I just finished the second season of hunting behind my first English setter, Máquina. I documented her training on film and in writing more than any other before, which led me to write this. It also made it a lot easier to remember the success and the sufferings that took place. I wonder what I’ll say about it in twenty years. But for now, I’m left thinking about what I would, should, or could have done differently.
Training your own dog can be a lonely feeling. Out of self-admitted ignorance, I overanalyzed when it came to anything in the field. With help from good mentors, I’d muster up the courage to try and quickly recognize that nothing was ever as big of a deal as I had made it out to be. Rarely did it go well to start, but it was always easy to learn, adjust, and try again. It’s easy to do nothing without the shove we all sometimes need. I don’t think I’m alone in that I can be told something 100 times, yet still won’t understand or remember it. However, feel it just once and it becomes unforgettable. Maybe this will be part of the push you did or didn’t know you needed.
If I only knew then what I know now, I wouldn’t have lost so many nights of good sleep, worrying about what would eventually happen. I’d have sat more often and scratched the back of her ears when we came across well-placed cutover stumps that made for the perfect stool. I would have taken more photos, ate more picnic lunches, and smoked more cigars at the tailgate. Let’s be honest, hopefully many years from now we’re going to find ourselves helping along old dogs who look back at us with greying muzzles and years of wisdom in their eyes. We won’t be thinking then about the details yet to come in this column. This is our reminder not to take it so seriously that we risk missing out on what, in the end, are the most important parts.
There, I’ve got that off my chest. Now I can share some of the less significant things that I plan on doing, and/or not doing, “next time.”
Basic obedience training builds a foundation for your hunting experience. (Photo courtesy of Jeremy Moore) Build a Solid Training Foundation I’ve always believed that one of, if not the most important things to understand about owning and enjoying a dog is the need for a solid foundation. That’s not the first time you’ve heard it, it’s often written about and for good reason. What defines a good foundation should be made clear before trying to explain how you get it. Regardless of the breed or style of dog, I think it should be kept simple and only consist of a few things—so long as they do them well. Heel, here, and stand or sit still.
Heel has always been my number one. To be clear, it’s not taking the dog for a walk. Heel is a position. My preference is left-hand side, dog’s shoulder in line with my knee. When I move, they move, staying in position. When I stop, they stop, holding that same position. I’ve yet to find a hunting scenario where the dog understanding this behavior doesn’t help. It’s a conduit to being connected, physically at first using a lead, but ultimately through a sensation of understanding where each is and allowing us to move “together” at any distance.
Having a dog who will reliably come when called, regardless of distractions, is my second priority. There’s obvious value in the field, but it also makes the dog enjoyable to have around. Máquina started out fine as a pup, until I introduced her to pigeons in our nearby bird field. From that point, and still today—I share with you out of confession—I can’t just“let her out” to use the bathroom. Her prompt return, questionable at best. In times like this, the eye and mind must remember that they can be made to focus both on what’s right in front and far off distances as well. In this particular case, her ravenous desire for those birds is both what I love and loathe about her. One leads to the other, and in a world of seemingly black and white, it’s alright to be grey. I’m not thrilled about it, but I have chosen to pick my battles, and at times settle for imperfection.
Third, a dog that can and will be still. I like retrievers calm, quiet, and steady; that fits awfully nice on a setter too. I used yard work as an extension of heel to teach her the concept of stopping and standing still, but credit belongs to her DNA. From early on, she was content to stand when asked using “whoa” as her cue.
I’ve heard all the concerns, “too much obedience can take away or suppress a bird dog.” In my opinion, when done without excessive pressure, I don’t think there’s a trainer out there good enough to train the hunt out of a well-bred bird dog. Say what you want, but you won’t hear me complain about a bird dog that minds too well.
How far away the dog is isn't always as important as whether the dog is getting its job done well. (Photo courtesy of Jeremy Moore) Assessing a Bird Dog’s Range “How big does that dog run?” That’s a question I’ve asked, heard asked, and now get asked often. When I started digging into this, some of my biggest concerns revolved around range. I feared “big running” but didn’t want a “bootlicker.” Sound familiar? After hearing enough of what I now suspect were parroted opinions, I figured 75 yards should be perfect. Knowing where I would be hunting, I didn’t need a field trial dog, and if I wanted something close working, I’d go get a spaniel. Between wolves and the type of covers we’re in, earshot of a bell and seeing the dog maybe half the time sounded pretty good.
