First he danced around it for several minutes, poking it with his nose, audibly snorting and sneezing with each poke. Finally he stopped and looked back for instructions on what to do with this strange-feathered blob. When I spoke the magic words “Fetch it up,” he gave me a very strange look. Then this thoroughly force-broken dog, who also possesses a string of field titles long enough to impress just about anyone, shook himself (either saying “no” or trying to rid himself of any traces of scent from the bird), walked over to the bird and lifted his leg on it.

One of these two cranes gave Cal the fright of her young life.

In a single gesture he managed to communicate his contempt for the game he was asked to retrieve as well as clearly state, “You want it? You pick it up!”

A couple of years ago, my brother’s dog Cal received the fright of her young life. One of my hunting partners--not The Major this time although in attitude they could be brothers, if not clones--was determined to shoot a crane or two. He never did supply a satisfactory explanation as to why he harbored crane-shooting aspirations, but in the end we decided to humor him.

As luck would have it, a flock of cranes came motoring over the decoys and Denny couldn’t resist. He picked one out and fired once. Two cranes hit the ground. As my dog and I were about a half-mile away trying to chase down a fugitive goose, my brother sent his young dog to make the retrieve.

Cal had only retrieved one or two geese in her brief career as a waterfowl dog and had certainly never seen anything like a crane. But she was game. Unfortunately, just as she got within snatching range of the two cranes, the one that had only been winged stood up, lowered its head and hissed at her. “Aiiiiiiee, corumba!”

Not old enough or experienced enough to be brave in the face of a threatened attack by something as big, ugly and formidable-looking as a crane, Cal halted her charge in mid-air and in total defiance of the laws of gravity, leaped straight backward a good six feet. She had seen enough. There was no doubt whatsoever in her mind that this apparition ate dogs for breakfast. She returned to my brother’s side and made it absolutely clear she was having none of this strange-looking and obviously vicious adversary.

Getting the dogs to retrieve is only part of the problem when you have a dead crane. After you have it in hand, you have to do something with the bird and this means trying to figure out a way to make it edible. Yes, I know they meet the barest definition of edible--if you eat one, you won’t fall facedown into your plate. Still, it doesn’t mean that you’d want to eat one unless you were on the brink of starvation and your survival was at stake.

The one time we attempted to eat sandhill crane, the one shot by The Major, it was obvious from the beginning that this fowl was going to need more than the ordinary throw-it-in-a-pan-with-some-butter-and-garlic treatment. Half the breast was sautéed in butter with Vidalia onions and fresh mushrooms and served with a sour mash bourbon sauce.