The old trainer started the morning as the sun came up. The air was crisp, a hint of frost on the ground, and the dogs and horses were excited. He saddled his old reliable field trial horse, walked over to the dogs and unsnapped his young irish setter from the chain. Summer was waning into fall, the colors of the trees had started to turn. He marveled at the brilliant painting on the canvas of the Earth that the Creator had blessed him with. The chokecherries and plums were ripening and large groups of prairie birds had started to congregate near these areas feasting on the manna from Heaven. He planned to run his younger dogs around these areas to get them in more opportunity to point birds. Time was running out and the old trainer felt the urgency of the coming field trial season, and the necessity of getting his young dogs broke and in great shape, as judging by what he had seen at the few prairie trials he attended the competition would be fierce again this year, just like it was every year. He was confident in his shooting dogs, they were as prepared as he had ever had them and he felt for sure. That this would be, His Year.
He reflected on the young derbies he had at camp and felt this was a very good crop of derbies, as good or better than most he had in the previous summers.
There was the brilliant orange and white nephew of his old dog. He had already placed in a prairie derby stake this year. He had just gotten better in the weeks since that trial, maturing in application and bird work on every opportunity.
A young tri color bitch. She was the daughter of a field trial winner herself, and as the summer passed into fall, she had been a whisker away from placing in a trial herself. He thought to himself, she will put it all together soon, and be hard to beat. She had intelligent expressions, and he could tell she understood what was expected of her and she improved and showed greater potential each work out.
Then there was the strong willed, naturally talented orange and white derby from north Texas. Related to some of the best dogs he had trained, but more strong willed and quite trainable once he decided to be trained. This dog likely had greater potential than any of the other derbies. He thought to himself. Once he makes the turn, wow!
He felt the young derby put his head against is leg - demanding a pet and a scratch from his old master. The excitement of the dog was evident by the trembling and excited whining as the old trainer lead him to the starting line to turn him out for his workout that would last nearly an hour. The brilliant copper hue of the dogs coat shined in the early morning sun as the old trainer turned the dog loose to roll across the prairie. Soon, he was a copper dot against the yellows, and reds of the turning leaves and flora of the prairie. He made a cast down a small drainage, working into a the wind and pointing at the edge of a small cluster of buffalo brush. The old horse quickened his pace without urging to the motionless young irish setter standing with the feathering of his coat moving in the light breeze. The morning sun reflected off his copper colored coat and there appeared to be a halo around the young derby.
The old trainer waited, taking in the scene and etching it in his mind with all the other memories of summer training camps of the past. Memories that would sustain him when he was no longer able to heed the Call of the Prairies. He marveled at the brilliant scene in front of him, the young irish setter was drinking in the scent like Nectar from the Gods. His lip quivered as he inhaled the scent. Out of the corner of his eye he watched his master. The old trainer dismounted and walked into the brush, a the large covey of sharptail exploded from under his feet, the old trainer fired a blank from his old blank gun and turned. He was pleasantly surprised to see his young charge still standing motionless as the birds sailed over a low hill. He reached the young dog and petted him, as he collared the young dog to give him a well deserved drink of cool water.
The old trainer remounted and whistled his young charge on. The young red dog, slashed up the prairie, with huge moves in a mature application for the remaining time. Pointing brilliantly three more times and displaying impeccable manners. As he harnessed up the young dog and roaded him back to camp. The old trainer reflected on todays turn of events. How many times, in the past had a dog made a turn seemingly out of no where. Turning in a brillant, broke shooting or all age performance. The old trainer realized it was the way of the prairie. Each training session, each mishandled bird, taught his young charges more than he ever could in the same time. Soon, those young dogs were putting it altogether, and standing broke like old veterans, something that was not as easy to do at home in Texas.
He returned to camp to see his other young dogs eagerly awaiting there turn on the prairie. The old trainer was as close to heaven he had ever been, and was regretting the turn of the season which would send him back to Texas. For the winters on the prairie were as harsh as the summer was heavenly.
Keith - Posting from Under the Rusty Windmill
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