When the distant tinkling of a bell turns silent, something inside me changes. Lord, I hope that never goes away. Plenty of things in the outdoors have that effect on me. A perfect cast that flows gracefully off the tip of a #4-weight, landing just above the foam line of a good run. To catch a native on a dry fly, still a brookie. The same as those caught before it on spinning rods with hook, split shot, and crawler. Anyone whose done it both ways can affirm, they are different. The difference is in how it got done. If you’ve never been behind bird dogs pointed, I warn you, there is little in the uplands that will rival the experience. Working behind one that is steady through the flush and shot is beautiful—damn near magical.

I favor that of tradition with most things bird dog. Of course, there are always exceptions, and the idea of “breaking” a dog is one for me. That break, breaking, and broke jargon just seems engrained in the culture. I realize it’s semantic, but frame of mind affects how we approach things, and execute the actions which follow. To “break” as a verb means to fracture, crack, or destroy something. I’ve never felt the need to be a gladiator working with animals, and I don’t want my dogs broken.

It’s not always a popular opinion among some of the circles I find myself in. The idea, it’s not new nor is it my creation. No, it’s been around a long time, just isn’t always talked about, nor does it get the attention I think it deserves. One of the first places I saw it was written in word, from 70+ years ago.

“There’s all sorts of ways to train a dog and not break him. Don’t you ever let me hear you use the word 'break.' You don’t want a broken dog, you want to educate him, not crush him. A man that’s gotta break a dog, don’t deserve the dog.”- Robert Ruark in The Old Man and the Boy.

What Does it Mean to Steady a Dog?

For most hunters, including myself, steady until the flush with a pointing dog is all that’s really needed. It’s functional and enjoyable watching a dog hold point until we flush. It’s all I had in mind for this dog of mine until, for some reason, I went and watched a cover dog trial. If not for that, I don’t know that I’d have taken the challenge.

By cover dogs, I mean bird dogs that compete on wild birds in the woods—typically ruffed grouse and woodcock. The intentions with “puppy” and “derby” age dogs at these trials are to showcase their potential for becoming a “shooting dog.” Derby stakes were once described to me pretty accurately as, “hold my beer.” A bunch of young dogs that need not do what’s required by their older, shooting dog counterparts. Beyond age and maturity, a big difference between a derby dog and a shooting dog is the standard they’re held to when it comes to bird manners. The shooting dog must have the ability and willingness to stand through the flush and shot. Still very functional, but with a polish. I’ve asked dozens of people at field trials about it. “How do you get your dog steady?” Nearly every answer is the same. “I break’em,” they’d say. When I ask them to spell 
it, nearly all would echo the same: “B-R-E-A-K.” But one didn’t. He spelled it: “B-R-A-K-E.” Just one letter rearranged. Moving the “E” to the end changed the definition, yet his results looked the same. Had I just misunderstood? Trust me when I say, understanding and doing this has been a challenging journey. By far the biggest challenge I’d faced yet, but if I wanted a shooting dog, I’d have to figure it out.

Steadying a Pointing Dog with a Check Cord

I like coming to terms with my dogs on my own two feet, and with my own two hands. I’ve never used an e-collar, and prior to this, check cords had been no earthly good to me. All that said, when it comes to training beliefs, I have a confession to make. If ever I’ve felt there was a time and place where a training collar would be useful, this was most certainly it. I’d let my pup chase birds from the beginning—and chase birds, she certainly did. That was a fire inside her that burned white hot. It seemed like the thing to do, at the instruction of so many things I had read and been told. It took us most of the first season before she was pointing wild birds with some sort of reliability, or at least until I could get to her on point.

Her birthday is November 7th, 2021, so she was still very much a puppy in the fall of 2022. At the end of that first season, she started waiting to break until after the bird flushed. A sign for me to start asking for more. In hindsight, something I’ll do sooner with my next dog. In late spring, and through the summer of 2023, I started trying to “take away that chase,” with the use of pigeons. I’d taught her to “whoa” relatively young, with obedience and yard work. Now, the idea was to connect that “whoa” to a bird. I’d whoa her and drop a pigeon out of my bird bag. Eventually following with a shot from a blank pistol. I realized I needed to be able to coax and correct her if and when she took steps or went with the bird. My best option was to start using a check cord. Without it, she had the freedom to run. With it, I became the anchor. The bird would go, she’d go, and I’d hang on tight. That literally became the end of the line for her chasing. She self-corrected it. Typically, it took just a few times of running out of cord before she got smart to the routine. I could see her start to think through scenarios that, for so long, had her seeing red and reacting compulsively. She started transferring thoughts from her head, down to her feet, and the change in her behavior was changing the end result. I believe she thought it was all her idea. Every time she did it right, I remember thinking, “she’s starting to make good choices.”

Steadying on Wild Birds

After reliably standing birds out of the bag, I started whoaing her, upwind from a bird in a remote launcher. Every time I changed something; she’d revert back to old habits. It felt like we were starting all over again, at the bottom of the hill. The process repeated itself. Break, run out of check cord, get corrected. After a few reps, she’d start standing again. We did this daily for a few weeks. She’d face consequences and pressure for wrong decisions or receive praise and no pressure for the right decision. Both the good and bad were always predicated on her actions, and the verbal whoa went from boring obedience to stylish eager stops, anticipating the bird that was coming.

In time, her nose became a part of the equation, and we repeated the routine. I’d check cord her downwind and let her point the bird rather than being whoa’d to a stop. Notably challenging for her, this took longer to work through. I realized how powerful the smell of a bird was, both a blessing and a curse. For weeks, we did the same. Slowly taking steps forward that built understanding in her—and confidence in me. Eventually, I cut the 30-foot cord in half, and let it go for her to drag behind her. She was just under two years old at that point, but the amount of maturing that took place in that window of time was measurable.

Then came late August and, because of the calendar, our progression went from pigeons, that were starting to almost feel too easy and controlled, back to wild birds. We were going into her second season, and I had to decide. Keep “training” steadiness, or shelf it and focus on letting wild birds teach her how to be a bird dog. I opted for the latter, and we went back into the woods. “Wild birds will make her a bird dog,” they said. I’ve no argument there, but not before making her into a savage. It felt like we started all over again, only this time, at the base of a mountain, not just a hill. Where had all her training and progress gone? We had hunts where I left the woods so mad. Yet the next day, with cooler heads, we were back at it; towing that 15-feet of what I now called our “lifeline” through the woods. Without that cord, I couldn’t have done it. I figured out how to get within reach and tether her to a sapling before the bird flushed. Again, the self-correction managed to relay the same message from earlier training. It started to click with her, and I started to see some faint light at the end of the tunnel.

There’s been so much written about how it should be done, yet I’m still not convinced there will ever be an easy answer to “how do you get your dog steady?” It’s longer than there is room for in any book or magazine, and the ones who can answer it most completely took lifetimes worth of dogs to get there. Plenty of awkward, frustrating, discouraging, and inspiring moments have led me here. This is not intended to be a “how-to” column. Just an account of one man’s first attempt, slowly being written, and still unsure as to how the ending will read.

Now, she’s just under two and a half years old, and I ran her in her first shooting dog stake. We made it handily through the course and had two “broke finds” on woodcock. Graciously, the judge took me aside afterwards, and said, “she’s got fantastic style and bird manners for such a young age.” It was a good feeling, a powerful feeling, and another step towards the top of the mountain.