Woodrow’s Home
Posted on November 30, 2014 by bob in OffTheBeatenPath
“Sorry, but a couple wood ducks are not worth a 3 a.m. wake up,” they’d say when he’d ask. It was all the same to him, the invitation being obligatory anyway to appease his wife when she worried about him hunting alone.
“Couldn’t get anyone to go,” he’d respond.
But he wasn’t alone. He had the Lab, whose company he preferred to most people’s. Wintry Saturday mornings were spent shivering in the stillness of early morn, the pair of them sharing barely a square foot of cypress stump, hoping to see ducks. Should luck fly their way, the double-stacked Browning would go to work.
Their perch was nearly bark-less, shredded in that way only a dog desperately grasping for purchase before blastoff can do. He had watched her launch fearless into the black muck after countless fallen fowl, glad that was her task in the partnership.
The air was crisp, a light fog settling over the water. Save for the occasional tail splash of a beaver or hoot of an owl, there was only the familiar silence of the swamp. This was Woodrow’s home.
They’d hiked in long before dawn and he knew the warm dampness beneath his waders would turn cool just before the first birds came. He always allowed himself a small indulgence of hot coffee, to fend off the chill, before breaking the Browning over his right knee and filling the chambers. She watched him patiently. Knowledge of his routine was the only tool by which the Lab could measure time, anticipating every step in the process, knowing each one brought her that much closer.
She always heard the wing beats long before he would see their silhouettes zipping through the bare treetops and take aim. Scanning the moonlit sky above, she rested, but at the ready.
It amused him how she sprung to attention at the “click” of his safety. He sometimes did it just to make sure she was paying attention, which she always was. After all, this was what she lived for. Patting her head, their eyes met, and without any sign between them, both knew it would begin soon.
Her eyes broke left, tracking something not yet visible through the trees. She let out a soft whine, he hearing only her whimper and knowing exactly what it meant. He reached for the Browning as two ducks came in high and fast. As they passed directly overhead he let loose with both barrels, nearly falling off the stump, coffee and shells spilling everywhere.
BOOM! BOOM!
And then, nothing. She sighed, shoulders slumped in disappointment. He dared not look at her, better instead to pretend the two misses hadn’t happened and beg her forgiveness later.
Behind them, two splashes broke the silence. She spun around before he could turn his head, crouched like a swimmer waiting for the gun, claws firmly dug into the stump face. When he gave the word, she would be off like a four-legged rocket through the swamp. It was the moment for which they’d risen so early, for which they’d trudged through bramble and mire in the dark. He wished to savor every second, but she could hardly contain herself.
“Back,” he whispered, the “ck” still on his tongue when she hit the water, steady strokes cutting a long, deep wake toward the barely visible pair of dark shapes floating still in the broken fog. “Drive,” they call it; a dog is either born with it or it isn’t, and she had it in spades. While training can hone and focus, there’s no way to build without a solid foundation.
She returned with the first bird, a drake, placed it in his hand, and went back for the other without further instruction. He hoped it too was a drake, realizing he’d fired excitedly without first making out the birds. As she swam closer, he squinted intently, saw the white chinstrap of a wood duck drake, and felt relief.
They settled onto the stump, back to back, smiling in their own ways and ready for the next flight. After half an hour without even a merganser to show for it, he laid the shotgun across his lap and was reaching for the thermos when a single “quack” turned them both to stone.
Two sets of eyes – human and canine – followed the pair of mallards until they showed tail feathers. He pulled the call to his lips and uttered three soft, distinct notes.
“Quack … quack … quack.”
The ducks turned, interested. They circled the naked trees surrounding the water hole, just out of range, before heading off on their original course.
“Quaaaack, quack, quack, quack, quack,” went the call. The ducks turned back once more to investigate, this time found the wind to their liking, dropped their landing gear and descended. Had they even seen him or the dog it wouldn’t have mattered, for there’d have been no time to react. The Browning barked twice and the ducks hit the water, skipping like stones to within a few feet.
At his command, she did what she was born to do, and two plump mallards joined the wood ducks on his game strap. Laying the shotgun across his lap, he settled back on the worn stump to finally enjoy that cup of coffee, scratching her ears with the other hand. This was Woodrow’s home, but it was theirs just the same.
Niko Corley, a licensed charter boat captain, spends as much of his free time as possible on the water or in the woods. He can be contacted at niko.corley@gmail.com.
