My cousin, Richard was a Louisiana State Policeman for almost 30 years. One of his many postings was that of guarding the Governor of Louisiana. This brought him into contact with many of his bosses wealthier constituents, one of which was an avid duck hunter. On a hunting expedition with the governor, one of this man’s prized Labrador retrievers had been injured while hunting and it was Richard who had loaded the animal into his unmarked cruiser and raced him to the vet, thereby saving the dog’s life. For his actions, my cousin had been gifted with first pick from the next litter from what was arguably the finest pairing of champion Labrador retrievers the great state of Louisiana had ever seen. Before going to live with Richard, the dog was sent to one of the premier facilities in the U.S. for AKC Hunt Test training (for competition) as well as gun dog training for water fowl and upland bird hunting; his schooling was rounded out by receiving the AKC’s Utility Dog Excellent award for obedience. He was almost a year old before he was done with his training. Rascal (as he was to be named) came to live with my cousin just about the time he retired. Richard had returned to the dairy farm where he and my dad had grown up to care for his aging mother. Rascal’s qualifications were lost on Richard’s mother (my aunt) and the dog was only allowed in the house after my aunt went to bed. Rascal was about a hundred pounds and a handsome chocolate color but because he was intact, tended to wander quite a bit which is why he was usually pretty scruffy in appearance. The bite that had been taken out of his ear in a scrap with another dog just made his name suite him that much better. My cousin was mostly a fisherman and really wasn’t into hunting but a Lab makes a great fishing buddy too so it was a good match after all. On the property there were two ponds, one stocked with catfish and the other with huge, frog eating bass. Needless to say they were both happy there. When my wife was pregnant with our first child, we went to visit my aunt and cousin and it was then that I got to meet Rascal. Since my wife had no desire to do anything but sit in my aunts kitchen and (as she put it) “gestate,” I entertained myself by riding the 4 wheeler that doubled as a garden tractor and pero boat transporter, fishing, taking pictures and shooting. Of course Rascal was my tour guide. I was sitting on the porch, beached from one of my Aunt Bertha’s epic, country lunches when Richard brought out his old semi automatic shotgun. I have described my cousin in the past as the wolf from the old Droopy cartoons and I have yet to find a more apt comparison. He had seen so much danger and commotion in his life that he was completely unflappable by any situation and yet so very southern. “Hey y’all.” He handed me his old shotgun and told me that it wouldn’t cycle and could I do anything about it. I looked into the action and it seemed that the last time that gun had a proper cleaning, Eisenhower had been president. I got my cleaning kit out of my truck and proceeded to take the gun apart. After about an hour, I had it cleaned and back together again. Richard handed me a couple of shells and I walked out into the front yard and fired the gun into the air twice in rapid succession to make sure the action would function correctly. Rascal, who had been sleeping on the porch heard the call to arms and was on his feet and at my side before the second shot. When I lowered the gun, he bolted into the tall grass to run a search pattern. He was working his way out toward the highway and I was afraid he was so intent on his search for the duck that wasn’t there that he might not see one of the many logging trucks that frequently shot past the house. I called him by name to no avail but then it occurred to me that I was dealing with a Stradivarius violin of a hunting dog so I gave out with the loudest whistle I could. Sure enough, his head appeared above the grass and he froze, his chewed ear cocked my direction, waiting for instruction. “Again” Richard called out, “whistle again!” Because I was anxious to bring the dog in away from the murderous highway, I gave out with two whistles in quick succession rather than just one as before. Rascal turned and ran past me, around the house and shortly thereafter a splash could be heard in the distance. As I returned to the porch, my cousin said, “you told him the bird was in the water… I expect he’s gonna be a while. Let’s go get some coffee.” While we sat at the kitchen table having our coffee, we watched that dog search both those ponds for a duck that didn’t exist. After dinner we were sitting on the porch when I felt eyes on me just about the time I smelled wet dog. If ever I was given an accusing look by an animal, it was on that day. I started to apologize, “Rascal…” but just as I said his name, he turned and walked back around the house. It didn’t help that my wife, favorite aunt and cousin were having fun with the guilt factor. Later that evening my aunt brought me Rascal’s bowl with what was left of the chicken, biscuits and gravy we had for dinner. With a grin she told me, “give him this and maybe it will take the sting off of you lying to him about ducks the way you did.” I walked out to the carport and could see him sitting out by the barn. I called his name and he just sat there. My cousin was standing in the growing darkness of the carport smoking a cigarette, “one time I pretended to throw the tennis ball and I let him look for it for a couple of minutes before I threw it to him… it was a week before he would play with me again.” Wow, a dog with trust issues. Who would’ve guessed? The next day we were loading up to leave and as I was saying my goodbyes to my cousin Richard and Aunt Bertha I was sad to see that Rascal wasn’t around. I got into the car and once my window was rolled up, I could hear panting. Fearing my wife had gone into early labor, I looked at her only to see the same questioning look I must have had on my own face. The sound was coming from the way back of my Trooper and when I turned, I could see the top of Rascal’s head and part of that chewed ear showing over the back seat. He had gotten into my truck while I was loading my gear and stowed away in the cargo area. I got out and went around to let him out when Richard met me at the back door of the SUV. While I was scratching Rascal’s ears, apparently forgiven my cousin, ever ready to give me the business said, “don’t worry about him, he’ll probably have forgiven you for leaving by the time you get back.
Posted on: Sat, 13 Jul 2013 19:37:40 +0000
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