected that some of those meals were made from unfortunate critters hit by automobiles at the end of the cook’s driveway. I asked for identification and was told, “Eat it. If it wasn’t good for you, I wouldn’t give it to you.”
When I was a boy, I wanted a dog. We always had a dog on the farm. We had cattle, so we had a cattle dog — a canine that fetched cattle instead of sticks. Bruce was our dog. He was good at his job and the cattle respected him, but Bruce was my father’s dog. I wanted a dog of my own.
I prayed for a dog. It wasn’t the man’s prayer made famous by Red Green, “I’m a man, but I can change, if I have to, I guess.”
I prayed the boy’s prayer, “If I get a dog, I won’t ask for anything else — ever. I won’t talk back. I’ll do my homework. I’ll be on time for Sunday school. I’ll think pleasant thoughts. I’ll…”
One Christmas Day, a puppy materialized at our house. She was a small creature of mixed parentage — a Heinz 57. My parents claimed no knowledge as to how the pup had come to be there. They credited divine intervention.
I immediately fell in love with the canine I named Rex, after Rex Allen, the singing cowboy. I delighted in being able to call her, “My dog.”
My father believed that no one could train a cattle dog like an older cattle dog. Bruce applied his experience to educating Rex in the fine craft of chasing cows. Rex was an exceptional student and became a cattle dog extraordinaire. She loved to hear the words, “Sic ’em.”
A cattle dog cannot spend all her time pursuing bovines. Rex needed a hobby to prevent burnout. Rex took up pointing. She pointed at domestic ducks and geese as well as worrying the chickens. It made for nervous fowl, but it gave Rex something to do.
Bruce considered it odd behavior. It wasn’t part of his approved curriculum.
My father was an infrequent hunter. Chores left little time. He discovered that Rex was gifted in the pheasant-finding arena. He told a neighbor. The neighbor told his friend, a judge, about Rex’s prowess.
The judge visited our Mule Lake farm and asked my father if he could hunt pheasants there. He promised my father a rooster in return. Dad loved any kind of food as long as it was meat and potatoes. A deal was struck. The judge asked if he might use Rex’s services. Dad replied that Rex was mine. The judge asked me if he could employ my dog. I agreed with the stipulation that I would go along. It was a package deal. Rex and I were a team, like Lassie and Timmy.
The judge met Rex. I think he expected a dog something like a German shorthaired pointer. A mutt didn’t impress him.
Rex was amazing that day. Her finest effort. The judge said that it was the best day of hunting he’d ever experienced.
The judge patted Rex on the head.
He shook my hand, saying, “I’m a judge. I judge others. Your dog taught me not to judge someone by looks.”
That was a good point.
Hartland resident Al Batt’s columns appear every Wednesday and Sunday.