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Adding a Third Dog to the Pack

A first year with a third bird dog.

Adding a Third Dog to the Pack

The new recruit standing amongst two seasoned bird dogs—a gentle reminder that he has large paws to fill. (Photo By: Seth Bynum, DVM)

I’ve learned over the years that the right dog seems to arrive at the right moment, whether or not we’re immediately aware of the serendipity. A year ago, the idea of a third dog seemed overwhelming and cumbersome. A lack of gear, vehicle space and logistics aside, I felt a strong preference for investing my precious free time into hunting my two adult dogs rather than raising and training a puppy.

My senior dog—still vigorous but in the twilight of his career—had handed over the reins to a younger dog in her prime. They hunted together seamlessly, were both well versed in the house rules and traveled comfortably in tandem kennels in the back of my truck. An informal poll of my hunting dog enthusiast friends suggested that most of them added a new pup, on average, when the youngest turned seven. They reminded me I’d reached that threshold of change as my youngest dog passed her sixth birthday.  

Ideally, we’d welcome a new pup after the oldest dog passed on so as to not disrupt our familiar and manageable two-dog setup. I felt no need to tinker with a proven formula, but a recent cancer diagnosis in the eldest dog had showered us in grief and disrupted the timeline I had envisioned for bringing on his successor.

german shorthaired pointer puppy
The author's new GSP pup came unexpectantly, but he was pleasantly surprised by the even-keeled nature of the dog at home coupled with a big spirit in the field. (Photo By: Seth Bynum, DVM)

If I’m honest with myself, shopping for a new bird dog prospect had already begun in that corner of my mind reserved for daydreaming. I knew exactly what I wanted in my next pup when the time was right. While I hadn’t a shred of clarity around the logistics of making that happen, I still felt convinced now was far from the ideal time. My home and schedule scarcely had room for another living thing, much less the unforgiving teeth and unrefined bathroom habits of a bird dog puppy.


However, my certainty in the matter crumbled when a text message from the breeder blindsided me. The long-shot frozen semen breeding I dreamed of had been successful, ahead of my ideal schedule. There before me in glaring pixels was an image I was powerless to ignore. Four dangly legs of kryptonite melted my facade of steel. His floppy ears suspended from his playful and mischievous face like an adorable pair of brown dress socks. His tail was long and expressive, whipping to and fro high above his back like an antenna, drawing in my eye. I pictured it waving tall and proudly on the western prairie with his nose filled with scents of sage, fresh dirt, and bird feathers.

As a veterinarian, I’ve mastered the requisite impulse control of my profession. Despite the temptation, by necessity I’m obligated to view puppies as things to momentarily enjoy and then return to their owners much in the way you’d relinquish a crying baby to its mother. But in this instance, I began to feel the first symptoms of puppy fever take hold. The old dog had fought back his cancer and blessed us with another hunting season, but the new puppy locomotive had already left the station and garnered an impressive and now unstoppable head of steam. A third dog seemed inevitable.

Completely smitten and now equally convinced of my need for this puppy, I began the monumental task of clearing out room in both the physical and metaphysical senses for his arrival. There was scarcely a sliver of room in our already cramped life, but the desire to hunt over a pup with so much promise prevailed, and I found a way to stretch the seams and eke out a little more room.

man holding a german shorthaired pointer puppy
Sometimes life throws us a curveball that brings a new puppy in the end. (Photo By: Seth Bynum, DVM)

The first step involved convincing my wife that this totally impractical plan somehow seemed practical in its scope and execution. I could easily imagine her response to the idea of a third German shorthaired pointer, mostly because her reasons for resisting mirrored those put forth by my more rational sensibilities: More whining, another insatiable beggar in the kitchen, more hair on the floor, and 50 percent more energy to manage and chaos at each ringing of the doorbell.


Alas, my wife defied my expectations and gave her blessing with very little resistance, a move that elicited immense joy and a sprinkle of frustration. Part of me hoped she’d talk me out of it with subtle reminders of how much work a new bird dog pup would bring and how little time I had to spare with two other high-maintenance dogs. Nonetheless, she took my side, in part because she could sense the beaming rays of enthusiasm I emitted around this new prospect, but mostly as an endorsement of the logistical plan I’d hastily concocted to minimize the chaos in caring for a new puppy.

The New Recruit  

We met young Stellar in late January, with the radiant heat of anticipation melting away the freezing fog along the highway to Oregon. Our family settled on his peculiar name the same way we’d chosen all the others over the years, with me pondering and eliminating a thousand options in silence and my wife spurting out a singular, peculiar and utterly perfect option. We were both aware the name would require some explanation and ultimately set the bar high in expectation of his achievements.

