Of bird dogs and days in yesterday’s fields

By Otha Barham

March 07, 2008 12:43 am

— Those of us who depend on regular retreats into the outdoor places to fuel our passions and who crave the punch of a long gun against a shoulder and the smell of burnt gunpowder are faced each year with a blank period following rabbit and squirrel season. We suffer an emotional grasping at straws, fitfully protesting the end of those times afield that won’t resume until spring turkey season begins when we will only get to feel that satisfying smack against a shoulder maybe two or three times before summer sets in.
Quail hunters who know where a secluded covey resides have had a few days out with the dog that only wets their appetite for more. The answer is a place where released quail have had to survive the elements and predators and are flushing and flying with gusto that evokes memories of the old days.
Such a place is Millbrook Quail Preserve near Stonewall. Here you will experience broom sage and pines and frozen points by spirited dogs along with a few briars and beggar lice and of course a measure of misses to balance out things and replicate the days of last century. Too, a land owner and dog handlers who will do what it takes to make your hunt one to remember.

Seeing first hand

I was fortunate to make a hunt there last week and the day stands out as one of the highlights of my hunting year. The camaraderie of the providers and companion hunters would have been enough to make my day. The plentiful birds were icing on my cake. All afternoon there was never an anxious wait before another covey held in front of a dog. Four of us bagged 52 birds, even with the handicap of my considerable misses.
Trust me. The Millbrook quail are no pushovers. Even though I can blame a few trees for getting in the way of my patterns, most shots were in the open due to the grooming done by Dr. Carruth, the owner/manager to recreate the rolling, semi-open terrain typical of the days our hunting parents and grandparents enjoyed.
The quail hunting season is in full swing. Contact Dr. Ed Carruth at (601) 659-9922 to arrange a hunt.
Reese Amis of Decatur, Mississippi, owned a bird dog and, having decided he (the dog) was short on brains, shot the canine on two different occasions in an attempt to kill him. One day while discussing a third attempt on the dog's life with Bo Bosarge, Bo offered to take the dog and try to rehabilitate him.
Bo learned that Smoky would hunt well and back magnificently but rarely pointed on his own. On these rare occasions when he stumbled onto a covey, he would hold them until someone flushed them or until the sky fell, whichever occurred first.
Smoky would run nose first into the kennel fencing until his nose bled and all the hair was worn off his face. Ultimately he would make a hole and escape. So Bo chained the dog, but he would still charge the fence, and once through it, was trapped by the chain where the cows often walked by and hooked him. None of these episodes proved fatal and Bo began to see the charmed life of this canine.
One day, Smoky, a newcomer to the kennel, barged in on the food dish of Bo's German shepherd and the offended dog grabbed Smoky by the throat and shook him until blood gushed and spewed from the wounds. Bo determined this was the end of old Smoky, but decided to take his limp form to the veterinarian as a proper last gesture.
The veterinarian confirmed that the dog would not live, citing loss of blood and advanced shock. Bo left the dog there and learned the next day that he not only lived, but was up and raring to go. Another defeat for death.

Holding point

One day, when Smoky was getting along in years, Bo was hunting him with friend Tom Downey. The dog disappeared and after a long search, they spotted him far down in a huge briar thicket. Repeated calling brought no response. Tom worked his way around a ridge and could see the dog far below. "I see that dog and he is dead," called Tom.
"Dead?' asked Bo. Well, I guess it's as good as any for his last resting place. But I sure would like to get my collar off him." So they set about trying to reach Smoky through the thick briars. Bo pushed through, slowly progressing toward the dog. As he got within sight of the dog, the briars were so thick they stopped him, and he got down on all fours and wedged through inches at a time.
Tom finally reached the dog first and said, "Hmmm, his eyes are clear as crystals." Bo was just then a couple feet from the dog as Tom reached for the collar. Suddenly, birds exploded from everywhere, hitting briars and stripping feathers as they left in every direction. Old Smoky then broke point amid two shocked and disheveled bird hunters.
After surviving several more of his close encounters, old Smoky lost a long battle with death and died of natural causes.

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