Gunner and Craig relax after an October-2008 hunt
The opening day of pheasant season just won’t be the same for me this year.
For the past 20 consecutive seasons I’ve had either my black Labrador “Pete”, or his grandson “Gunner” with me.
We tramped through countless cornfields and weed-filled sloughs over that period.
Pete died seven years ago and from then on it was just “Gunner” and me. A yellow golden Labrador retriever, “Gunner” who arrived at our place as an eight-week old baby, became a well-known personality in the field, helping me guide non-resident hunters for most of his life.
He never really asked for much… just my companionship, a pat on the head for a job well done and half of every sandwich I ever ate in the field. That’s really not much to expect from someone who had devoted his entire life to whatever it was that I needed at the time. He was always ready to please the family, whether we needed the company of a good friend, a smile and a handshake, or a gigantic slurp on the cheek of a grand child.
Penny and baby Gunner - 1998
He came to us as a fat puppy with too much skin. He grew into that frame as an adult dog, reaching 120 pounds in his prime. Although I used to tell him his nose was too square, his ears were too long, his feet were too large and his eyes too small, he was of classic Labrador Retriever looks.
Gunner and I had formed a bond that only a sporting dog and his master could understand. In order for that to happen, the dog must take on a few human characteristics, and, ironically, the master must capture a few dog-like personality traits. He was better at hand shakes and meeting strangers than I ever was at scratching behind my ears with my back leg.
For the first five years of his life we honed that mutual understanding to the highest level. Suddenly we knew what the other wanted. I could tell by his body language when he was “birdy” He knew what was on my mind without a single word being uttered to him. Perfection!
Nearly every day of his life I went to his kennel –sometimes several times—to feed him, supply fresh water, and let him out for some love and exercise. But days when I arrived in blaze-orange hunting gear were his favorites. The sight of me in hunting gear –especially carrying a shotgun— ignited a joy that is hard to describe.
By last season he had more good days behind him than he had ahead of him. At ten years old, his career was coming to an end after 4,000+ career pheasant retrieves. He was happily semi-retired as we went to the Horseshoe K Ranch to guide a few groups for the Dihl Grohs family.
Gunner had a great hunt on Halloween day -2008. He started hunting that morning while it was still cool. After a long rest, he returned to the field to retrieve the final bird for a group from Las Vegas. All of the guys who knew him were impressed with his personality as well as his talent for finding a wounded pheasant rooster. “You’re a good boy, Gunner”, they said as they patted him on the head and said goodbye.
He and I stopped at the pond so he could have a little swim on that warm October afternoon. I marveled at how much he enjoyed swimming, and laughed at the memory of when he was a fat little puppy that was afraid of water.
When we arrived at home that evening he was anxious for his supper and a good night’s sleep. He ran ahead of me –bouncing on his front paws like a wolf puppy—as we went down to the kennel. I placed his favorite supper in front of him, patted his head, and said, “Gunner, you’re a GOOD dog.”
The next morning our son Matt and I were getting ready for another day at the Horseshoe K Ranch. Matt went out to get all three Labradors from their kennels. I could see by the rounded shoulders and lowered head that something was wrong when he came back up alone. “Dad……” Matt said, unable to finish. “It’s Gunner, isn’t it?” I said with a lump in my throat.
Matt and I went hunting without Gunner that morning. Penny took his body to Mitchell and he was cremated the same day.
One of the last things Gunner did for us in the summer of 2008 was to dig a nice big hole in the lawn next to the patio. I never scolded him for it, he was old and it must have been pretty comfortable lying in that soft, cool dirt. Last spring we did some cement block landscaping around that area of the house. When we came to that hole in the ground, we didn’t have enough nerve to fill it in. So we laid cement blocks around the outline of the hole that Gunner had dug, filled it with rich soil, added some of the dog’s ashes and planted daisies, roses, and black-eyed Susans. The rest of his ashes will go to the place where he got his final retrieve last Halloween.
Here comes Drake
A beautiful nine-week old yellow Labrador puppy is asleep between my feet as I am writing this column. My 94-year old mother describes “Drake” as “magnificent”. He actually belongs to Matt and Amber and their two kids, but he’s spending some of his puppy-hood with Penny and me. Their other two great hunting dogs, Trey (age six) and Pete (age 11) are also here.
Drake won’t replace Gunner… no dog can do that. But with patience, training and time he will turn into a great hunting dog and companion. perhaps a better hunter than his predecessors.
At the ripe old age of 12 weeks, it was decided that Drake would go on the Pheasants Forever youth hunt at the Foothills Lodge last week. I guess you could say he was one of the guides, just like the big dogs that were along. He thought he was at least.
After his first introduction to a pheasant — one that had already been bagged– he was ready for action. At the end of the field a big old rooster walked out, trying to decide whether to run or fly. Drake spied the crafty critter and, with a smile on his face, immediately gave chase. The bird soared into the air just out of the reach of the puppy.
Yes, “Drake” has some big shoes to fill…. fortunately he has VERY large paws.
on Oct 30th, 2009 at 9:18 pm
Hi Craig,
Just went on-line to get my license and cruising the sites, I hit on your message about Gunner. Sure have enjoyed hunting with you and him. Great memorial. They do carve such a special place in our hearts. Hope to get to see Drake work. See you next week at Dihl’s. I have inherited my son’s labs that were banned from the state of Louisana, long story. It is a tremendous breed. I had a black lab that lived to be 16 when we had to put him down. When we moved to town in 91, I left him with my dad in the country because city life would be too confining for him. When we lived in the country, Jetty, the lab, had no interest whatsover in the cows unless the kids were outside, and then he made a point to keep himself between the kids and the cows. He would not let the kids get close to the fence. When we left him with my dad, my dad said that whenever anyone came to visit, Jetty would check them out. If it was a woman, he was ok. If it was a man, and he decided the man was ok, he would still stay between my dad and the man and during their conversations, Jetty would periodically let out a low growl just to remind everyone he was still in the middle. Jetty never accepte the plumber. My dad would have to put Jetty in a room to himself to let our plumber work. Although our plumber, Corbet, was a bit of an unusual character, he was safe. Jetty recognized that unusualnes and would not accept him. When my dad died, Jetty had to come live with us in town. Our subdivision had leash laws and he should have been restricted to our yard, and although we had two other dogs living in a large pen in the back yard, I could not make myself restrict Jetty to that confinement when he had lived his whole live in unrestricted freedom. By this time, he had a lot of gray hair on his face, and although sometimes the other dogs would escape the pen, and neighbors would call the animal control unit on them, none of my neighbors had the heart to call animal control on the “old man” as he came to be known when he made his daily rounds in the neighborhood.
My grown kids still remember him as the best dog in the world.