I ended up in Bird Dog School out of desperation. It wasn’t to train a bird dog but to teach me. I had not absorbed life’s great lessons, despite the efforts of two parents, two spouses, teachers, multiple clergy, and a few friends. Other people had taught me well, but mostly about greed, envy, lust, selfishness, and deceit. While in my early fifties, I began upland bird hunting and my time in Bird Dog School. I learned far more there in far less time than I had in my formal education.

Veteran hunters introduced me to the alchemy of combining birds, shotguns, and dogs, where the mixture of ordinary elements creates precious metal. For years, I hunted behind dogs I knew and those I didn’t. Some were good, some were not; one bought for a five-dollar bill, while others cost five hundred times that amount. The dogs were poodle, small and pony large, mixed and pure breeds, ugly and beautiful. But all of the bird dogs taught me, and I discovered important truths from a few.

Talk to a dog lover. Not just those with bird dogs, but those with any dog. You will hear that they admire their dogs more than anyone, except maybe Jesus, the Pope, or Michael Jordan. Darwin could not have been right, as we learn far more good from pea-brained dogs than we do from politicians, sports heroes, and evangelists.

These are the bird dogs that taught me the most.

Putter (Appearances deceive)

Putter was Steve’s used bird dog that once belonged to a golfer. The dog’s name doomed him. A sinewy-strong, handsome Pointer, Putter was mostly white with chocolate markings. He did not appear to be worthless and seemed to be aware of bird hunting basics. He pointed, birds flew, we shot. But Putter proved to be a series of motions in search of a purpose.

My first lesson with Putter came after a hard morning hunt, when he had wandered through the cactus and scrub pine, nose down, not pointing a single quail. But, good dogs do have bad days. As Lee and I sat on the truck’s tailgate, Putter dashed a hundred yards down a dirt road, then he dust-skidded and froze at the base of a huge, eight-foot cactus. Prettiest point I had ever seen!

“Do you see that?” Lee asked, easing off the truck gate and loading his shotgun.

“Yep,” I replied, shoving off the gate as I fumbled for shells in my jacket. Our guide Bobby grabbed my arm and slowly shook his head no, just beyond Lee’s peripheral vision.

“You coming?”

“No. Too far away.”

Lee sprinted to the point. Breathless and heaving, he arrived just as Putter broke off and sauntered back to the truck. Lee believed Putter when he was on point, but now didn’t, so he kicked through the massive cactus, spit-cussing words as sharp as cactus barbs. No birds flushed. Lee followed Putter back to the truck.

“What the hell was that all about?” Lee asked.

“Does it every time. Putter hates to get back in the dog box, so he always runs off to point ghost birds when I tell him to load up,” Bobby said.

“Why didn’t you tell me that?”

“You didn’t ask, and you looked to me like you could use the exercise.”

Steve, Bobby, and I were laughing. Lee wasn’t. Putter turned away from Lee, just as a broad grin climbed across the dog’s face.

Putter chose an escarpment on the Svenson ranch in West Texas for another lecture. The escarpment is a hundred-acre, high desert plateau with a 360-degree view of a thousand-acre valley below. Painted with hues of red and brown, it is shadowed by pale, dusty greens from low brush and cactus. Once you see it, you know it will always dwell inside your head in a lonely, lingering way. It is like the beautiful woman who once smiled as she passed you on the street, and who now lives forever in your dreams, as if she was the one chance you ever had to be truly happy.

During the dusk dark of the evening hunt, Putter wandered off the escarpment. Not critical to the team, no one missed him until he was well down the side of a steep, red bank. He seemed to be headed to the valley below, possibly thinking that Lee would follow for miles if his points were perfect and firm. Bobby was momentarily distracted by disbelief as he watched Lee and me miss easy shots, bird after bird. So, Steve hobbled off to find his dog. Lee and I finished embarrassing ourselves by missing every single bird in a massive covey the size of the Japanese fleet that bombed Pearl Harbor. Hat off in surrender, Bobby retreated in disgust and went off to help Steve retrieve his dog. It was a simple math equation; Bobby calculating that it was easier to corral one errant dog than it was to correct the infinite shooting errors of two bumbling hunters.

As Bobby cussed-walked his way across the escarpment, Lee and I could faintly hear Steve calling for his dog. “Putter, oh Putter. . ..” He had become Doris Day – a lilting voice singing from a hillside in one of those sappy movies of the fifties. Halfway down the rust-colored hill, Bobby rescued Steve from his pointless effort to get his pointless bird dog. Putter and Steve followed Bobby back to the truck, where we promptly loaded up to return to the ranch trailer. Putter didn’t even feign a false point, as even he was tired of faking it after this long day.

