Pretty Good But Not Totally Trained…

I suppose it was my own damn fault! I mean what did I expect to happen if I was to go duck hunting with a guy who doesn’t really hunt very much. After all, he did tell me straight up that he normally only hunts ducks one or two days each season. Warning flag…

There are several things you can expect when you agree to hunt with a dude that you met through a friend, especially when you know for a fact that the guy couldn’t tell the difference between a “blue-winged mallard” and a “red-headed wood duck,” or whatever the hell it was he said.

A real classic is when the guy shows up wearing a Toronto Blue Jays jacket and running shoes. And, the best part is when he explains to you that ducks and geese are colour blind and that a blue jacket is “just fine” for waterfowl hunting. I guess that’s why camo clothing is now a billion dollar industry.

Another good one is when your newly found expert duck hunting partner shows up with a single shot .410 that was made in the year 1788 BC. And, then you get your second lesson of the day when he explains to you that you’re only supposed to hit the birds in the head. Okaaaaaaaaaaaay…

The worst possible scenario is when the guy insists that he bring his dog along. Naturally, at this point you sense trouble, so you nervously ask, “Is he trained?” And, then you get the typical response. “Well, he’s pretty good, but not totally trained.” With my experience as a hard-core, gung-ho duck hunter, I’ll offer this piece of sound advice at this time. Forget it! Don’t even think about it! Stay in bed! Go fishing! Cut the grass! Split some firewood! Sit around all day and scratch your belly. Do anything but go duck hunting with a guy who has a dog that’s “pretty good but not totally trained.”

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Okay, so maybe twenty five years ago I didn’t think quite the same as I do now. I was also in a different situation than I am today. Having just finished high school, I had moved to Toronto a found a small apartment in which to rot. (The cockroaches didn’t even help out with the rent). The problem was that living in a small bachelor pad didn't provide any room to store a boat, motor, oars or even decoys. Basically speaking, living at the corner of Don Mills and the 401 made things a little tough for a duck hunter, especially one who didn’t even have a vehicle.

So when I met this self proclaimed duck hunter (I’ll call him Paul because that was his name) at a friend’s place and he offered to take me duck hunting, I jumped at the chance. After all, he had a truck, a boat, some decoys and … a dog. I figured the part about “pretty good but not totally trained” wouldn’t be a big deal. After all, it’s better than having no dog at all, isn’t it? Paul’s biggest problem as he told me was that he didn’t know any good places to hunt for ducks in the Toronto area. But I did. There were plenty of great spots within an hour or two of the city. So we set our plans for the following Saturday. Our destination was the famous Luther Marsh, not far from Orangeville. I had hunted there many times before and I knew the area quite well.
I was totally pumped as I waited in the darkness outside the lobby of my high-rise apartment building. Camo clothing, waders, shotgun, ammo, lunch and rest of my ultra-rugged duck huntin’ gear, ready to rock. “Excellent!” I said to myself as Paul pulled in and he was right on time too. What I saw next is something that I’ll never forget. As Paul came around and unlocked the passenger door of his truck, I saw the biggest, fattest and ugliest yellow lab in the history of dogs. This great big goof must have weighed at least 130 pounds and had a huge set of floppy jowls that hung so low, I feared one of them might get caught up in the brake pedal. His head was bigger than the steering wheel and he had these super duper, extra long, bungie cord style drool things hanging from each side of his enormous snout. They kept on going down, then up… down, then up again. And, they’d swing to the sides and stick to his head. Gross.

The really sad part is that I had to sit with this big slob on top of me all the way to Luther Marsh. I should have brought a towel along to wipe the slobber off my shoulder. As I climbed in beside this beast, I asked politely as I could, “Uh, like… what the hell do you feed him?” Paul then returned with a real perky voice that for some reason, kind of pissed me off. “Whatever he wants, but his favourite meal is double pepperoni pizza.” So at this point, I was presented with an opportunity to deliver some classic, super-sonic RD calibre sarcasm. This is an opportunity that I never let slide by, unscathed. “Okay, so… can he swim or does he just sink?” When he sat there on the seat looking slightly upward, it appeared as though someone had glued a large package of really hairy Italian sausages to the back of his neck. That should provide you with a clear mental image. You’re welcome.

After a couple of hours we finally arrived at the Luther Marsh boat launch. Good thing too. I wouldn’t have lasted much longer with that big oaf drooling all over me. I gathered he likely had a pizza the night before because he was highly skilled at slipping out these raunchy smelling doggie farts. You know ones that you never actually hear, but you really don’t need to hear anything to know that there’s a fart lofting beside you? And, his horribly rotten breath almost made me barf on at least three occasions. I kept on having to roll down my window.

