The pathway of life is full of hooks, hills, valleys, and plenty of potholes. I’ve come to appreciate it’s not paved and well-lit. Where would the adventure be in this short journey we’re all on if we always knew all the pit stops and the final destination? Once in a while, fate throws some hairpin curves at you to completely derail where you thought you were headed. In those moments, it’s best to hold on; you’re in for a ride, so you’d better make it a good one.
One major deviation from my intended course, unbeknownst to me at the time, actually started as a kid growing up in a rural Ozarks community, hearing countless stories about the bobwhite glory days in southwest Missouri. Each one was chock full of fond memories where my grandpa, uncles, and dad chased quail across local farms with friends and family.
Their stories painted such vivid pictures of those days gone by, but fond memories were still cherished. I can still hear the booming laughs of my grandpa, my great uncle getting hungry just talking about those fried quail with mashed potatoes, and my dad fondly smiling while reminiscing about their old three-legged bird dog, King. All those stories planted a seed with a young kid–one that would sprout years later.
A New Fixation
Fast forward a bit. I was a couple of years out of college and squarely focused on a growing family, building a career, and making my mark on the world when I hit a bump that caused a zig and a zag that would alter my course forever. My brothers and I were all back home for Christmas and thought a bit of nostalgia would be a unique gift. We decided to chip in and take our dad on a quail hunt at a local preserve. Unfortunately, the pay-to-hunt game was pretty much all that was left in our area, but we’d at least get into the field, hear some stories, make some new ones, and maybe get a glimpse of what we’d heard about growing up.
Upon arrival at the small family farm hosting our hunt, we met our guide, who happened to be an old friend of the family, and his two brittany spaniels. They were in town for the holiday season as well and getting some extra reps in by guiding hunts to stay sharp before wrapping up their upland season. It was in that narrow prairie grass meadow, tucked between oak groves casting long shadows, that all those childhood stories came to life before my very eyes. Copper, a firecracker brittany spaniel, was tearing up cover at breakneck speed when her nose stopped on a dime just feet in front of me. As her body slid to a stop, the dust gently drifted way behind her pushed by a gentle crossing wind.
Copper’s orange and white silhouette stood in contrast to the dense winter cover while her feathering flickered ever so slightly in the gentle breeze. That little cracker jack bird dog unlocked something within me, and I stood nearly as still. Copper shifted an eye to mine and then back to where she had pinpointed the covey as if to say, “Hey, they’re right there. Do your job, boss.” Admittedly, someone in the group snapped me out of my gaze by barking orders in my direction to “flush ‘em.”
While I certainly remember the explosion of that covey rise, I can’t tell you if I even hit a feather…I was still mesmerized by the bird dog. Our hunt wrapped up later that day and we couldn’t have asked for a better time in the field over our Christmas break. The seeds from my childhood were starting to sprout, I was beginning to understand those cherished stories I’d heard growing up.
Irresistible
Months later, I got a text from our family friend who guided our hunt months before. “We had an unplanned pregnancy, pups are on the ground, bring the family over to help us socialize them.” Our daughters were seven and five–just the right ages to give a litter of puppies a run for their money and the puppies to wear them out in the process. A mutually beneficial play date for all parties involved.
A little liver and white ball of fur was an immediate favorite. He would nap upside down on the girl’s laps which just happened to show off his thick liver mustache. The nickname “Stache” quickly took root, and his shenanigans during play dates with the litter became a frequent topic of conversation among the family. The peer pressure began to mount, and I was outnumbered and dealing with a full-court press that “we” needed a puppy. I had serious reservations for all the right reasons; I had to hold the line.
The girls pressed hard for more playdates with Stache and his friends. The next date came quickly, and as we drove across town, I took advantage of the windshield time to articulate all the responsibilities that come with a puppy; the level of commitment required, the costs associated with keeping them fed and healthy, and all the other “dad things” I could muster to hold the line with two determined daughters.
As we walked into the shop, our youngest strolled up to my buddy, dug into her pocket, and pulled out an old Ziploc bag with some crumpled-up ones and a few coins. She slammed it on the workbench and declared, “We’ll take Stache.” My line? Obliterated. He looked at me, shrugged his shoulders, and chuckled. When the dust settled from holding the line, we had a puppy and I was embarking full steam ahead into an entirely new pursuit. Oh, the adventures that awaited us, and we had no idea.
Copper passed down a double dose of intensity, and Stache’s energy quickly outpaced our daughters. We embarked down a path of bird dog training–a bit more tumultuous than I could have ever imagined. Scorched earth was his approach from the outset–always pushing the envelope, flirting right on that razor edge…and at times, blowing right past it. At nine months old, we loaded up and cut our teeth on public land pheasants. He pinned some and bumped some, but he learned rapidly. By the end of that first trip, Stache was almost daring ringnecks to run, just so he could give chase.