In these and all the days I suffered through hunting with that dog, I generously recall him pointing a few birds. He was only partially what he was; just a dog, not a bird dog. Putter taught me that although all of us fake it sometimes, some of us fake it all of the time. He showed me that looks and appearances deceive. That delayed lesson could have saved me from my first marriage, my first career, and enough money squandered on facades to buy a matched pair of English double shotguns.

Susie (Lead by example)

Susie was not Russ’s dog but belonged to his friend, who had entrusted Russ to hunt her for a season on the Pitchfork Ranch in West Texas. As a bird dog, she was at first unremarkable, a very small three-year-old female with a pale yellow color. But she hunted beautifully, in a perfect zigzag at the right distance from hunters. She frequently pointed birds and stayed with us through many missed shots, her devotion to the task more important than the result. Meager shooting and squandered chances were forgiven, as her loyalty was an unconditional gift. Then, in the late afternoon, she suddenly disappeared among arroyos and plateaus.

“Russ, I haven’t seen that small female for a while, have you?” I asked.

Russ did not answer, but took his cowboy hat and wiped his brow as if to remove the worry lines caused by my question. He called for Susie and walked back and forth in front of our mule, like a dog tethered to a pole.

We all climbed down and mimed Russ, walking back and forth while calling the dog’s name. No Susie.

“We’ll just keep hunting,” Russ said, pacing to the back of the truck to release a fresh dog from the boxes.

Poked by this moral dilemma, Keith, Adam, and I began to fidget. Simple right and wrong will make you fidget every time. It was wrong to leave the dog. We all knew it. Russ knew it too, but he was the paid guide and we were the hunters.

“We’ll look for the dog,” all three of us said. We split into teams and searched for Susie until sundown. No dog. We had to leave. As we did, Russ found a worn shirt bearing his scent and tied it to a fence post, saying that the dog might return to where we started and stay at the scent.

We rode a few miles in a purple, dark silence interrupted when Russ made a call on his cell phone. It was to Susie’s owner. We couldn’t be polite and pretend not to listen, so we absorbed the pain right along with Russ. Susie’s owner had been offered four thousand dollars for her a few weeks back. Russ’ summer take from guiding the Pitchfork was twenty-five hundred dollars, which he offered the owner. With the phone shut, Russ withdrew into the loneliness of the quiet Texas prairie night. We followed. We arrived at the dog lot and Russ slumped out of the truck to unload the dogs and feed them. With Russ gone, we spoke words meant to pry him out from his rock and hard place. The words did not work.

When Russ returned, we once again resumed mourning as we rode back to the cook shack. Short of a hunter errantly shooting a bird dog, there is nothing that hinders dinner conversation more than a lost dog. So, more silence became our meal. Russ did not eat the silence, as he was fasting in an effort to salvage Susie. Russ left during the wake, telling us he was going back to the shirt tied to the fence post. We all offered to go, but Russ wanted to do it alone, as there are some ordeals in life that cannot be accompanied. We talked about the hope that Russ would find Susie, in a Texas wasteland suitable for quail, hogs, and coyotes, but not for a lone, small pointer. We feared that the coyotes would become her pallbearers.

An hour later, Russ returned. He had found Susie, curled up below the scented shirt that was tied to the fence post. Old wisdom is polished by every generation that guards it and passes it on, and this piece shined. The shirt had worked. That night, I got into bed to sleep alone but found Susie roaming through my head. I rewound the hunt and watched it again, seeing far more than I had the first time. I could see her relentlessly searching for birds, sacrificing for us, returning to the truck only for water, and refusing to relinquish her turn to hunt. Susie’s efforts made ours better, and missed birds were transformed into clean shots. She could not speak words, so she pushed us with her example.

Susie taught me to judge others by what I see them do, not by what they say they do. She taught that leadership is sacrificing yourself, not demanding sacrifice from others. Whether it is in a family, at a job, with friends, or among strangers, this dog’s example was that we follow the selfless, not the selfish.

Gunner (Determination counts)

Gunner worked at “Smoking Gun,” a commercial bird hunting operation in Illinois. Except for Gunner, “Smoking Gun” was one of a thousand twins, as it resembled just about every other penned bird hunting club in America.

