Brisketexan
1,000+ Posts
Toby was my chocolate lab -- she turned 13 in April. This was after her first bird season of full retirement -- for the first time in over 10 years, she did not retrieve a single duck or dove. Honestly, without her company, I only hunted a couple of times myself, and came home empty-handed both times. It just wasn't the same hunting without her there beside me.
My wife gave me Toby as a law school graduation gift in the summer of 95. She trained with Harlen Winter later that year, and became a solid hunting dog -- and a great hunting companion. She wasn't a prize-winner in a field trial or anything, and didn't always do everything by the book, but man -- she LOVED going out and getting her some birds. By my count, she retreived a couple thousand doves, and easily a thousand ducks (I often hunted with friends, and she would retreive all of our birds). She would get excited if I even pulled the gun case out of the closet -- she never understood me cleaning the gun (why would you get a gun out and then NOT go hunting?) If you wanted to get her dancing around the house, just ask her "wanna go get some BIRDS? Do you want some BIRDS?" She'd do flips.
When I walked out into the living room at 5:00 a.m., she would wake up, ready to go -- she knew the routine. Hell, she knew the route to our bird lease by memory in the dark, and when we were almost there, she'd start pacing and whining in the back seat. She'd get so worked up that she'd start ripping farts in the cab, and then as soon as we parked and I let her out, she'd take an enormous dump . . . . right next to my door.
Some great memories:
-- the weekend-long dove hunt in Concan in September with 12 other guys, where Toby was the only dog. I made everyone carry an extra bottle of water for her -- she had learned how to drink from a squeeze bottle during her first hunting season. She retreived probably 200 dove that weekend alone. When a bird would fall on the other side of one barbed wire fence, we would hoist her over, plop her on the ground, and send her off. When she came back, we'd raise the bottom wire and pull her through. That's also the trip where she made perhaps the most spectacular retreive of her life.
A friend and I were hunting a recently plowed field the first morning, with deep and broad furrows in the dirt. I shot a single dove but, as was often the case, it wasn't a perfect shot. The dove glided down about 50 yards away. I sent Toby -- she sprinted (full-bore -- that's the way to go get birds). Right before she got there, the wounded dove fluttered up and began flying away limply, about 5-6 feet off the ground. It was too low, and too close to Toby, for me to try a follow-up shot. Toby tore off after the bird, running cross-ways over the furrows at full speed, slowly gaining on the dove. At one point, Toby mis-timed her jump and did a face-plant into a furrow. She just rolled with it, bounced back to her feet, and kept running. 100 yards away. 150 yards. At about 175 yards, she was getting close to the still-flying dove. Just as I was thinking "that bird is GONE," Toby leaped several feet forward and the full 5-6 feet in the air, snatching the bird from mid-air. She then began her long, and proud, trot back to us. When she got to me and I took the bird from her, praising her, she looked at me with feigned indifference, as if to say "that's what I'm supposed to do." But my buddy and I both cracked up as we watched her tail wagging like hell -- she was pretty damned pleased with herself.
That afternoon, she retrieved easily 120 birds for the group. When we got to the cabin, she flopped onto her side on the cool tile floor and crapped out. I kenneled her that night, and when we got up for the next morning hunt, she staggered out, looking like her whole side was paralyzed. I thought "oh crap, she's had a stroke" -- then, after a minute of her walking it off, I realized that she was just tired and sore. But man, was she happy.
-- Duck hunting -- her love was really duck hunting. We had some great seasons together -- one year, she retrieved probably 300 ducks, and loved every second of it. I remember her first real cold weather hunt. It was about 15 degrees. As soon as she'd get out of the pond, the water on her coat would freeze, leaving her looking like a shivering Cocoa Puff. Of course, when I told my wife about it, nothing would do but to get the dog a neoprene vest. To be fair, that vest did help a lot in later years, keeping her warm and the ice off of most of her coat.
