by Bobby Buff

I have raised and hunted beagles, hounds, retrievers and pointing dogs for hunting as well as a couple of stock dogs for working cattle. I guess all dog people that raise pups with the hopes of hunting them look forward to the day when they come of age, or the proverbial light comes on, or however you describe it when they start to figure out what they are here for, and it always feels good to see them start to come into their own.

This story s about a lanky English Pointer I bought from a guy in Midland, TX. My wife Karla and I drove from Hondo, a small town West of San Antonio, one Saturday to pick him up after picking him out of a line up sent to me by email. Karla wanted to name him after a gun of some sort and so he was named Colt.

At 12 weeks he showed that he was going to have the makings of a good bird dog, pointing and retrieving pigeons in the yard. By five months old he was pointing and holding until I flushed the bird. And as he grew older, he just kept getting better. When he was just under a year old, we went to the Texas Panhandle pheasant hunting. The second pheasant hunt of my life and Colt’s first.

The first day, he busted a couple of roosters in some heavy cover. I wasn’t really concerned since he was still basically a pup, and I figured he was due a few mistakes. The second day, my son Zach took Colt and his lab Chester and headed in one direction, while I took 2 of my Brittanys and went another. It wasn’t long before I heard Zach shoot. When we met back at the truck he had a big rooster, and told me how Colt had pointed in some thick cover and held while Chester went in and flushed the bird. Zach shot it, Chester retrieved it, and then Colt checked it out and after Zach spoke to him he took off again. I was impressed that he held while Chester flushed the bird. Later that afternoon, Colt pointed for me and I shot a nice rooster over him. Again, he never budged until I flushed the bird. He had a pretty good trip for a 10 month old pup and I was happy to say the least.

In January, my wife and I loaded the dogs for the weekend and went to the Chaparral WMA for the last quail hunt of the season there. It had been a weak year, but it was the only quail spot I had available. The first afternoon was about 50 degrees and clear. After a few minutes Colt was on point. I called to Karla and we moved in and shot a pair of quail. A few minutes later, he was on point again. I went in and got another. The rest of the afternoon was a blast. It seemed as if Colt was making quail. He found I forget how many coveys and a few singles. He handled like an old dog and never broke until after the birds went down. Sunday morning’s hunt was a short repeat of Saturday afternoon. The trip home had me thinking I might have myself a special dog.

Towards the end of January, my Dad booked us a shoot at a preserve in Navasota. Zach and I loaded up and left early to meet him there. After we were shown the pasture we would be hunting in, I turned out my Brittanys first, saving Colt for later. We found and shot a bunch of quail, pheasants, and chukar partridge before I turned Colt out. Dad said he would sit this round out and stayed in the truck watching us, and Colt put on a show. He found bird after bird, and this was after we had run Dad’s German shorthair pointers and my Brittanys for about 2 hours. We found singles, twos, and threes here and there. Then he pointed in a grown up fence row and when we got there, we saw what must have been about fifty quail bunched up under the brush, leftovers from previous shoots. Colt was locked up in the midst of them, but they were across the fence and we had been told not to cross the fences. So I threw a stick behind the quail hoping they would flush our way so we could get a few of them. At that point, they ran and flew and Colt had quail hitting him in the face and running down his back and he just stood rock steady with his eyes bugging out. I was pretty sure at that point he was a special dog.

All that next spring and summer, he worked the quail here close to the house. I would let him out of his kennel while I cleaned it, and would look out to see him on point, usually with a Brittany honoring his point. I was really looking forward to the upcoming ’08 season.

Opening weekend at the Chaparral found us in camp early on Friday waiting for Saturday morning. When it finally came the temps were in the 50’s and it was clear. From 8 o’clock until 11, Colt had found 7 coveys. It was game on and he was doing a fantastic job. Dad’s German shorthaired pointer and my Brittanys had their share, but once again it just seemed as if Colt was making birds. We went in for lunch and to wait until evening  to make another run.

About five that evening, Colt had found two coveys, and on the last bird he retrieved it to my hand. He had gotten to the point where he let the Brittanys do the retrieving and he just went ahead hunting after the shot. He went on with his new running mate, my little 7 month old English Pointer Willi, right along with him and Zach close behind. They went around some brush out of sight when I heard Zach screaming with a pleading in his voice for Willi to come in. I just knew what it was and when I heard him shoot three times, I knew I was right. They had run over a huge rattle snake. When Zach saw him, the snake was reared up about thigh high and Willi was trying to get away from it. We started looking her over for fang marks when Colt ran up to me and howled and fell against my legs. I started looking frantically all over him for fang marks. On his legs, his face and neck, everywhere. And then I saw them, straddled across a rib, back on his rib cage, just below his loin, fang marks that were 2 inches apart.

Zach picked him up and took off for the truck. I was in tears as I followed behind. Colt was current on his rattle snake vaccine, but I felt that he had been hit in the lung and the vaccine wasn’t going to do much for him. We headed out of the ranch and Karla started calling vets in Laredo, Freer, Dilley, Devine, and finally we just headed to San Antonio to the emergency clinic I knew about. We got there and took Colt inside. The folks there had him for a long while, and told us what they felt they needed to do, they called me in again and said he was going downhill fast. Long story short, I decided that if he was going to die, he would die with family and I took him to the truck. I had him in my lap in the back seat while Karla drove home to Hondo. About four miles from the house, he took his last breath while the tears ran down my face.

Zach and I buried him in the back yard the next morning where he could hear the quail calling next door and then went back to the Chap to load up our camp and other dogs that Mom and Dad had been watching for us.  It was a sad day.  Colt was 22 months old, coming of age, and taken from me all in one swift stroke.

I have a new English Pointer pup, Waylon, to go with Willi, who is now coming into her own as well as my four Brittanys, but Colt was special, and often times I wonder if he was that “ Once in a life time” dog.

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