Chris Jennings’ Blog

Three years ago, I wrote a column about my black lab’s final year in the field. His arthritis in his front-right shoulder was more than he could bare, and his ability to get through the high grass and withstand the bitter cold kept him from the field. Last year, I went almost the entire year without taking him. He would whine, make every attempt to jump like he used to and, as I walked out the door, he would give up knowing he wasn’t going, and limp back to his bed.

Toward the end of December last year, we had some unseasonably warm weather and an early-morning scouting trip revealed a nice hole where ducks could be decoyed in the evening. The temperatures had reached nearly 60 degrees that day and, while packing gear for the evening hunt, my lab Cole nudged his big head under my chin. As usual, he wanted to go. This time, I was out of excuses why he couldn’t.

We were hunting a very small slough that was no more than 12 inches deep all the way around. If we did manage to shoot something, it would fall no more than 100 feet away, and there was a path he could follow down to the pond. Today, Cole was going to get to do something he had wanted to do for more than a year and couldn’t.

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After a successful goose hunt

The story behind Cole and me was much like many other dogs and owners. At 16 years old I wanted a lab pup. I had zero money, and he was free. We were a great fit immediately. That dog followed me everywhere. I knew nothing about dog training, but knew I didn’t want to swim the icy waters for my own ducks, and he was willing to help me out. No papers, no training, just an uncanny ability to be willing to follow me through hell. He dove hunted, rabbit hunted and even scared a few quail up to shoot. He trained me more than I trained him, and luckily he knew just what he was doing.

When I left for the Navy, he stayed behind and became the community dog. My dad would take him out, but if he couldn’t go, there were several of my friends that needed him. Cole welcomed the adventure.

This warm day in December, my three hunting companions and I loaded the 110-pound lab into the back of my Jeep Cherokee and lifted him out when we arrived. He sat patiently while I put on his old brown camouflage dog vest that was worn and torn like a battle flag. As he headed into the grass, my best friend, who had hunted with Cole while I was gone, stood next to me and watched him, not limping, sniffing through the weeds. We knew every step was a painful one, but Cole didn’t dare show it. When I turned to say something to my friend, he was crying. It was emotional watching this dog that was once the essence of power and an unstoppable force against any duck or goose. The dog literally taught us what was important about waterfowl hunting, the nature of the passion, the love for the game you could say. As we stood there together watching him head for this little pothole like he had been there before, we both wept.

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As the ducks began to circle overhead, Cole and I sat back in the grass, watching the sky filled with ducks. He watched, sat patiently and listened for the roar of our guns. On this day, he was in no hurry. He had no cares in the world as he leaned his body weight against me, just doing what he has always loved to do, he was duck hunting and most importantly, he was duck hunting with me.

A lone mallard drake dropped into the pothole, and with minutes to spare on shooting time, one of my hunting partners cleanly dropped it in the decoys. Cole, wide-eyed, looked at me and then back over his shoulder as if one of our younger labs were going to beat him to it. But it was his bird. I sent him and he leapt for the water, took two steps and sprang as far out as he could, legs outstretched. He hit the water, flipping over decoys with the splash. Then he slowly completed the short retrieve. A big greenhead in his mouth, his eyes lit up with that old intensity only a lab possesses when birds are being retrieved, a look I had missed the last couple years. With the bird delivered, Cole simply looked at all of us, turned and limped back toward the Jeep, symbolically retreating into the setting sun.

A great dog’s hunting career ended that day, and the family was forced to put him down on March 18, 2008. His last retrieve was a great bird, in a mystical spot, with great friends. If Cole’s life were to be defined in one hunt, it wouldn’t be the 300-yard retrieves, ice-breaking moments, triple and quadruple Canada goose retrieves he had done so many times. It would be defined by his last hunt, the devotion to friends, finding great places to hunt and the simplicity of one retrieve – one last mallard.

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