She learned to chase the wounded diving ducks. Frustrated from swimming after them, only to have them go under at the last second, she figured out that she could dive too. I always got a kick out of the look on a buddy's face the first time they saw Toby go under completely, then come up a few seconds later with a duck in her mouth, as if she was saying "there -- got the sumbitch."
She was REALLY pissed the season that she cut her foot so badly that it had to be bandaged, and she was sidelined for 4 weeks in the heart of duck season. That dog wanted to get off the bench and play, and she wanted it bad. I actually went hunting without her a couple of times during that period. She pouted for days afterwards.
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Really, what made her a great dog as much as the retrieves was the companionship. She'd go out and paddle in the water while we set up the dekes. She'd then sit next to us, farting in the mud (man, THAT makes a helluva sound) the whole time. She had a keener eye than I did -- I didn't really have to look for ducks at all. I just had to watch Toby. As soon as her breathing changed rhythm and her eyes locked onto something, I could just follow her gaze and find the far-off flight, inevitably heading our way. She'd stay locked onto them as they came in -- and she would get REALLY pissed if she heard 6 shots and not a bird fell. She always got to carry a duck back to the truck -- it was part of her routine. And she wouldn't just walk -- she'd prance, proud as hell.
In her later years, we realized that she'd gone completely deaf. She still hunted well, but she'd hang closer to us because she couldn't hear us, so she had to make sure we were in visual range. Then, the joints began to go, and her recovery periods after a hunt would take longer and longer. Eventually, season before last, the vet told us that she needed to hang up her hunting boots. Well, I told him that I wouldn't take her on any hard or hot hunts, but she'd still go on an easy hunt or two. And she did. She went on one last duck hunt with me, a buddy, and my buddy's young lab. We only dropped one duck that day. My buddy's lab went out into the water, but couldn't seem to get a handle on the bird. Toby was laying next to me (not sitting -- laying). I tapped her on the shoulder. She looked up at me with a "you want me to handle this one?" look. I put my hand over her head and swung it forward -- "Back!" She got to her feet and walked (not leaped) into the pond, swam out to the duck, grabbed it, and swam back to me, delivering it to hand like she'd done thousands of times before. She layed back down with a sigh, as if to say "there, that should do it."
My kids have never known a home without a Toby. And, once Toby retired from hunting, she became my daughter's dog. Toby couldn't sleep in her kennel or under our bed anymore (her joints wouldn't do it). So, every night, my daughter would pull out her trundle bed, and Toby would hop on to sleep. They were constant companions the last couple of years -- my daughter took care of her, and she was her near-constant companion. But Toby's joints were getting worse all the time. She was in pain -- real pain, by the end. Eventually, she couldn't get up one day. It took her several hours to get to her feet.
We took her in to our Vet -- Dr. Hanks, at West Lynn, who has known Toby her whole life, and took great care of her through it all, and helped extend her life and the quality thereof at the end. I had hoped that we were takingher in to find out what we could do to help her out -- maybe a new pain medication or something. We even left the kids at home, explaining that we were going to take Toby to the vet, but we'd be back. But in the back of my mind, I feared that we were at the end of what we could -- and should -- do for her.
Gently, Dr. Hanks confirmed my fears. She's done, guys. He explained: "Toby's a working dog. She's always had a job to do. For 10 years, that job was getting birds. Then, she had the job of keeping an eye on the kids. But she can't even do that job anymore. She's proud -- she's so proud. And now, she can't do what she was born to do -- work. And it's killing her. The spark is gone, and I know you can see it too. I told you that I'd do everything I could to help her until she lost that spark -- and she's lost it."
