Several years ago, when sandhill cranes became legal game in Saskatchewan, one of my long-time hunting partners--a former major and helicopter pilot in the U.S. Marine Corps and later a game warden--for whatever perverse reasons that govern his actions, shot one. He later contended that he had been ordered to do so by the officer-in-charge-of-the-hunt, a charge strongly denied by the OIC.

Sent first for the speck, Duke returned with his head, up tail wagging and an aren't-l-a clever-dog look. When next sent for the dead crane, he chose an entirely different tack.

A far more likely explanation is that after about a quarter of a million sandhill cranes had passed overhead that morning squawking at The Major, one flew over about 30 yards up and taunted him. It is never wise to taunt a Marine holding a loaded weapon. Thus began a long string of bad experiences with cranes both for the dogs expected to retrieve these avian aberrations and the people expected to eat them.

On this occasion, when The Major sent his dog, Code, to retrieve the dead crane, about 10 yards away from the bird it dawned on Code that this was not your regulation duck or goose. He skidded to a halt like a quarter horse on a slide stop and proceeded to circle the bird, all the while barking at it. When The Major shouted, “Fetch!” at Code, the dog viewed it as an unlawful order that carried the threat of court martial if he obeyed, since picking up the crane clearly constituted a criminal act, at least in his mind.

Finally, after several minutes of orders and threats bellowed at volumes usually reserved for the slowest recruits, The Major convinced Code that failure to pick up the bird constituted an act of mutiny. The dog very gingerly grabbed the bird’s neck and towed the crane through the mud back to his commanding officer. To say that he presented it with disdain would be a vast understatement.

When he reached the edge of the mud but well before he completely exited it or brought the crane to hand, he dropped the neck, walked off the mud flat on to the stubble field, turned his back to The Major and sat down. All in all, it was the most graphic expression of disgust I’d ever seen by a dog...that is, until a few years later when one of my own dogs topped it.

It should be noted that only on extremely rare occasions will I shoot a crane, despite pleas from our farmer hosts in Saskatchewan (who view the birds as something akin to a swarm of locusts) to kill our limit each and every day we hunt. When I do shoot one, it is usually by accident.

On this occasion, the fates chose to align a specklebelly (white-fronted) goose and a sandhill perfectly so that the shot that dropped the speck also killed the crane. I sent Duke to pick up the goose which he retrieved with head up, tail wagging and an aren’t-I-a-clever-dog look on his face.

Then I sent him for the crane although, in truth, it looked perfectly fine to me where it was--a grey lump on the opposite shore of the sheet of water that occupied a low spot in a wheat stubble field. I mean, it hadn’t been as though I’d actually been trying to kill a crane. It had merely blundered into the pattern. Nevertheless, the rules of the hunt--to say nothing of the provincial game laws--required that all efforts be made to retrieve downed game. So, at my muttered “Duke,” he ran through the water and arrived at the crane.