“Okay, everyone out,” Paul announced. Well, the first thing ol’ Champ did (Champ will have to do because I honestly forget what Paul called this poor excuse for a dog) was run over to the first dog he saw and start up the brand new WWF Canine Division. Now, I could be wrong, but I got the feeling that the owner of the other dog was not impressed with ol’ Champ kicking the living daylights out of his sixty pound Golden Retriever. After we got both contestants separated and Champ tied to a tree, we began to wipe the blood off the Golden. After many apologies, exchanging of phone numbers and a promise from Paul to pay for any vet bills, it was time to get this show on the road. I was getting very anxious.

Pictures this: A lightweight, twelve foot Jon Boat, two guys, two dozen decoys, two paddles, enough ammo to take on the North Korean Army, lunch boxes, no flashlight and a big, fat goofy dog that was about as bright as a bag of hammers. I was beginning to think that rather than being on a duck hunting trip, I was actually going to early morning swimming classes. Every five or six seconds, Paul would scream at Champ, “SIT DOWN!” I swear there was at least three times when that dog nearly rolled us. I can recall some other guys laughing at us as we puttered by their blind. Remember, “Pretty good, but not totally trained?” I made damn sure my floatation vest was adjusted properly. I honestly thought I was going for a swim.

Somehow, without a flashlight and without drowning (and without me punching Champ right in the face) we finally made it to the spot where we would set up our blind. So now the task of decoy placement was about to begin. Just as fast as we could toss the blocks into the water, “Champ, the Wonder Dog” would swim through the lines and get all tangled up. “Pretty good, but not totally trained,” I kept thinking to myself. After a twenty minute pre-dawn farce, we finally had the decoys out and blind ready. Speaking of the word, “ready,” I think I was just about ready to shoot myself right in the face.

“Oh, I’d love some hot coffee,” I said with a huge sigh of relief. So, out came my coffee thermos and a granola bar. Well, my plans for a quick snack were over in a flash. Champ nabbed the granola bar right out of my hand and inhaled it in one swift, well rehearsed motion, foil wrapper and all. I figured I might as well leave the coffee for another time. Ya, like the next day.

There we were. Duck hunters. Men of the wilderness. Providers for our families. Rugged individuals. We were ready. Paul at the stern, Champ in the middle and me at the bow. Ten minutes after legal shooting time, a pair of blue-winged teal came scorching in low and on my side. One of them was a “full-plume” drake that I really wanted for my wall. “I got ‘em,” I whispered. BANG! I fired and exactly one second later, three things happened all at exactly the same time. The drake fell, Champ dove out of the boat and I landed on the floor. “That’s my boy!” Paul stated proudly. “Did you see that? He was out of the boat before the duck even hit the water.” Well, at this point, I knew what a classic, open ice Wendel Clark body check must have felt like back in the late eighties. I guess Paul wasn’t familiar with the term “steady dog.” Either was champ.

So, there went Champ, swimming diligently toward my downed bird, with a large package of very hairy Italian sausages glued to his neck. Before he was even half way to the dead duck, he was coughing, snortin’ and panting so badly, I thought I was going to witness my very first dog heart attack. As he arrived at the teal, Paul rose with great authority and gave the big command. “Champ, COME!” Well, I guess ol’ “Champster” had other ideas, because he started swimming in the exact opposite direction. When he got to a small island, he made it quite clear that this duck would never see the inside of a taxidermy studio. One… two… three bites and… and… and… it’s GONE! The bird was totally gone! “JESUS CHRIST!” I yelled out in total disbelief! Champ inhaled the entire bird, legs, head, wings, feet, guts and all. Gone in three massive and incredibly powerful thrusts from his giant throat. It was as though the Ford Motor Company had installed a piston from a large diesel engine in the back of his neck. I swear to this day… he didn’t chew a thing.

After listening to Paul scream his head off and threaten to shoot poor Champ, the rogue retriever finally returned. The tangled mess of decoys ended up in the boat with us, finally coming to rest somewhere in the bushed behind us. After a couple of minutes of very awkward silence, Paul spoke with a tone of voice that almost seemed to defend his useless dog. “Okay, a little mistake there, no big deal. It’s still early, right Champ?”

A few minutes later, Champ decided to take a little stroll down the shoreline. Ya know, “just to see how the other guys were doing.” About fifteen minutes later, a canoe appeared and it looked like it was heading our way. “I wonder what he wants?” Paul mumbled with a reflection in his voice that told me that he felt that Champ was somehow involved in this. Within a few minutes, stood this massive, burly saskwatch (I think that’s how you spell it) of a man, only ten feet from us.

