Long before Phinnigan would enter a Maine grouse cover, we had something considerably less glamorous to work on: walking down the road together.
There were no birds involved. No shotgun. Just a young English setter, a leash, and an awful lot of enthusiasm pulling in the opposite direction.
I could already picture him working through the autumn woods. But first, we needed to learn how to get somewhere without him pulling against his collar and straining his throat.
That was where our preparation began.
Our veterinarian recommended a Gentle Leader. Phinnigan’s initial opinion of the nose strap was fairly clear. He pawed at it and tried to remove it, understandably puzzled by this new arrangement. Eventually, he accepted it, and our walks became calmer.
It was a small step, but one that mattered. We were learning how to move together, and I was learning how to help this particular dog understand what I wanted.
After years with bird dogs, it is tempting to think you know how the next one will develop. Then a puppy arrives with his own temperament, his own reactions, and absolutely no interest in following the schedule you have imagined.
Phinnigan was reminding me to pay attention.
The Birds Changed Everything
His early bird work included eight chukars. I let him encounter their scent, then released them and allowed him to chase. Later, he found the released birds again.
There was no question about his interest.
He was bird-crazy.
Watching that desire emerge is one of the great pleasures of bringing along a young dog. You can encourage it and provide opportunities for it to grow, but the excitement belongs to the dog. Seeing Phinnigan discover birds gave me plenty to look forward to.
It also gave me a reason to be patient.
I wanted that enthusiasm firmly established before introducing the sound of a starter pistol. There would be time for more lessons. At this stage, I wanted him eager for the next opportunity.
A Box of Quail and a Trip to the Mountains
Eventually, I picked up a box of quail and headed to the mountains with Phinnigan. That outing would include his introduction to a .22-caliber starter pistol.
For me, it was a meaningful moment. I had been thinking about his preparation, watching his confidence, and looking forward to this next step.
Phinnigan appeared to have one thing on his mind: birds.
The starter pistol did not faze him. He remained focused on the quail, chased enthusiastically, and returned when I called.
That last part pleased me as much as anything. There was all that excitement in front of him, yet we still had a connection.
I came away encouraged. We had taken another step, and he was still eager, still interested, still enjoying himself.
There was plenty left to learn. But I liked where we were.
Looking Toward Maine
As Maine approached, I found myself thinking about everything that had brought us to that point.
The pulling on the leash. His objections to the Gentle Leader. Those first chukars. The quail in the mountains. The relief of seeing him take the starter pistol in stride.
Each experience had given me another glimpse of the dog he was becoming.
Soon, the lessons would come from wild birds.
A grouse would choose its own escape route. A woodcock would be wherever the cover, moisture, and conditions suited it. Phinnigan would have to begin sorting out scent and ground without my knowing every answer ahead of him.
I looked forward to watching him work through that.
Of course, I hoped for birds. I hoped for the moment when his searching would become certainty, when he would stop and I would know he had found something.
But I also knew how much could happen before that moment arrived. There would be missed opportunities, confusing scent, and days when the birds seemed to have everything figured out.
We would learn from those days, too.
For now, we had done the early work. I had a young setter with a tremendous interest in birds, and Maine was ahead of us.
I was ready to follow him into the woods and see what came next.
The Wandering Sportsman
Where the Journey Matters as Much as the Catch, the Flush, or the Harvest.
