July 09, 2009 08:18 am
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I had lots of pets growing up. Old Teddy comes to mind when I was 6 years old living on a farm near Madison. The barn cats were friendly, except for the one that bit me. At age 11, I borrowed a beagle, named Brownie, to take rabbit hunting. He helped me get my first rabbit. I could go on naming several pets and so could most of you. Recently, I lost the last dog I may ever own. He was the best.
When my daughter Jourdan was 10 years old, I took her to Buck Creek Outdoors. It was a cold February day with about 25 Pheasant Forever members sitting around a potbellied stove in an old barn. Food and warm drinks were provided as hunting parties waited their turn to go to the fields.
Jourdan was bored until she learned about a litter of German shorthair puppies in another part of the barn. One at a time, she played with each of the eight puppies.
When I returned from my hunt, Jourdan was curled up on a couch snuggled with one of the pups. “This is the one I want, Daddy, can I please have it?” I protested that I was a deer hunter not a bird hunter. What would I do with a bird dog? “I love him and he loves me,” said Jourdan in a pleading voice.
The crowd took Jourdan’s side. “Get the pup, Bramwell. How could you deny this sweet little girl? Buy the dog, you cheapskate,” were some of the remarks I remember.
On the way home we stopped at a DNR property. I saw some folks ice fishing and wanted to see how they were doing. I instructed Jourdan to stay on shore. Just as I reached the ice shanties, I head a scream. Jourdan had walked onto the edge of the ice, near some cattails, and fell through. The water was shallow, but my little girl and her new puppy were shivering.
Jourdan thought the dog should have a German name. She called him Otto. I called him Bud Boy.
When Otto was old enough, I had the guys at Buck Creek train him. The dog was bull-headed and gave the trainer fits. Finally, I got the call that he was ready.
Trainer Wes McDaniel took me on my first pheasant hunt with Otto. The dog was trained to a whistle and hand signals. Otto locked up like a statue when he went on point.
Otto and I became buddies over the next seven years. I would usually find the time to run him a couple of times a day. If I were working outdoors, I would leave him out.
It was understood that we would not show each other affection until the hunt or run was over. His first priority was to search the weeds and briars for birds and rabbits. He also loved to fetch old softballs.
Three weeks ago, I had to call for Otto several times to get him out of his dog house. When I released Otto, he trotted instead of ran. Days thereafter, he lost his appetite and began drinking a lot of water. One day, I noticed little bumps under his skin. The vet confirmed that Otto had cancer.
A few more walks and a lot of hot dogs kept old Bud Boy going for another week. Last Thursday, I went to his dog house and offered him a hot dog. He would not eat. It was time to end the suffering. Jourdan said her tearful goodbyes.
Otto loved to ride in the front seat of my old truck. I petted and talked to him all the way to the vet’s office. He died peacefully.
Contact Rick Bramwell: rickbramwell@aol.com
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