Nov 17, 2023 5 min read

Dave Bates, played by actor Ed Harris, strides the meadow, illuminated by the sun at his back. The lovely and talented leading lady, Gertrude the wonder dog, holds a magnificent point for what seems like days. The pheasant flushes according to script, offering the perfect right-to-left crossing shot and the pheasant folds.

Meanwhile, back at the truck, Gertrude lays her head in the lap of her master and looks lovingly on as Bates sips a steaming cup of black coffee and gently strokes Gert’s head, telling her what a good girl she has been all these years.

The scene fades to black with the realization a glorious hunting career has come to an end, punctuated with the perfect point and retrieval – the natural end to a glorious life. Gertrude retires in all her majesty and takes her place in front of the fire, where she will snooze a thousand slumbers. There she will remain until she ultimately departs for the happy hunting grounds for all eternity.

Roll credits.

But here’s how life demonstrates that the real deal is seldom realized: Mid-morning, I look down at the calendar and realize that I have been so busy this fall that I have only gotten out for pheasants twice this season. Normally, I’d have hunted six or eight times by this point. I recognize Gert is slowing down in her old age. She is almost 12 and by all rights has experienced a full life afield.

I know that she is no puppy, but when I watch her play she moves like she is half her age. I tell myself that we’ll take just one more hunt. I’ll hunt her slowly and only for an hour or so.

A pal texts me over lunch that they are stocking the game lands. That does it. I’ll just take her out for a quick spin after school and we’ll be home by 5:30 p.m.

I dart home and grab my hunting gear, which is always laid out for such occasions. Gert is waiting at the door and is ecstatic to see me. She goes completely wild when she sees me donning blaze orange. The whines crescendo as we move in the direction of the truck. I pick up 73 pounds of twisting muscle mass and deposit her in the back of the truck in her kennel. Five minutes later we are pulling into the parking lot.

Gert attempts to leap from the tailgate of the truck. I catch her in mid-air and wrench my back. We both spill onto the ground and become entangled in a mass of strap vest, dog leash, and too many layers of clothing for such a beautifully warm afternoon.

As I pick myself up from the parking lot gravel, Gert bolts for the nearest cut. I smile as she bounds between the rows of goldenrod. What was I worried about? Just like old times. I felt so confident that I attached neigher beeper nor stim collar, just her old ting-a-ling bell. This will prove a mistake in a very few minutes.

As we turn the corner into the cattails, Gert registers a solid point. She locks up, resets, locks again and disappears into high cover. I expect the bird to flush in the next four or five seconds. The bird does not read the script and escapes into the swamp. Gert disappears into the swamp. I stand alone, waiting for her to return. She does not return. I spend the next 40 minutes waiting for Gert to return. Instead, she proceeds back to the truck on her own. She then heads out onto the road where two fellow hunter friends are driving. Gert has never ventured onto the road in her life. They escort her off the road, read her collar and dial my number to tell me that they have my pooch. I have my phone on silent from being in the classroom all day so I don’t get the message. I continue to walk the trails, blowing my whistle like the village idiot while my good Samaritans sit at my truck. They shout me down several hundred yards from the truck. Gert runs to me like we are long lost loves. I thank Parker and Mark for taking the time to look after my dog.

Gert and I are left alone in the parking lot to deal with the fact she can no longer hear my commands nor can she hear the whistle blasts from even close proximity. Her eyesight is questionable at best. In the morning, even with a boost of doggie Ibuprofen, she’ll limp around and the limping will probably last a few days. Beyond the groans and the aches and pains we have discovered something else. We are both getting old.

This is no Hollywood movie script. This is life and it is indeed, not what we were planning a few hours ago. Alas, no amount of analgesic will fix this problem. Her hunting days are over as fast as they began as a puppy, 12 years ago. There is no music playing; only the sad realization that this is painfully permanent.

I love you Gertrude and I’m sorry.

Dave Bates writes a weekly outdoors column for the Observer-Reporter. He can be reached at alphaomegashootingsolutions@gmail.com