We left Toby at the vet, and went home to get the kids. When we walked in the door without the dog, my daughter's eyes got wide -- "WHERE'S TOBY!" I kneeled down in front of her and started to explain that it was time. She fought it as hard as she could -- "NO -- we're supposed to go out to dinner tonight! Bring her home, and we'll go out to dinner!" I explained that Toby was hurting -- she was hurting so bad, and it was time for her to go to God. And then my daughter, weeping and desperate, cried out "You CAN'T. You CAN'T. SHE'S MY BEST FRIEND!" I said "I know -- she's mine too" -- and we cried together. Goddamit, that broke my freaking heart. I then told her that we had to go. She cried the whole way to the vet. Her brother seemed oblivious. That would change.
We got to the vet, and Toby was already in the back. They had the injection ready. The whole family went in to say goodbye. My daughter hugged her. She hugged her so tight. And then my son broke into tears, and reached out to hug her. And then they had to leave. I stayed with her. I was going to stay with her till the end. For as many times as she'd stood by my side, I sure as hell owed her that.
I held her and comforted her as they got the needle into her old, weak veins. They pushed the plunger down, and then gently laid her on the table, waiting for the drugs to take effect. I cradled her head in my hands, scratching under her chin, as she so loved for me to do, the whole time. And I talked to her, right into her ear. "You've had a good life -- and you are SO loved. There were SO many birds -- SO many birds."
The vet turned to me. "She's gone. And the last word she heard you say was "Birds." I didn't answer. I couldn't. I just buried my face in hers and wept. Big ole sobs. I went out in the waiting room and told them "she's gone." And we all cried again.
My kids went to sleep in our bed the next couple of nights, together -- they couldn't bear to be alone.
Since then, we've talked about how good it was that Toby essentially had 3 lives -- (1) the life of an "only dog," spoiled rotten before we had kids, (2) the life of a hunting dog -- and she lived it well, and (3) the companion to kids who loved her, and who she looked out for. All 3 of those lives were fantastic. She had a great life.
That was in mid-May. I still hear the click-click-click of her toenails on our wood floor, even now. I still walk through the house, making up silly songs and subbing her name into them, as I'd done for 13 years. I still walk into my daughter's room, where she still pulls the trundle out, every night. It's empty. I still miss her.
There will be another dog someday. Probably someday soon. But there will never be another Toby. She was a good dog. She was a great goddamned dog.
My wife gave me Toby as a law school graduation gift in the summer of 95. She trained with Harlen Winter later that year, and became a solid hunting dog -- and a great hunting companion. She wasn't a prize-winner in a field trial or anything, and didn't always do everything by the book, but man -- she LOVED going out and getting her some birds. By my count, she retreived a couple thousand doves, and easily a thousand ducks (I often hunted with friends, and she would retreive all of our birds). She would get excited if I even pulled the gun case out of the closet -- she never understood me cleaning the gun (why would you get a gun out and then NOT go hunting?) If you wanted to get her dancing around the house, just ask her "wanna go get some BIRDS? Do you want some BIRDS?" She'd do flips.
When I walked out into the living room at 5:00 a.m., she would wake up, ready to go -- she knew the routine. Hell, she knew the route to our bird lease by memory in the dark, and when we were almost there, she'd start pacing and whining in the back seat. She'd get so worked up that she'd start ripping farts in the cab, and then as soon as we parked and I let her out, she'd take an enormous dump . . . . right next to my door.
Some great memories:
-- the weekend-long dove hunt in Concan in September with 12 other guys, where Toby was the only dog. I made everyone carry an extra bottle of water for her -- she had learned how to drink from a squeeze bottle during her first hunting season. She retreived probably 200 dove that weekend alone. When a bird would fall on the other side of one barbed wire fence, we would hoist her over, plop her on the ground, and send her off. When she came back, we'd raise the bottom wire and pull her through. That's also the trip where she made perhaps the most spectacular retreive of her life.
