My niece handed me a pocket-sized package, wrapped in Christmas tree patterned paper. Encased was a small spiral-bound object entitled, “The Hunter’s Journal,” with these words inscribed on page one: “Life is an adventure. It’s not thedestination we reach that’s the most rewarding. It’s the journey along the way. So, write it down and treasure the memory forever.”

I heard her say to the rest of my family, “I know he likes to write in that book at the cabin and thought this would be something he could carry in the woods.” Overcome with emotion, I had to leave the room.

Remember Your Dogs through Writing

She was right, I did like writing in that book. I’d been keeping a journal for years, first just to document anecdotal observations like flush counts and the number of birds taken throughout the season. In time, it’s grown to become the chronicles of some of my fondest recollections. An almanac and record of when leaves begin to color, woodcock migrate, and ice first forms on the lake. An evergreen memoir of the dogs, their stories, and how each of them has helped to develop and inspire me. The last time I wrote in that book was this past October and it read, “This was Máquina’s last hunt, and I don’t want to write anymore.” A scribbled entry that’s become painfully haunting. I’ve not felt the motivation or had the energy to draft anothersentence since. Then that gift from my niece, and I realized that this was something I probably needed to do.

On October 21, 2024, we lost our sweet Máquina after complications following an emergency surgery. It can be hard to start a story at its ending but to get through this, I have to start somewhere. Months have now passed, and on one hand, it seems like she’s been gone far longer. On the other, it feels like it was just yesterday. Part of me still remains numb, and I catch myself expecting to hear her nails clicking across the hardwood floor when the door opens. They say grief has different stages, and I don’t know whether that is true or not. I do know that grief can feel like a strange combination of time passing and standing still.

Máquina was our first setter. She was just shy of three years old. I wrote the details of nearly every hunt with her and used them to create a series of columns and feature articles here in GUN DOG. We candidly filmed the first two-plus years of her training for our DogBone Training Library and YouTube channel. The intention was not to showcase “how to,” instead it was to expose the vulnerability that comes with being a practitioner of something new in a way that’s relatable to others interested in following. For the efforts, I have thousands of pictures of her to go along with hundreds of hours of video. They create a digital biography that spells out the narrative of how we worked through crude firsts that eventually became the building blocks towards objectives we would accomplish together.

For a while, I couldn’t bring myself to look at any of them. When I was finally able to, they left me in tears. To write this, I revisited most of them, starting with the very first picture of her litter in a whelping box, followed by when I brought her home tomeet our family. I felt the emptiness of sadness slowly being replaced with soft smiles, heavy hearted sighs, and a deep sense of gratitude.

There was a series of videos from the week of March 18th, 2022. She was just four months old, and at the time, I called it her first “point”—knowing damn well she was just stopping out of surprise when that spring woodcock let out his peent. I have a video of the first grouse I shot over her, pointed near our cabin, and the first time she ever stopped to “whoa” in the yard. A video of the first time she stood a pigeon in the launcher and pictures from the visit we made to a special group of school kids this past September. She had a heart as tender as it was fearless. I took a sweaty selfie with her after she dragged me 263 yards through a tag alder swamp to find her still pointed, holding a true pair of woodcock until I finally got there to miss. That was our last day hunting together. She’d become a bird finder and had an undeniable presence that would command the attention of even the most ardent bird hunter. Yet, her gentleness was enough to draw near and comfort the most cautious and timid child.

I learn something from every dog, and this one taught me plenty. A friend told me she got 10 years’ worth of hunting in two and a half seasons. A mentor of mine reminded me, it wasn’t the amount of time but the quality of that time we shared thatshould be valued most. In less than three years, she gave me a lifetime of lessons on better understanding perspective. When our dogs are gone, we tend to put them on pedestals. I’m realistic in recognizing that with good intentions, we often believe our own dogs to be better than they really are, and we remember them after they pass to be even better than that. With her, I was our own worst critic. I felt like some things took forever, and only now that she’s gone do I realize I was wrong. When she was here, in the heat of the moment I’d find myself frustrated while trying to get her steady. After she’s gone, I look back in that book and read about the last several weeks ofour hunts, and I realize, she was standing through the majority of her birds. It was me that had the problem; she was always right there, right where she needed to be.

Máquina taught me that bird dogs can inspire a deep sense of faith. A favorite quote of mine from Aldo Leopold explains it this way. “My dog does not care where heat comes from, but he cares ardently that it come, and soon. Indeed, he considers my ability to make it come as something magical…such faith, I suppose, is the kind that moves mountains.” A dog seems to have that faith inherently, and when done right, their handler finds it, too. That in mind, if everything does happen for a reason, it’s times like this when that faith becomes truly tested, and it's up to us to determine whether or not our convictions hold true.

I’ve laid to rest enough dogs to know that I’ll never be good at it. It’s never easy, and this one will be exceptionally difficult. I’ve done my best to busy myself with “things” and wept in between. Her name translates to “the machine” in Spanish, and it was fitting for her. When I think of what I want in a bird dog, it was Máquina. Yet she gave our family so much more than just that. She was loving, sweet, and a savage when necessary. Her resilience and fragility were separated only by a fine line. She taught me more than most before her and is gone far too early.

Seeing the Good Through the Loss

Depending on how you look at something like this, it can be both a tragedy and a blessing. Those unfortunate enough to lose a great dog were also lucky enough to have had them in the first place. They give us so much. If I can give you one thing from this, it’s to take more. Take more pictures, take more videos, and make more memories with them. Those are things you will never regret having and someday will need to lean on for comfort. We can’t—and we shouldn’t—try to replace dogs who have passed, but we can and should remember them. Writing this has been hard, but it’s a weight off my shoulders and a step towards feeling comfortable again about adding to that journal and moving forward with the next part of my journey.

If you’re reading this, you likely own a hunting dog. If you’ve lost one before, you’ve felt what I’m feeling. If you are going through a similar part of the journey, I hope you know you’re not alone. I hope this brings a smile that comes along with fond memories of dogs passed. If you have never lost one, I warn it’s something that you will someday have to face. Dogs don’t live long enough, and the worst thing about having one is the goodbye. All the cliches have long been written, and they’re all true. I can’t get through writing this without wiping tears, I’ve tried now many times. My life’s been blessed by family, friends, and most certainly the dogs. Being lucky enough to spend that time and love them means we have to be tough enough to bury them. A trade-off I’m willing to accept.