Lifelong Partners
It didn’t take long before new landscapes called and I followed his nose well beyond the plains of South Dakota. We chased prairie grouse in wide open spaces, bagged Hungarian partridge on the edge of rolling wheat fields in big sky country, climbed rugged hills after chukar, and found ourselves on the side of mountains in the shadows of blue grouse. Stache was even my duck dog. We didn’t know any better–just a couple of kids having fun. Somewhere along the way, I even launched a gear company to further enable our upland pursuits. We traveled countless miles together, shared fields with so many new friends, were continuously immersed in God’s creation, and made the memories I’d heard about all those years ago for ourselves.
Time, it is a heavy hand, and it eventually tracks down its quickest and most nimble adversary. Even ol’ Stache couldn’t outrun the inevitable. An old bird hunter once told me, “If you’re fortunate, you’ll get 10 good years with a bird dog. Anything more than that, and you’re on borrowed time.” As we prepared for our 12th hunting season, the ol’ warrior’s mind was ready but the body began to betray him.
Time caught Stache like all those crippled pheasants who thought they could escape his tenacity over the years. For the last few years, I combined a high-quality food with K9 Athlete supplements and a solid training regimen to keep him rolling, maintain high performance, and greatly reduce recovery time. During the summer, Stache began losing weight, his endurance slowly declined, and his senses were dwindling. His vision was fading and he could only hear a few tones as we turned the corner into fall. In my heart of hearts, I tried not to accept the hard decisions that likely awaited us on the horizon.
One Last Dance
As our crew geared up to kick off our season, I made the grievous decision that all bird hunters inevitably face. I’d kick off an upland season without Stache filling a kennel in the truck. I had something special in mind for what I feared might be his last season, possibly his last hunt. That little girl who put crumpled dollar bills and loose change on the workbench and said she’d take him had grown up.
She was now a senior in high school and we had planned a trip to South Dakota with her best friend and grandpa over Thanksgiving break. I intentionally limited Stache’s time in the field leading up to November in hopes that he’d be primed and ready for one last dance with ringnecks. Unfortunately, even with the rest, he continued to slowly fade, and my fears were mounting as the window was sliding shut.
The rustling of gravel under tires gave way to a fine dust that lifted from the trodden-down grass parking area at the southwest corner of a CRP field. As I fastened his collar, I ran my hand down his coarse coat, faded by time. My heart sank a bit. It seemed he became more frail by the day as age stripped him of the prize fighter physique he had for so many years.
I was a bit concerned that Stache might finally be outgunned by the younger generation and wondered if he’d be able to get some action on this hunt. I picked him up and gently put him on the ground as the group began to unleash a volley of bird dogs into the dense cover we hoped held wily roosters. As we worked a crossing breeze from the west, I heard a voice carried by the wind. “He’s getting birdy…Point! Point!” I got some raised fists from up the line, the ol’ man still had it. Game on. Never doubt the seasoned noses, they never fade.
Each day he continued to amaze the group with his nose keenly tracking ringneck track stars, pinning them down like the seasoned veteran in his prime. Flashes of the ol’ Stache brought smiles while I kept tabs on him closely, with increasingly limited time each day in the field prolonging his career, if only for minutes. Late in the afternoon on the last day of our hunt, we rolled down a two-track to a field where my daughter had bagged her first rooster years before. As I raised the tailgate, he waited on me as the group began dispersing into the shifting grasses at field edge. In that moment, I somehow knew this would be our last hunt.
I took the edge of the field, hoping pheasants trying to escape from the line of hunters and mature dogs tearing up the rolling grasses might cross in front of his keen nose one last time. But I could feel the tired in my ol’ boy's eyes. The boundless energy of his youth had all but vanished, and he was visibly weakened. He walked beside me, looking up on occasion to check in. Every so often, another dog would blow by in search of scent, and Stache would gallop a few strides and then lower his head and begin walking again. I broke open the over and under and began to reminisce with my old friend as we ended this dance where it all began.
Kneeling down, I rubbed his coat in reassurance and spoke the only words I could muster through overwhelming emotions, “Thank you. You’ve given me far more than I ever deserved. We had one hell of a run.” I snapped a picture and smiled, and the memories started flooding back from all our adventures. Before we got back to our trucks, he added a couple more points to his lifetime stats.
Stache passed a few days later at home, curled up on his bed. He left everything on the field doing what he loved–we should all be so fortunate. So, if a puppy finds you one day, follow that nose wherever it leads, you won’t regret the places it’ll take you, the friends it’ll make for you, and at the very end…the tears you’ll shed when it’s gone.
Thank you, Stache, you changed my life forever.
Published Western Hunter Magazine - May 2025