A bird on the ice becomes a bird in the hand — the hard way

And so it was that I found myself creeping across a frozen tundra of soybean stubble in the direction of my brother-in-law’s fish pond. A couple of hundred Canada geese had taken to using the small ice-free pool at the center as a day spa and most of the surrounding two acres of ice as a communal latrine. With a month left in goose hunting season, I’d been called in to remind the birds pooping in the bathtub is bad form, no matter your species.

Read last week's column

Call of the wild summons man and his best friend

After years away from the blind, a winter invitation rekindles an old passion

I’d planned an ambush but knew better than to imagine I could crawl within range of 200 pairs of periscope-mounted eyeballs. My success was dependent on luck more than stealth or skill, and yet, most remarkably, a few birds flushed in my direction as the high-honked alarm set the whole mess flying at once. I dropped a bird onto the ice exactly halfway between the shore and the mid-pond patch of open water. Part one of my foray back into the world of waterfowl hunting had been accomplished.

Although the ice was undoubtedly thick enough to hold a man, I’d promised my wife I’d not venture onto the pond without a shore-bound observer, but I’d made no such pledge on behalf of Frank, our beloved wonder mutt.

Tipping the scales at just a third the weight of a man, the pond was as sure under Frank’s feet as the land. Still, with zero hunting experience and only a minimal desire to retrieve even the most exciting of tennis balls, Frank was a long shot at best. I’d left him in the truck during my stalk for fear he’d take off after the fleeing flock, never to be seen again. Now that the shooting was done and the possibility of distraction had gone to fly, I figured I’d give him the chance to prove his black lab momma proud.

Frank was pretty fired up when I let him loose from the cab. He’d heard the shooting and seen the phalanx of escapees heading for the horizon, and when we got to the pond, he immediately spotted the downed bird and trotted right out to it, like he’d been waiting for this moment all his life.

“That’s right, Frank!” I cheered. “Good boy, that’s a dead bird! Bring him here!”

The dog circled the bird, nudged it a bit to make sure all of this was real and then looked to me on the shore with the most ambitious, excited, fully comprehending look I’ve ever seen on the face of a dog. Then he immediately left the bird on the ice and dashed back to wag his tail happily at my side.

I may be a dreamer, but I’m not a fool. I had an inkling Frank’s quarter-compliment of retriever was going to have a tough time overcoming the other three quarters of hound dog and herder. That’s why I’d already concocted a Plan B.

Plan B had me casting a fishing lure over a dead goose in a snowstorm with a 20 mph crosswind. Plan C became necessary after I’d actually hooked the decedent, then snapped the line as I tried to reel it in.

Success arrived with the creation of a grappling hook fashioned from the wire legs of a campaign sign, a road-found horseshoe, one punctured bicycle inner tube and 60 feet of braided nylon clothesline. Just 30 or so embarrassingly amateurish cowboy-style throws and my quarry was reduced to possession.

A week’s worth of wild-goose stew, a dog that’s at least witnessed his first retrieve and a heck of a story to tell — I’m calling it a successful hunt.

Kristin and John Lorson would love to hear from you. Write Drawing Laughter, P.O. Box 170, Fredericksburg, OH 44627, or email John at jlorson@alonovus.com.