Truly special bonds are built in the outdoors

I DON’T MUCH FEEL like writing humour today.

Yesterday, I was told that my springer spaniel Callie – a loyal friend of just about 14 years – has cancer.

I was caught by surprise, I guess. I took her to the veterinarian because she suddenly started hanging a hind leg. I assumed she pulled a tendon or blew out a knee joint – that’s what often happens to old hunting dogs. As it turns out, this issue is caused by a deterioration of her spine. And that may or may not be due to the cancer that the veterinarian found.

Things like this break your heart.

A good dog becomes part of your family; a good hunting dog becomes part of who you are.

For now, all we can do is ensure she is comfortable. That means medication and minimal activity. And, when her quality of life is no longer what it should

be, it means goodbye.

I’m not looking forward to that.

As hunting dogs go, Callie was a great one. Headstrong, fearless and driven, she hunted with me from the age of 9 months right into her tenth year. And she loved every minute of it.

There was not a piece of cover she wouldn’t bust right through; there was not a bird she would not do her damndest to flush or retrieve. In her youth she never seemed to tire. And though I stopped hunting her seriously about four years ago, she never lost the desire to range afield. She’d whine when she saw me leave with hunter orange and a gun. She’d mope until I returned.

In her retirement, her activity has been limited to two walks a day and tennis ball retrieves on the front lawn. Now, that has come to an end too. The vet advised me to keep her walks short and cut out the retrieves.

She doesn’t show it, but she must be in pain. Getting up is a struggle; walking takes great effort. But every time I enter the room her docked tail wags feverishly and her eyes, now milky with age, lock onto me. And she gives me this look that says I’m glad you are here.

And I try not to get emotional. She’s old now. But I recall a glorious autumn day when we were hunting for grouse and she was young. We were approaching one of my favourite covers through the goldenrods. Callie was, as always, ranging ahead, hunting feverishly with nose to the ground, lost from sight in the tall grass. I tracked her location by watching grass sway and bend before her.

I heard her rush forward and then it happened.

She leapt and emerged high above the goldenrods, snapping at the tail of the ruffed grouse she had just flushed.

There was this magic moment, when bird and dog seemed as one. Then, for a brief instant, they hung together in the sky, lit up by the afternoon sun. To this day, I have never seen anything so graceful or athletic.

Then Callie, dropped back to earth – feet first, ears last – and the bird rose higher.

I folded it cleanly. Callie hunted it up and brought it to my hand. Her eyes were bright. Her head held high. She was as content, happy, lean and fit.

I never felt prouder of any dog.

When she goes, that is how I’ll remember her.

’Til then, we’ll comfort each other and be thankful of the times we had.