Dog Days of Winter Waterfowling [return]
by: Pappy aka George Swan
My first hunting dog was a male Yellow Labrador Retriever. I read that hunting dogs should have onesyllable
names to make it easier for them to instantly recognize when you were addressing them with a
command. After acquiring him on Thanksgiving Day in 1979, I almost named him Turk but, due to his color, he
became "Buff." As a roly-poly puppy, he was pure joy.Soon, he had all the grace of a big-footed, awkward
teenager, so I introduced him to the tail end of his first hunting season. He spent most of it stumbling along
behind me and stepping on my heels. But, as a part of that Puppy Boot Camp, I introduced
him to retrieving live birds by following shorelines and letting him search for crippled waterfowl. Recovering the
cripples accomplished several things. The crippled birds became food, the pup got to flush out and retrieve birds,
and I benefited by occasionally finding a washed up decoy.
The next hunting season, little Buff had grown into a large dog and had become a very strong swimmer. His
first real hunting retrieve was about 40 yards for a Green-winged Teal. They gradually increased to his
making some of the longest retrieves I have ever seen. But I had to discourage those when he aged, although
he was still willing. Once, surgery for an abscess in his throat left a temporary hole resembling a tracheotomy.
Until it closed up, my wife was always concerned that when he was retrieving he might fill up with water and
sink.
Buff always looked like he was chuckling when she said that (like Snidely Whiplash's dog, Smedley).
Buff was a character and I swear he had a dry sense of humor. He was the great waterfowl retriever with the
annoying habit of doing the heavy sigh routine whenever we missed a shot, especially the ones that he could
have easily retrieved. He always rode in the seat of my pickup when it was just he and I. Then along came my
wife (who smoked) and took his spot next to me. Each time, he would look at her indignantly, then at her
cigarette, roll his eyes, do the heavy sigh, and hang his head out of the pickup window.
He could hear the quiet rustle of a lunch sack at 100 yards and made bears appear amateurish when it came
to reaching food caches in a tree.
Often, after a long time in the duck blind when nothing was flying, Buff would begin to pick up the decoys and
bring them in on his own. As far as he was concerned, "Hunt over -- time to go."
In recent years our winters around here have been relatively mild. But one year, back in the "good ol' days,"
one of those "Blue Northers" blew straight down from Canada. The big northern Mallards rode the strong cold
wind and dark clouds down into the Columbia Basin. Cousin Buck and I recognized a chance of a lifetime.
The next morning was very dark and cold, seriously cold, cloaked in that harsh northerly wind. We were out early
with Buff, decoys, guns, and gear in the canoe. Cousin Buck was forward and I was aft. But soon, we were
going nowhere fast. We turned on a light and discovered that there was a ¾ inch or better sheet of ice holding us
back. So, we backed up and took a run at it, sliding the bow of the canoe up on the ice. Now, Cousin Buck is
named "Buck" for a reason. He's a big ol' boy, built like a bear. The bow broke through the ice. So we ran and
broke with our personal "Ice Breaker" out through the shallow channel and along the shoreline for about a
quarter mile (we were much, much younger then). Well, about halfway out to the duck blind, Buff figured
he had had enough of this frozen water taxi service and jumped out on the ice. After a four-legged Scott Hamilton
impersonation on the ice he finally got to solid ground. When we finally arrived at the blind, he was there with
that smug "what took you so long" look on his face? We broke out a big hole of open water, pushed the broken
ice slabs under the surrounding ice, put out the decoys and set up the blind. We finished just in time for the first
big flock of wheeling and chuckling northerns to drop in for that first cup of coffee. "If you pour it, they will come."
That morning, we had one of the best duck shooting days of our lives. The ducks came into that stiff wind like
they were on low level strafing runs right over us and Buff had one of the most interesting days of his life.
Back then the limit was seven ducks per day and most fell on the ice so Buff skated to and from on most of his
retrieves. By noon, we were home sipping hot toddies with Buff at our feet, all of us stretched out in front of the
fire.
In his later years, I'm sorry to say, Buff took up a life of crime. He became a duck thief. When other hunters
hit ducks that fell close to us, he laid claim. And, once, in a parking lot after a hunt, we thought that Buff was
playing with the ducks as he always had one in his mouth. We would no more than take it away from him
and throw it in the back of the pickup before he would somehow have it again. At home, we unloaded the
pickup and were surprised to find that we had two full limits of ducks. But, we had only shot five each. It
became obvious that Buff had not been playing with our ducks; he was stealing someone else's that must have
been piled near their camper. At least he selected greenheads.
He was a great waterfowl retriever. He was my first.
He was my friend, and I still miss him. Pappy's
Postulate Number 7: Just like horses, there is something
about the outside of a dog that is very good for the
inside of a person. He lived 13 years and 8 months.
Pappy
AKA George Swan