Now, you must understand, this was no ordinary man. First, he stood about eight foot, eighteen or so, he must have weighed 550 pounds and he had this… this… head… that was even bigger than Champ’s. He also had this one, great big, huge, ultra-thick uni-brow that ran the entire width of his humungous forehead. I got the feeling, especially after smelling his rotten ‘morning after’ whiskey breath, that this man found great pleasure in going into a bar and beating up everyone in the place. I truly believe that if he had wanted to, he could have easily killed both Paul and I in less than five seconds with only his bare hands. I was shaking like a leaf. In fact, I was so scared that I think a little bit of pee actually did come out…

Glaring straight at me, he promptly announced, “Your dog just pissed on my lunch box and I normally prefer to eat food that doesn’t have dog piss on it.” He went on, “Unless you want your arms, legs and all of your ribs broken, I suggest you keep your useless mutt away from me for the rest of my life.” I replied immediately and with the same level of respect a young private would give a drill instructor in the U.S. Marines. “SIR, YES SIR!” There was no time to explain that the idiot standing beside me was the owner of the dog and not me. He then gave us a few final words of encouragement, along with a few internationally understood hand and finger gestures, horked up a loogy bigger than a baseball and then paddled away. Paul looked toward me apprehensively and very quietly dribbled out, “Um... sorry about that. I’ll go get ‘em.” Great. “Pretty good, but not totally trained. “Prick.”

When Paul returned with his dog a few minutes later, Champ was all “Mr. Happy Smiley” and was wagging his tail and drooling everywhere. Suddenly, without any warning, Paul hollered out, “BAD DOG!” And, then he wound up and nailed poor Champ right square on the side of his huge melon with a solid left hook. Now, I ain’t talkin’ about a regular left hook. I’m referring to the quality of left hook that Joe Frazier floored Ali with back in the early seventies. But, don’t worry about ol’ Champ. He didn’t feel a thing. He continued to jump around, wag his tail and drool while Paul screamed out in pain after smashing his hand so hard. So, what did Champ do at this point you ask? He decided to go chasing squirrels in the bushes behind us. Once again, I thought to myself, “Pretty good, but not totally trained.” Holy shit.

Twenty minutes later, Paul arrived back. His face was all red and he was huffin’ and puffin’ and sweating like a pig. He was holding Champ by the scruff of his neck. “Get the hell in that God damn boat!” he screamed. Champ’s breath was worse than ever now and to be honest, I think he must have eaten some dog shit or something.

Okay, finally Champ is calm and actually IN the boat with us, Paul has stopped screaming and beating up his dog and on the approach was a half dozen mallards. To tell you the truth, I nearly forgot that we were hunting. BANG! Down goes the duck and there goes Champ again. I was smart enough to get out of the way this time. Paul was a little tense as he stood to watch the morning’s second retrieve. “He’s got it and uh oh.” As soon as Champ grabbed the duck, he swam away from us, down to see “Mountain Man Dean” again. You know… the guy with the huge uni-brow and rotten whiskey breath. A couple minutes later, we heard a voice yell with an immeasurable level of sarcasm, “Thanks for the duck you stupid assholes!” I vaguely remember some laughter coming from another blind just a little ways down the marsh.

About five minutes later, Champ arrived once again, still wagging his tail like he was a good boy for making such a great retrieve or something. And, while I kept a look-out for “Andre the Giant” to appear in his canoe again, I was halfway through planning my escape route. I noticed Paul staring straight out into the marsh. It was almost like he was caught in some bizarre, futuristic force field or something. He wasn’t even blinking. He was completely motionless, barely even able to speak. “D-d-d-d-d-d-do you think I should go and p-p-p-p-p-put Champ in the truck?” My response was controlled and reasonable considering the fact that I was in the midst of the worst hunting trip from hell. “Well, I guess it might not be a bad idea.”

Yes, this dog was a big, fat and ugly dog that drooled all over me and nearly killed me with his pizza farts. Yes, he nearly killed another man’s dog. Yes, he nearly drowned us. Yes, he stole my granola bar. Yes, he ate my teal. Yes, he nearly got me killed by the largest human being to ever walk on the planet. Yes, he delivered my second duck to that very same man who almost killed me. However, not one single act of disobedience was the fault of poor Champ.

Training dogs is precisely like raising kids. Every aspect of their training and development is the responsibility of you, the dog’s handler and owner. For example, if you don’t want your dog to jump on someone, especially when they have a loaded firearm in their hands, it is your job to teach your “child” not to do so. Paul was clearly an idiot, the kind of guy that would give any halfway serious duck hunter a nightmare and in fact, make some of us want to never hunt at a public marsh again. Another thing I’ve noticed over the years that the more someone brags about their dog, the more useless it is. Trust me, this is always true.

There are countless books and DVDs on the subject of retriever training. However, the best way is to learn first hand from a veteran dog handler. See if there is one in your area, or join the local retriever club if there is one close by. If you are thinking about getting your first dog, please do us all a huge favour… if you’re going to have a dog that’s “pretty good, but not totally trained,” please don’t. Go get a cat instead...