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Message: <blockquote data-quote="Duckslayer100" data-source="post: 491285" data-attributes="member: 1485">Zeke has been good these days. Real good. To the point I have to wonder, is he Zeke, or is there a bit of Remy in there, too?Remy was my first dog. My first best bud. We went through hell and high water together. A real dynamic duo. I trained him, and he trained me. He was a "VC" in the NAVHDA clan language -- a Versatile Champion. Something I took much pride in, but didn't mention a whole bunch.He never bred. Despite what I was told a VC could become. For whatever reason, he was overshadowed by a littermate. One who was trained by a professional. Bought and paid for.Nothing wrong with that, but Remy learned through me, a cash-strapped, stressed-out father-to-be with more gumption than sense and a forgiving wife.Still, I see it in Zeke. That knowing. That assuredness. That willingness to please. Maybe it's just him, the product of good nature and nurture.But -- I don't know -- there's something else. A fondness in the way he greets me. The longing when I go away. It's almost timeless. Ancient.We crest a hill of prairie grass, dotted with yellow and white and whispy pink flowers of which I know no names. He's casting left and right in rythmic time, a pendulum on a strong that's combing for scent. To a person who doesn't hunt, or doesn't know dogs, it may seem boring or mundane. But to me, it's magic. The catalyst of a chemical reaction that results in a perfect union between dog and human.I anticipate what happens next. There's the half-stub of a fishing rod sticking out of gnoll, for which a pigeon has been placed. Tied to the line, my hope is the $7 of feathers and coos will no get away when he flushes, and instead can be reinvested for another session.Zeke hits the windward side and freezes. His head is half cocked to the left, his tail straight as a statue. I can tell he's panting by his heaving chest, but his mouth and eyes are frozen. The hairs from his wiry chin stiff as wheat stubble."Woah," I say calmly, walking up to snag the long lead that trails from his collar. "Wooooah, buddy. Woah."He registers me with the slightest of glances, but his head never moves: just his eyes.I work my way up the lead, like a southerner pulling in catfish off a trotline. When I reach his flank, I gingerly brush his side, and repeat: "woah...woah."It's soft and subtle. Not a harsh command. Just something to reassure and overlay with the countless corresponding lessons we've had before. Woah, heel, come, no, stay, fetch -- it's a tapestry of one-word commands that weaves into what could be -- will be -- an awesome gundog.I get in front of him a bit and he takes a step."Woah," I command more sharply. He stopsI take another step. I can see his muscles contract, but he doesn't move. The pigeon is there, staring at me -- beady black eyes atop a gray thimble of feathers. In that moment, it flushes, and my breath catches.Zeke's head shoots up and he takes a step -- and stops. All on his own. The pigeon beelines it for the tree row, and I quickly snag the fishing pole, engage the reel, and reel in my living kite."Good boy!" I say, praising up his progress today. "Good boy...wooooah. Good boy!"Luckily the bird falls about 20 yards away, allowing me to reel it in, replace it in my bird bag, and return to Zeke. He's still standing there, watching this strange ballet between bird and man that, for whatever reason, doesn't involve either a gun or him fetching.I release him to "hunt" some more, and we call it a day.I have no idea what this summer will bring. I do know that by fall, our bond will be stronger, and both our skills will be sharpened.And whether it's just Zeke, or a bit of Remy, or maybe sheer dumb luck, I can't help but think one thing: The birds are in big trouble.</blockquote>

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