Life with a new hunting dog: I’m hunting for my sneakers

Published 9:00 pm Monday, August 15, 2005

Two things.

(1) There is a God in heaven; and (2) He’s finally seen fit to allow me a hunting dog.

It’s going to take some patience and a lot of work to get him ready for the field since my wife has decided that her sacred mission is to spoil the newest member of our household to a point well past rotten. We passed rotten the other morning when I was awakened by someone nuzzling my ear.

I remember being about half-groggy and thinking that my wife of 34 years had obviously decided I might be good for another 34.

I thought that until I opened my eyes and saw nothing but a wet nose, brown eyes and floppy ears – all attached to a face that said, “Sun’s up. How long before we go out and play?”

His name is Monty.

I’ve always wanted to give orders to a field marshal, so we named him after the late Bernard Law Montgomery, the British general who defeated Irwin Rommel at the battle of El Alamein.

Actually, my wife came up with the name because she liked the sound of it.

I went along quietly and made up a story. It’s what we writers do.

It’d been a year since we lost Blackie. We hadn’t thought about getting another dog for more than nine months but, about three months ago, we were riding around and suddenly decided that we “needed” to see what was out there.

This soon turned into a weekly event wherein we visited just about every shelter, kennel, agency and non-profit in two or three counties.

We’d almost given up when we saw an ad in the paper for English Springer Spaniels (“Hunting dogs,” my mind screamed) and called the owners. They had three puppies left.

When we got there, we both locked on one particular bundle of brown and white clumsiness who, shortly thereafter, ended up in our car.

We’ve had him for two weeks now and my wife’s well into her training program.

She’s trained him to sleep next to her in the bed, to sleep on her lap in the living room, to sleep next to her on the sofa while she reads her book, and to fall asleep in her arms at almost any time of day.

I, being determined to finally have a real hunting dog, have taken a much sterner approach. I’ve taught him to hide my sneakers in odd places around the house and to chew holes in my socks if I leave them on the floor.

I’ve taught him to generally ignore me whenever my wife is around. When she’s gone and we’re by ourselves, I’ve taught him to stop whatever we’re doing, ignore my calls, and run to the window whenever he hears a car to see if she’s come home yet.

I’ve taught him to intently study pictures from various hunting magazines that depict dogs flushing and retrieving game birds. He then indicates his understanding by chewing them into a soggy mess.

I’ve also gotten him to where he understands commands like: “If you don’t tell me where my sneakers are, I’m not going to hold you up so that you can piddle on my shirt any more.”

Cyrano, our 14-year-old cat, has taken a dim view of the entire situation and has decided that his contribution to socialization with Monty will be to swat him on the nose whenever he gets within paw range.

I should explain that Cyrano’s world view is similar to that of most cats. It’s based on the premise that every living soul on Earth is, basically, “staff.” Putting up with a puppy, therefore, is not a road he’s going to lightly travel.

Although being spoiled by my wife is something I’ll have to deal with, I still believe that Monty will become a hunting dog. That’s because I have a secret weapon and I’m not afraid to use it.

The other morning, I got out of the six inches of bed I’m now allowed and went downstairs to fry up some bacon.

It wasn’t long before I saw him peeking around the corner.

I knew I had him when I gave him a piece and saw the light of understanding come on in his eyes.

“This man makes bacon.”

He’s since ceased piddling on my shirt.

All that’s left to do now is to free up some more training time when he’s not being spoiled by my wife.

And for the naysayers out there, his sleeping in my lap is, of course, merely preparation for those long hours in the field when nothing’s happening.

Larry Simoneaux lives in Edmonds. Comments can be sent to larrysim@att.net.