In theory that all made sense, but I’ve since come to think more of it as “ideals” formed by how-to books and one too many podcast listens. One season of hunting behind her had me realizing that range wasn’t something I should A) stick my nose into, and B) get in the way of. It should be based on several variables, few of which I need to be directly involved in. That was another early struggle of mine, letting go of the need to be in control, and instead have the confidence and faith to accept and encourage her to do what she’d been bred for. In time I realized, what I wanted was a dog whose run was determined by the cover. One that would go as far as they needed to in order to find a bird. So long as they’re able to handle it, I didn’t care if that meant 30 yards or 300.
Before you roll your eyes, let me explain. Last October we explored a new section of industrial timberlands. I had an idea of how it laid out, but it’s hard to say for sure until you see it. We followed an old tote road loop that meandered along a low-lying alder run up against a rising aspen plateau, spattered with pockets of birch and balsam fir. A mix that looks, feels, even smells like it should hold a bird. Máquina was making game for a stretch and her bell went mute several times, but I just wasn’t able to put a lick on one.
I soon realized we’d wedged ourselves into the back of a tamarack swamp and a relatively mature stand of aspen. Not wanting to backtrack, I started across the open popples. Frustrated and sulky with my poor shooting, it took a bit for me to realize that the ringing bell had slowly disappeared. Fumbling for my GPS, she was just under 250 yards to the west and gaining ground. Uncharacteristic of her, I watched it climb. Máquina is small in size but makes up for it in boldness and lacks all fear of failure. 260, 275, 291, finally 297, then it stopped. For some, 300 yards isn’t a lot. But for anyone who’s been in the grouse woods, it might as well have been a mile.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” I thought to myself, and across the big, open woods I went. Eventually, I spied her. Standing high and mighty with a white feathered, flagpole setter tail in the hazel understory. I charged in those last 30 yards, figuring if she’d waited that long for me to get there, the least I could do was put a bird in the air. I did, and managed to miss twice more. She went with it a short distance, then returned to the scene of the escape, her flagpole now waving to let me know she held no ill will. That’s another thing I’ve gathered about her, no worse for the wear whether I kill a bird or not. Her joy comes in finding, pointing, and drinking in the scent, rather than the tasting of feathers.
Introducing a pointing dog to birds is a great way to "wake up the bird dog" in them. (Photo courtesy of Jeremy Moore) Getting Them into Birds According to my journal, she’s had over 600 grouse and 300 woodcock contacts during our first two hunting seasons. Combined with spring and late summer training, it’s safe to say she’s been in front of close to 2,000 wild birds to date. Seems like plenty, but if I were to graph all those contacts and rank them on a scale of quality, it would look like the Dow Jones Industrial Average over the last 100 years. Overall, a steady ascent with lots of ups and downs. We hit points of diminishing return on all those bird contacts, when maturity—or lack thereof—dictated whether or not more birds equaled more gains. Like the stock market, this journey has not been for those looking to make a quick buck. Instead, it’s becoming a long-term investment.
There’s a line I like that Gordon Lightfoot wrote, “if you plan to face tomorrow, do it soon.” At times, we make every excuse imaginable, putting things off until tomorrow—particularly when it’s rooted in fear. In part because I didn’t think it was necessary, but also because I was just plain scared, I didn’t introduce birds until she was six months old. I’ll put my next setter in front of birds much earlier, knowing there’s little risk of ruining them, and a stronger likelihood of waking the “bird dog” up.
Will I do things different next time? I hope so. I’ve gotten better at measuring progress, and I’m still working on perspective. The little gains are hard to see in relation to big changes over time. Small setbacks are easy to recognize but often what leads to gain. Shoot, I’ll change my mind a dozen or more times yet before it’s all over with this dog—hopefully for the better. If anything’s for sure, it’s that there’s no one way to do it.