By Steve Weisman

So, what I do on a cold winter’s day when the temperatures are way below zero and windchills are –30+ degrees? Well, for over 30 years, I would be spending my time teaching high school English.

However, at 73 years of age, my teaching career is long gone! Now, my time is spent writing stories and on nice days spending time out on the ice. However, at -30+ windchill and at my age, I am not about to pull my Fish Trap out 300-400 yards to fish.

Well, actually, my wife has told me more than once, “Not at your age!” I hate to say it, but she’s right! So, I will sit in my easy chair by my picture window with bright sunshine warming the room working on stories, checking out the Internet and Facebook, and paging through my outdoor magazines. One recent story in Pheasants Forever was about a group of hunters who have traveled to Iowa to pheasant hunt for 50 consecutive years. Talk about memories.

Thinking back

I began to reminisce my own hunting memories and came upon this topic: our four-legged hunting partners. Whether you have ever hunted or not, if you have had a dog for a pet, you know where I am heading with this one. Owning a dog is a commitment to not only care for the animal but to also establish that unbreakable bond. No matter our mood, our ups and downs, our pet is always there, always happy to see us. That tail is always wagging to the point that the entire body trembles in anticipation of our communication with it.

Our pets always seem to be happy…happy to sit with us, happy to walk with us, and extremely happy when we ask, “Do you want to eat?” Now that’s a tail wagging and bouncing time.

Over the years, I have had several hunting dogs, ranging from a German shorthaired pointer to black and yellow Labradors. All are – for one reason or another – in my mind’s wall of fame. Here is a special distinct memory of each dog.

Remembering Misty

My shorthair’s name was Misty. We got her as a puppy, but soon learned with my huge commitment to teaching and coaching, that I just did not have the time to take care of her. She was a great dog, and my parents welcomed her to the farm. She became my dad’s constant companion outside and became a terrific meadowlark pointer, when the birds would land on a fence post. This memory occurred when she was near the very end of her ability to hunt.

She was pushing 12 years old, when my wife and I returned to the farm for pheasant hunting. We hunted a big party on Saturday, but on Sunday, I went out just with Misty. A pointer can cover a lot of ground, but she was old and slow-perfect for me. We went through a shelterbelt and walked right by a hen that flew off, and Misty didn’t even notice. Oh well, I thought. At least I got her out to get some exercise. However, in the next field, Misty went on point three consecutive times within a 50-yard area. Each time as I stepped up, a rooster would explode from the cover. Three shots…three birds down. She retrieved each one. Then she went on point a fourth time, and I called her off. However, she was exhausted and had trouble walking back to the yard, so I had to carry her. My mother did chew me out just a little bit when we got back-lol!

Remembering Mandi

Mandi was my black Labrador. We got her when our daughter and son were in middle school. She loved to retrieve, and the kids put her to work when they practiced their pitching. I would sit on a five-gallon bucket in the street and catch. Mandi would sit and watch and wait…until a pitch went wild and rolled to the end of the block. She’d wait until I said, “Mandi, fetch!” Away she would go and bring the ball back to the pitcher. The kids soon learned that they needed a towel to dry off the slobber-lol!

Mandi was a pointing lab. One day after several inches of powder snow, we were hunting a CRP field. Mandi was really birdy as she approached a little snow drift and went on point. Nothing happened. She stayed on point and held…suddenly from under her belly came a hen pheasant that flew right out between her hind legs. Mandi never budged, stayed on point and never knew the hen had left-lol!

Remembering Shasta

Finally, there was Shasta, a beautiful yellow Labrador that was the epitome of being a lady. She never barked and was flat out a lady. Oh, and she was a great hunter… just plain the best. She also was a pointing lab, and in addition to hunting extensively here in northwest Iowa, we took her back home to South Dakota for many years. However, at about age 12, things began to bother her, she began to lose her hearing and she would get confused with a bunch of people and other dogs around. So, I began to hunt her away from the others.

I will always remember her last hunt. She was 13, and I took her off on a hillside by herself. It became her “one final moment in the field.” She became birdy and locked up on point. I stepped up, and a rooster exploded from the cover. One bird down, and Shasta brought it back to hand. She took off again and soon locked up again. I stepped up, and a rooster exploded from the cover. A second bird down, and Shasta brought it back to hand. What a perfect way to end Shasta’s hunting career! She lived till she was 15 and became the perfect house dog to go with my wife’s apricot toy poodle. Best buds they were!

Memories, they are such an important part of our lives. All three of these memories are clear to me as if they happened yesterday. I hope that you, too, have vivid memories of your own dogs.