He was a quiet, lean and leggy creature, as fresh and naive as a newborn pronghorn and equally disproportionate in structure. He had a body built to run. I fully expected to see fiery confidence and liberal use of puppy teeth common in the breed, and I initially brushed off his calm temperament and wallflower tendencies as side effects of residual car sickness and the drain of a bustling two kid, two dog household. Despite his pedigree of big running horseback champions, we’d hit the jackpot and brought home a quiet and even-keeled dog content to relax. He’s now passed his first birthday and I’ve yet to hear him bark.

german shorthaired pointer pointing in water
By five months old, his range and stamina had already surpassed any dog I’d hunted over, and I knew neither he nor I would be content with an education that relied on osmosis or mimicking older dogs as a training strategy. (Photo By: Seth Bynum, DVM)

Part of my three-dog survival plan involved outsourcing his early bird work. While I could offer the young pup access to wild birds, I could tell early on he needed a professional’s help to create something more simulated to invigorate his instincts. I’m also keenly aware of most of my shortcomings as an amateur trainer, and this pup felt like a project beyond the scope of my limited expertise. By five months old, his range and stamina had already surpassed any dog I’d hunted over, and I knew neither he nor I would be content with an education that relied on osmosis or mimicking older dogs as a training strategy. Stellar would require his own curriculum, and I vowed to solicit professional help in squeezing out all of the potential from his pedigree.

Each time I traveled, this new pup would get a trip to “bird camp” with Dan Hoke at Dunfur Kennels. This strategy worked to simultaneously build his foundation in the field while sparing my family the additional chaos of an unsupervised hunting dog in my absence. It was there where he offered his first point last spring, and his love of birds has grown exponentially since. After so many years, I had forgotten the tremendous satisfaction in seeing a bird dog reach enlightenment about their one true purpose in life.

Over the summer, Dan and his crew focused Stellar on steadiness, and by August we shot a bird over him while he stood still and confident. There was pride and a touch of awkwardness in that moment as I watched the bird fall over my gun’s rapport without a dog in hot pursuit of a retrieve, and I realized this experience was new and equally exciting for both of us.

Fall arrived with added anticipation and a promise to Dan that I’d hunt Stellar on his own for the first season. It was a promise I (mostly) kept, a victory for an avid bird hunter with a busy schedule and two other dogs that also live to chase birds.

In October, Stellar and I embarked on a solo mission to the prairie, a wild and vibrant place that offered young dogs ample opportunity to push boundaries and stretch their legs. I watched the mental gears turn as he filed away lifelong lessons from seasoned sharp-tailed grouse, and I kept my mouth shut while his long legs carried him faster and farther than his nose and maturity could process. At first, hardly a meadowlark went unpointed on the landscape, but by the second day, Stellar began to make sense of the volumes of new and intoxicating information carried on the Montana breeze.

I found myself smiling just watching him tirelessly run as he covered giant swaths of CRP and sagebrush with each long-legged cast. We finished our last morning with a point on a single grouse that he handled perfectly. I recall its speckled white breast and characteristic chuckle when it flushed from the brushy base of the Russian olive. As the barrel settled on its body, I offered a silent prayer to the upland gods to help me finish the beautiful work this young dog had started.

german shorthaired pointer retrieving a sharp-tailed grouse
The new recruit was tried and tested among the challenging terrain and inhabitants of the wild uplands. (Photo By: Seth Bynum, DVM)

Challenges and Triumphs

While our prairie experience had provided a foundation for wild birds, there were no doubt growing pains of hunting over a rocket-fueled bird dog. In some moments, I was an audience to pure art in motion—a masterpiece of anatomy and kinesiology—as he bounded naturally and gracefully from one objective to the next in search of his quarry. Other times, he blazed recklessly across the landscape like a 16-year-old with keys to a Corvette, high on adrenaline and leaving a sea of flushing wings in his wake. Occasionally, both manifestations would make an appearance at some point during the same hunt. While his learning curve certainly offered frustrations and tested my resolve to pass on botched birds, I couldn’t help but focus on his potential and the moment when his nose, brain, and legs all worked in unison.

That very moment came a month later on a scraggly lava rock mountain in chukar country. With no boundaries or limitations other than those imposed by one’s strength and stamina, Stellar set the landscape on fire with a purpose and enthusiasm I’d never seen in all my years of hunting over bird dogs. Several miles and a thousand feet up the canyon, I lost sight of him over the rise and silently thanked him for exploring a productive looking finger of the ridge my burning legs and flatland lungs had persuaded me to avoid.

The GPS buzzed moments later and told me Stellar was on point just shy of 600 yards away in what appeared to be a likely spot to find a covey. I watched the screen and hoped he’d budge, perhaps having only paused momentarily at some other distraction. Detouring a third of a mile on flat ground for an unproductive point is one thing, but to trust a young dog’s nose and honor his point in this damnable landscape would require a Herculean effort with physical consequences. I let my heart rate settle, and with a few cleansing breaths I tore out in search of him.

german shorthaired pointer retrieving and upland bird hunter in rugged desert terrain
In some moments I was an audience to pure art in motion—a masterpiece of anatomy and kinesiology. (Photo By: Seth Bynum, DVM)

It wasn’t the bloodlust that drove my decision, nor did I begin the ascent with faith and confidence I’d find feathers on the other end as I likely would with my proven, older dogs. Nonetheless, it was a transformative moment with him now fully aware of and committed to his job and me following through with my obligations in this partnership. Instead of a third wheel, Stellar was now an integral part of the team.

I paused at the sight of him on point to get my breathing under control and linger in this poetic moment. There he stood—the impractical, fussed-over and unlikely third dog—as proud and perfect as I’d dreamed he would be, tail erect, nose high, and nostrils flaring over a covey of chukar.

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