A friend and I were hunting a recently plowed field the first morning, with deep and broad furrows in the dirt. I shot a single dove but, as was often the case, it wasn't a perfect shot. The dove glided down about 50 yards away. I sent Toby -- she sprinted (full-bore -- that's the way to go get birds). Right before she got there, the wounded dove fluttered up and began flying away limply, about 5-6 feet off the ground. It was too low, and too close to Toby, for me to try a follow-up shot. Toby tore off after the bird, running cross-ways over the furrows at full speed, slowly gaining on the dove. At one point, Toby mis-timed her jump and did a face-plant into a furrow. She just rolled with it, bounced back to her feet, and kept running. 100 yards away. 150 yards. At about 175 yards, she was getting close to the still-flying dove. Just as I was thinking "that bird is GONE," Toby leaped several feet forward and the full 5-6 feet in the air, snatching the bird from mid-air. She then began her long, and proud, trot back to us. When she got to me and I took the bird from her, praising her, she looked at me with feigned indifference, as if to say "that's what I'm supposed to do." But my buddy and I both cracked up as we watched her tail wagging like hell -- she was pretty damned pleased with herself.
That afternoon, she retrieved easily 120 birds for the group. When we got to the cabin, she flopped onto her side on the cool tile floor and crapped out. I kenneled her that night, and when we got up for the next morning hunt, she staggered out, looking like her whole side was paralyzed. I thought "oh crap, she's had a stroke" -- then, after a minute of her walking it off, I realized that she was just tired and sore. But man, was she happy.
-- Duck hunting -- her love was really duck hunting. We had some great seasons together -- one year, she retrieved probably 300 ducks, and loved every second of it. I remember her first real cold weather hunt. It was about 15 degrees. As soon as she'd get out of the pond, the water on her coat would freeze, leaving her looking like a shivering Cocoa Puff. Of course, when I told my wife about it, nothing would do but to get the dog a neoprene vest. To be fair, that vest did help a lot in later years, keeping her warm and the ice off of most of her coat.
She learned to chase the wounded diving ducks. Frustrated from swimming after them, only to have them go under at the last second, she figured out that she could dive too. I always got a kick out of the look on a buddy's face the first time they saw Toby go under completely, then come up a few seconds later with a duck in her mouth, as if she was saying "there -- got the sumbitch."
She was REALLY pissed the season that she cut her foot so badly that it had to be bandaged, and she was sidelined for 4 weeks in the heart of duck season. That dog wanted to get off the bench and play, and she wanted it bad. I actually went hunting without her a couple of times during that period. She pouted for days afterwards.
-------------
Really, what made her a great dog as much as the retrieves was the companionship. She'd go out and paddle in the water while we set up the dekes. She'd then sit next to us, farting in the mud (man, THAT makes a helluva sound) the whole time. She had a keener eye than I did -- I didn't really have to look for ducks at all. I just had to watch Toby. As soon as her breathing changed rhythm and her eyes locked onto something, I could just follow her gaze and find the far-off flight, inevitably heading our way. She'd stay locked onto them as they came in -- and she would get REALLY pissed if she heard 6 shots and not a bird fell. She always got to carry a duck back to the truck -- it was part of her routine. And she wouldn't just walk -- she'd prance, proud as hell.
In her later years, we realized that she'd gone completely deaf. She still hunted well, but she'd hang closer to us because she couldn't hear us, so she had to make sure we were in visual range. Then, the joints began to go, and her recovery periods after a hunt would take longer and longer. Eventually, season before last, the vet told us that she needed to hang up her hunting boots. Well, I told him that I wouldn't take her on any hard or hot hunts, but she'd still go on an easy hunt or two. And she did. She went on one last duck hunt with me, a buddy, and my buddy's young lab. We only dropped one duck that day. My buddy's lab went out into the water, but couldn't seem to get a handle on the bird. Toby was laying next to me (not sitting -- laying). I tapped her on the shoulder. She looked up at me with a "you want me to handle this one?" look. I put my hand over her head and swung it forward -- "Back!" She got to her feet and walked (not leaped) into the pond, swam out to the duck, grabbed it, and swam back to me, delivering it to hand like she'd done thousands of times before. She layed back down with a sigh, as if to say "there, that should do it."
