The Days Grow Short

When Kurt Weill and Maxwell Anderson wrote “September Song” for actor Walter Huston to sing in the 1938 musical “Knickerbocker Holiday,” it was a melancholy lamentation by a character facing his declining years who, “when the autumn weather, turns the leaves to flame” didn’t “have time for the waiting game.” The aura of the song paints a painful and bleak picture for September.

But for people who have hunting dogs and actually hunt with those dogs, September isn’t bleak, and the only pain is from muscles not yet in condition for long days in the field or the marsh. In fact, September is really the start of “prime time” for hunters and their dogs in the northern tier states and Canada. It’s a time of renewal, a time to revitalize relationships with hunting partners, the ones with two feet and the ones with four paws. It’s a time to say, “Forget sitting here staring at this screen, let’s go” to a dog or dogs who are instantly up on their toes and racing off to where all the good stuff — guns, ammunition, coats, boots, vests — is stored, dancing around, tails wagging, as they wait, not very patiently, for their human hunting partner to assemble the stuff needed for that day’s hunt.   

September often brings about a bit of sharpness in the wind that’s been missing all summer, reminding many wild creatures that the end of another season of plentiful food and comfortable temperatures is approaching. For waterfowl and many songbirds, that little edge on the wind is a warning that it will soon be time to head for more temperate zones. But for hunting breeds and their owners, it means it’s time to put aside all the training gear, pick up the shotgun or the rifle, grab the whistles and do what both the dogs and their human partners were meant to do at this time of the year, which is go hunting, whether it’s for birds or small game.

There are some folks who hunt without dogs and claim they don’t need them. They contend they aren’t missing one of the true pleasures of the hunt, indeed much of its essence, by not hunting with a dog. To those misguided individuals, I say “Bullfeathers,” although if I’m actually talking to one of them, it likely would be a slightly different and significantly more earthy, bovine-flavored oath. 

Frankly, I can’t believe any of those “don’t-need-a-dog-to-hunt” people have ever walked behind a good hunting dog doing its job. I’ll bet they’ve never felt the joy of seeing a dog find a crippled bird far from where it fell or watched a retriever taking directions on blind faith that its hunting partner knows where the bird fell when the dog didn’t see that fall. I’d be very surprised if any of them ever experienced the heart-stopping thrill of cresting a hill and seeing a fine dog locked on point or watched the windmilling tail of a good spaniel hot on the trail of a running pheasant. I’m equally certain they never enjoyed the howling and baying music of the chase along with the thrill of the pursuit when hounds struck a hot scent. 

People who hunt with dogs and the dogs they hunt with rarely have their fire for the chase dampened. Come autumn, it is this fire that is a better reason than most to get out of bed and watch the sun come up over a prairie wheat field, see a spread of decoys in the first gray light of dawn with the mists still rising from the marsh, hear the cackle of a pheasant rooster greeting the sunrise or the call of a bobwhite happy to have once again escaped the predations of a marauding coyote during the night. I say this as a confirmed night owl who, at other times of the year, tends to view early rising with all the enthusiasm of someone facing the prospect of a root canal without the benefit of novocaine. 

Hunters and their dogs share affection and a lot of understanding. Dogs never ask “why” — they just ask to go along. Animal behaviorists call this “bonding” and “socialization.” I think much better words are “love” and “trust.” Those unfortunates who hunt without a dog have clearly never seen a dog hunt as hard and aggressively as its lupine ancestors, even though it doesn’t have to worry about when or where it will get its next meal, then rest its muzzle on a knee come night and ask only to be touched and spoken to.

My current canine partner, like all his predecessors, is a “feel-good” dog, as in he makes me feel good. He’s a caring dog and he seems to understand everything I say. Family members shake their heads when I say that and give me a look that says if I haven’t completely taken leave of my senses, that day is not far off.  

There is something about spending time with a dog on wheat fields, in prairie marshes, on big water, in flooded timber, meandering through woodlots and on conservation-reserve program lands that provides a perfect staging area for a restoration of spirit, even among the most dispirited. It is, above all, a sensual rejuvenation during which you once again become aware of the texture and sound of frosted wheat stubble beneath your boots, the disorienting feeling of being enveloped in a sea of prairie darkness before the dawn restores your sight and sense of direction. It is a time to recognize and remember the heavy scent of cattails and other marsh vegetation so rich the smell almost becomes a taste. 

It is also a time to appreciate the absolutely breathtaking beauty of a sunrise or sunset, be it one on the prairie, the coastline, in the woods or in the mountains and to marvel at the brilliance of a starlit sky. After the guns are cleaned and put away for the day and the dogs, tired and well fed, are snoozing contentedly by the fireplace, you might wander out for a look at the night sky. It is a sky that is foreign to most city folk, unclouded by smog or urban lights, accompanied not by the rumble of traffic and the roar of jet aircraft, but — if you are lucky and on the prairie or in areas where wolves are still present — by the howled and yipped songs of the members of a coyote or wolf pack discussing their plans for that night’s hunt. It is life the way it was long ago.  

There is also a comfortable quiet about hunting where you can sit in the same blind for long periods of time when the birds are not flying with the same person and the same dog or walk next to or behind them for hours and feel no obligation to make conversation. There is no one to impress. Both your dogs and your hunting partners know virtually everything of any importance that there is to know about you, and they accept you for what you are, warts and all.

Hunting is also where you have license to stretch or even obliterate facts if by so doing you can improve the quality of a story. It is a place where someone who is a superb raconteur is as valuable as someone who is a superb shot. It is a place where fine whiskey or vintage wine and splendid dog work are viewed as a gifts from the gods. It is the perfect place for a spiritual rebirth. 

It has always been a source of amazement that hunting dogs are so willing to go against their embedded drives. They sit or stand still until sent, quietly run or swim out, pick up the bird, turn around and return to deliver it to hand without a trace of reluctance to give it up when the mindless instincts of millennia all tell the dog to bark and chase, run like hell after the bird, grab it and eat it on the spot. That the dogs do none of these things is what makes every retrieve a singular and truly incredible event. The wonder of a dog making a retrieve, be it waterfowl, upland birds or small game, is not just that they do it willingly, but that they do it at all. 

Quality dog work — whether it is a retriever chasing down a crippled and diving duck or goose, a pointer, setter, a Brittany or one of the other Continental breeds standing a pheasant or a quail covey as rigidly as any West Point or Annapolis plebe being braced by an upperclassman, a spaniel snuffling through the grass, nose down, every motion screaming “birds” or a hound in hot pursuit of a rabbit or a raccoon — is enchanting in its ritualized choreography of grace and beauty. It is the kind of work that adds the essential brush strokes to the unfinished canvas in a hunter’s mind’s eye.  

Hunting without a dog is like the proverbial day without sunshine. For people who hunt with their dogs, the work of the dogs is so important that it defines the sport. I’ve shared thousands of hours in the field with my dogs and countless days through the years. Every hunting trip, even if it was only for a couple of hours on my own farm, has been special, but some have been so special they linger in the memory like a passionate love affair, bittersweet reminders of yesterday. They are sweet because they happened and bitter because they ended.

So when the days grow short, think of September as not the end but rather the beginning of several months of pure enjoyment, watching and helping your hunting dogs do their breed’s historic work. To all of you who hunt with your retrievers, pointers, setters, spaniels, hounds or terriers, good luck and good hunting. For the duration of the fall hunting seasons, may the sign on your doors or your computers always read “Gone hunting.”