The New Bird Dog, Can He Hunt? [Reader Post]

My best friend Knarley Manners, pulled into the yard with his latest used Chevy pickup, most were at least twenty years old with a short lease on life, with Knarley putting them through bog holes and crossing rivers just, “to see what they could do”; this time he had an aluminum boat and a Chesapeake in the back.  He was pretty excited and pulled into the yard a little fast bouncing the boat and dog over my yard moguls.  I walked over to see what all the excitement was about, once the load had come to rest.

Knarley was really excited and Knarley wasn’t the type to get excited, whether it was a charging Grizzly or a Mountain Lion in the meat locker, Knarley was known for remaining cool and detached.

“What’s going on Knarley?  Is that a new dog?”

“Yea, I got me a new dog and he’s a good’un.  Get your shotgun, were goin goose huntin.”

Knarley and I were not goose hunters, we never hunted birds except for grouse and ptarmigan while camped in the mountains and that was more like going to the hen house for chicken.  There was so much big game in the area, hunting for ducks and geese seemed to be a waste of time.  Besides after facing the Grizzly at close quarters, everything else was pretty much an imitation of hunting, but goose hunting?  Oh well, Knarley had something up his sleeve and his practical jokes, although creative, were sometimes downright mean.

“I don’t know Knarley, I was going to take my black powder rifle and try to get that old mule deer up on the hill.”

“Get your damn shotgun.  This is important.”

Now, Knarley was religious, being a Jehova’s Witness and all, so if he was up to swearing, he probably had something important to show me.

“How’s the outboard running?”

“It’s running great, I just rebuilt it a couple of nights ago, don’t worry about the motor.”

I walked in the ranch house and picked up my dad’s old Sears and Roebuck, single shot, full choke, thirty inch barrel, 12 gage, with 6 magnum loads and we were off to the Peace River.

Once we launched and Knarley pinned the outboard full throttle, we were zipping away pretty fast to an area with some grain fields on the banks of the Peace, Knarley always rammed engines as fast as they could go and he was terribly hard on boats, trucks, and airplanes; but the guy always knew where the game was.  We glided in between an overhanging bank and a spruce snag in the water, it was a nice blind and required no effort for concealment.  We set out three or four decoys and waited for the action.  The first bird flew over a few minutes later.

“Boom” Knarley’s twelve gage knocked it down in the river.  The dog watched the goose fall and was ready to retrieve the bird.  Knarley looked at his dog. “dog, get that bird” he said with solemnity.

The dog climbed out of the boat carefully instead of using the great leap I was expecting and walked across the water to the bird, picked it up and walked back to the boat and dropped it inside and climbed back in the boat.  I didn’t say a thing; I just looked up into the sky for another bird.

The scenario was repeated several more times and the dog used the same technique of walking on the water each time. Knarley was beside himself with excitement and expected me to comment; but I was maintaining the code of silence that hunters observe to be successful.  Finally, Knarley could no longer control his excitement, he asked, “What do you think of my new dog?”

I kept looking at the sky and replied half heartedly, “He’ll do, he’ll do.”

Needless to say, this wasn’t the answer Knarley was looking for, he tried a different question, “Did you notice anything unusual about him?”

I looked him directly in the eye, “Knarley, it’s not like me to critique a man’s dog, his horse, or his wife, it’s just not good manners; but since you are going to badger me until I tell you the truth, I will tell you about your dog.  That dog can’t swim.

Now this is the type of story that is told over the campfire at hunting camp, after a nice meal of moose roast, turnips and mountain huckleberry pie and after the Irish whiskey has been served two or three times.  It is told in good spirits with a great laugh at the end.

Unfortunately, we have a president who can’t lead and this is no joke.  The infantry squad leader has a better command of his squad and leads with more responsibility than our president is showing.  A squad leader will have fire team leaders that he can deploy with precision and confidence, he also knows the skill levels of his fire team leaders and the capabilities of each squad member.

Our president has appointed political hacks around himself and has no one with know how or executive experience to bail him out; consequently,  he is faced with America’s greatest ecological disaster and all he can do is pontificate, point his finger, and threaten, between golf games while he tells us we need Green Energy programs that have failed in Europe and a Cap and Trade Program that is based on an unproven theory with bogus statistics that will cripple our economy and trade US sovereignty and wealth to Third World Dictators and the United Nations.

Yes, the old “That dog can’t swim” joke, is no longer funny; it is too close to “that president can’t lead” joke, that isn’t even a joke.”  Actually, give me a squared away squad leader and I will show you a man with more leadership ability than this president, way more.