Call of the wild summons man and his best friend

From the time I was 9 years old, the most sacred and anticipated stretch on my annual calendar was duck season. My seasonal itch would begin with the start of the September teal season and build to full-blown fever by the time October rolled around. By season’s end, sometime between Thanksgiving and Christmas, I’d have spent an admittedly obscene amount of time stomping around the swamp in the company of smelly dogs, and quite often a similarly smelly brother or hunting buddy.

Duck season was an all-consuming passion for me, and one I fully presumed I’d be engaged in for the rest of my life. Blaze, my prized Chesapeake Bay retriever, was the key player in the halcyon days of my hunting career. Swift, strong and tireless, Blaze was relentlessly dedicated, leaping into icy waters, trudging through chest-deep muck and weaving his way through a maze of cattails and buttonbush to bring every bird to hand. Watching him work became the greatest part of the hunt for me. Then, after 13 heroic seasons, Blaze was gone, and with him went my desire to hunt.

Juni and Ruby eventually waggled their way into our lives to fill the space by the fire. Each of the mutts made a respectable run for my heart and my head. But as lovely and talented as they each proved to be, you just don’t work a Border collie from a duck boat. So, I continued to sit out the season for the entire span of their lives.

We weren’t looking for a duck dog when we found Frank at the pound. And I didn’t much suspect that there was one hiding inside his shepherd-themed body, but when his DNA came back with a splash of Labrador retriever, my duck hunter’s heart gave a little thumpity thump. All we needed was the right time and place to summon forth the genes of Frank’s black Lab momma, and I’d be right back in business at a pastime that used to be my full time.

The summoning call came from my brother-in-law, who wondered via text message if I would be interested in helping to balance the goose population. “I’ve got a lake full of them, and they’re destroying the place!” he wrote.

Had the message arrived in October when the sky was blue and the roads were clear, I’d have likely had to turn him down rather than sacrifice a good few days on my bicycle. But this offer was made in the dead dull and ice-cold of middle January as I sat in a tortured purgatory of too much ice to ride and too little snow to ski.

“I’ll pick up my license and stamps over the next few days and give it a shot as soon as the weekend rolls around!” I wrote back.

I barely slept the night before. I was 9 years old again, on the eve of my very first hunt. Not only was I stepping back in time to my earliest calling, but I was setting up my beloved best friend to prove just how deeply that retrieving urge runs in dogs of a certain lineage.

Oblivious to the significance of the coming day, Frank slept as he always does — sideways across the middle of the bed.

Come back next week to learn just how deep Frank’s ancestral waters run — not to mention whether or not I’m still capable of hitting a kite-sized bird on the wing.

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.