And it is exactly this kind of ground-eating side excursions that many bird hunters have come to expect from pointers. Say "English pointer" in apres-hunt bull sessions and half the room will be singing the breed's praises while the other half heads for the bar. Some will swap you word for word with horror stories of their own.

"Jimmy! JIMMMYYY! JIIMMMYYY!" That's my friend Bill serenading his English pointer, Jimmy, who has just run out of earshot. This would not be Jimmy's first hunt on the lam. Jimmy--whose middle name might as well be damnit!, as in, "Jimmy, damnit! Get back here!"--is prospecting familiar terrain, which includes most of the land base in neighboring counties.

There's some truth to the bad press. I remember my one and only trip to the National Pointing Dog Championships several years ago for a lot of things: the camaraderie, the great dogs, the stately Ames plantation and the endless, relentless rain. But one day, following the gallery in the orange pumpkin, a rusting Suburban that several of us without horses were consigned to, I spied a rider trotting his mount directly toward us. He splashed up alongside our truck, reined up his horse and tipped back his hat. Rain dripped off the brim.

"You boys seen that lil' ol' white dawg of mine?" he said.

I don't know if he ever did find his dog. He slogged on down the road and we never saw him again.

But I also remember Jimmy's first point. Bill and I were hunting a wheat field above my hometown, since converted into an "estate" and trophy home for a vacationing Floridian. I'd brought Bill here because there was always a covey or two of Huns tucked into the grassy draws beside the wheat stubble, and at six months of age, Jimmy was ready for action.

That isn't something you can say about every breed. My last setter--and God knows, I'm a setter lover to the bone--was just starting to give me solid points on planted pigeons at six or seven months of age, forget about wild birds. But English pointers are known for being quick studies, and Jimmy was no exception. As Bill and I walked up a long, gradual incline, I spied the very tip of his pure white tail standing straight and proud above the wheat stubble. We walked in, and the covey flushed into a grand, western sunset. I can't remember what happened then, whether we killed birds on the rise or not.

Jimmy's point was the important thing, and that point I remember still.

And another thing: that pointer that was lost at the Nationals? There were dozens of others that didn't get lost, that returned to their owner's side at the end of the three-hour brace. That's a pretty good rate of return for dogs bred to hunt several hundred yards before a fast-moving horse.

Although there are good dogs in virtually every breed, because of their inherently larger gene pools, by and large I'm a believer in sticking with well-established breeds, and there is probably no more established bird dog in this country, setters excepted, than the English pointer.

Much of the credit for that development should go to the late Bob Wehle, who devoted his life to improving the breed. Wehle was born into the family that owned the Genesee Brewing Company in upstate New York, and evidently never really had to work at a nine to five job. But he was anything but a ne'er-do-well.

He was fascinated by genetics throughout his long life, and at various times he bred thoroughbreds, champion dairy cows (some of his stock set milk production records that still stand) and swine. But bird dogs and English pointers were his most enduring love. He called his line of dogs Elhew pointers ("Wehle" spelled backwards), and to this day there are those who think they set the standard for biddable, foot-hunting English pointers.