I never knew exactly who owned Gunner, as all of the guides claimed him. He was a Vizla, a large dachshund-like breed, but Gunner was a stunted version. He was as likely to be a bird dog as I am to consistently shoot doubles with a side-by-side. Short legs, a gray-brown coat, and a permanent grin marked Gunner. When he appeared on the hunting field, I thought a neighboring farmer had lost his house pet. But no one else commented, so I realized Gunner belonged with us.

Gunner fell in just ahead of me and disappeared into corn rows.

He was invisible, except the corn stalks rustled and swayed when the little dog pivoted and turned, nosing bird scent amidst the stalks. Suddenly, the corn was silent, and the stillness whispered that Gunner was on point. A cock pheasant exploded the calm, cackling as it flew straight away, ten yards ahead of me. I squeezed the trigger and cleanly missed the bird with both barrels. The bird escaped as Gunner appeared from the corn. Just beyond the cover, the little dog circled his head and stared at me, then looked in the bird’s direction, then turned back and stared again. I could have sworn he was shaking his head, as my mom often did when disciplining me and my brother. So, I did what my mother had taught me. I looked down at my shoes and shuffled them, trying once more to disappear from that scolding gaze.

Soon, Gunner froze again, pointing straight ahead at some saw grass hiding quail that were planted for our hunt. A covey of five flurried, and we dropped two of them. Gunner retrieved both, took them to the guide, and then—I swear—ran toward me as fast as his small legs could carry him. The little dog circled me from left to right, stopping at my right. He then pressed his body up against my leg, rubbing back and forth. I was being praised for my good shot, pardoned for my earlier bad one! Reward and punishment continued throughout the day, as Gunner rubbed against me every time I managed a good shot, and glared at me when I made a bad one.

Gunner’s lesson was that drive and determination triumph over heredity and talent—most of the time. You have to work at drive and determination, so they are appreciated; while heredity and talent are just luck, and are thus easily squandered. Gunner also taught me that encouragement and discipline matter, as we all need both. He applauded and chastised my good and bad shooting, in a perfect rhythm that made my efforts more rewarding.

Georgia (Life is short; have fun)

Georgia belongs to Gooch Milam, my eccentric bird-hunting friend who tolerates me when he and his best friends, his four bird dogs, go hunting. In her youth, Georgia spent her time learning cuss words, as a solid string of them frequently followed most of what she did. Pointing birds, honoring the point of another dog, and hunting anywhere near hunters were of no interest to her. Out of the dog box meant a time for adventure, not for training. So, Georgia often escaped and roamed the woods far away, exploring everything but quail habitat. She would eventually return, usually about the time Gooch’s face took the odd hue of blue/red, from expanded veins and rushing blood.

She tolerated her scoldings like a sixth-grade boy caught shoving a frog down a little girl’s dress, with little remorse because those watching were secretly enjoying. The idea of quail as our single focus made no sense to her because there were so many other animals and scents to follow. When we tied a rope to her to gain a measure of control, it just meant rope burns for the holder or a short ski ride. Life itself and the outdoors were intoxicating to Georgia, and so the sobriety of a disciplined quail hunt was just not her kind of party.

On one hunt, Gooch and I had mistakenly tried to train both Georgia and her brother, Riley. As soon as possible, Georgia evaporated as she bounded into deep brush. She was gone long enough that Gooch, Riley, and I began to worry that she might not return. So, Gooch went off in the truck to find her after tethering me to Riley. Riley and I continued our lessons. After about forty-five minutes, we saw Georgia explode from the woods a half mile away, with Gooch in hot pursuit. Georgia easily outran the truck and sprinted towards us just about the time Riley froze over a covey of quail. I restrained him and yelled “whoa” at her. He held and she didn’t, so she ran right into his covey, scattering every single bird. Everyone looked at each other for an explanation of what the hell had just happened, except Georgia, who was quite pleased with all the excitement and fun.

That night, she got lectures from Gooch, Riley, and me while she cocked her head sideways to look at large beetles and other bugs swirling around the street light outside our motel. Years later, Georgia became a great bird dog, but never lost her sense of humor or wonder for God’s great planet. She taught me that droning through life doing what everyone expects leads to dull years that become decades ending in total disappointment with the whole affair. Georgia’s lesson was that having fun is an end in itself, regardless of what others will tell you.

So if you find yourself confused about life’s lessons, going deaf from voices straining to tell you their version of truth, quit listening. Find a dog, just about any dog, and watch. Pay attention. See how they treat others; learn their secrets. If you are as lost as I was, find a bird dog and follow. Put a shotgun on your shoulder and walk behind the dog. Walk as long as it takes for you to learn the great lessons of life.