My kids have never known a home without a Toby. And, once Toby retired from hunting, she became my daughter's dog. Toby couldn't sleep in her kennel or under our bed anymore (her joints wouldn't do it). So, every night, my daughter would pull out her trundle bed, and Toby would hop on to sleep. They were constant companions the last couple of years -- my daughter took care of her, and she was her near-constant companion. But Toby's joints were getting worse all the time. She was in pain -- real pain, by the end. Eventually, she couldn't get up one day. It took her several hours to get to her feet.
We took her in to our Vet -- Dr. Hanks, at West Lynn, who has known Toby her whole life, and took great care of her through it all, and helped extend her life and the quality thereof at the end. I had hoped that we were takingher in to find out what we could do to help her out -- maybe a new pain medication or something. We even left the kids at home, explaining that we were going to take Toby to the vet, but we'd be back. But in the back of my mind, I feared that we were at the end of what we could -- and should -- do for her.
Gently, Dr. Hanks confirmed my fears. She's done, guys. He explained: "Toby's a working dog. She's always had a job to do. For 10 years, that job was getting birds. Then, she had the job of keeping an eye on the kids. But she can't even do that job anymore. She's proud -- she's so proud. And now, she can't do what she was born to do -- work. And it's killing her. The spark is gone, and I know you can see it too. I told you that I'd do everything I could to help her until she lost that spark -- and she's lost it."
We left Toby at the vet, and went home to get the kids. When we walked in the door without the dog, my daughter's eyes got wide -- "WHERE'S TOBY!" I kneeled down in front of her and started to explain that it was time. She fought it as hard as she could -- "NO -- we're supposed to go out to dinner tonight! Bring her home, and we'll go out to dinner!" I explained that Toby was hurting -- she was hurting so bad, and it was time for her to go to God. And then my daughter, weeping and desperate, cried out "You CAN'T. You CAN'T. SHE'S MY BEST FRIEND!" I said "I know -- she's mine too" -- and we cried together. Goddamit, that broke my freaking heart. I then told her that we had to go. She cried the whole way to the vet. Her brother seemed oblivious. That would change.
We got to the vet, and Toby was already in the back. They had the injection ready. The whole family went in to say goodbye. My daughter hugged her. She hugged her so tight. And then my son broke into tears, and reached out to hug her. And then they had to leave. I stayed with her. I was going to stay with her till the end. For as many times as she'd stood by my side, I sure as hell owed her that.
I held her and comforted her as they got the needle into her old, weak veins. They pushed the plunger down, and then gently laid her on the table, waiting for the drugs to take effect. I cradled her head in my hands, scratching under her chin, as she so loved for me to do, the whole time. And I talked to her, right into her ear. "You've had a good life -- and you are SO loved. There were SO many birds -- SO many birds."
The vet turned to me. "She's gone. And the last word she heard you say was "Birds." I didn't answer. I couldn't. I just buried my face in hers and wept. Big ole sobs. I went out in the waiting room and told them "she's gone." And we all cried again.
My kids went to sleep in our bed the next couple of nights, together -- they couldn't bear to be alone.
Since then, we've talked about how good it was that Toby essentially had 3 lives -- (1) the life of an "only dog," spoiled rotten before we had kids, (2) the life of a hunting dog -- and she lived it well, and (3) the companion to kids who loved her, and who she looked out for. All 3 of those lives were fantastic. She had a great life.
That was in mid-May. I still hear the click-click-click of her toenails on our wood floor, even now. I still walk through the house, making up silly songs and subbing her name into them, as I'd done for 13 years. I still walk into my daughter's room, where she still pulls the trundle out, every night. It's empty. I still miss her.
There will be another dog someday. Probably someday soon. But there will never be another Toby. She was a good dog. She was a great goddamned dog.