In memory of Josie

I owe a lot to Josie - and not just for the memories of times we spent together in the field or elsewhere.

I lived in a suburban neighborhood when I brought her home as a seven week old pup and soon realized that an unfenced yard wasn't going to work. The "neighborhood covenant" prohibited fences, and the neigborhood association denied my permit to build her a run.

So, I left the suburban Nazi's behind and bought a home in the sticks, a major shift in my life that I've never regretted.

I will be forever grateful to her for the times we spent together, and for the life to which she led me.

She was a hell of a dog.

This was taken in my 'back yard', in winter, next to our "ice waterfall"

Josie's first pheasant hunt.

This was a heck of a day in Scotland County, northeastern Missouri. Yes, the limit is 2 cocks per day, but there were several shooters... only one dog though. These are all wild birds, hunted "rough" right over the dog. She'd find 'em, flush 'em and fetch 'em.

This was Josie's second goose, taken near Horseshoe lake in southern Illinois.

Same day as the picture above.... Left To Right: Bob Barden, Mike Emerson, Josie and I, Greg Carmody.

There wasn't much that escaped her attention, and when she wasn't hunting she seemed to be thinking about hunting. Or maybe that was just me....

Goodbye, Josie. May your body be again young and strong, and may the roosters always hold tight.

Cinnamon Streak WCX, JH, 10/31/85 - 1/6/00

Her real name was Josie—and she was a bit of an outlaw.

She was a field bred Golden Retriever, long-boned and dark.  Not like those blond stocky show Goldens, though she was mostly white in her late years.

Josie was the first dog I had ever trained, and looking back she was not a beginners dog.

She was a willful cuss. Her blood was on fire and she had the sort of talent that often left me in awe. In the right hands I have no doubt she would have been a field champion.

Her intelligence, nose and courage were astonishing—and when she got a whiff of pheasant it was as if the whole world shrank down to a tight focus which was the depth and breadth and heft of that bird.

It was as if she was *angry* at the bird, like it had wronged her kin or something. Her focus was absolute, and when she returned to me with bird in mouth, her pride was absolute as well. She retrieved geese and ducks and doves and quail and (reluctantly) woodcock like a trooper, but with pheasants it was personal.

She was not perfect, burdened with the sort of flaws that result when a willful dog is trained by a rank amateur.  But she had greatness in her.

We once hunted with a fellow who knew what he was talking about, who observed that she might be the best pheasant dog he had ever seen. To be honest it was a heck of a day and she didn't earn such high praise every time we went out (the first hunt every Fall was always a battle of wills) but damn, she sure gave 'em hell.

The pheasant season was a short part of our lives every year, just a few weekends. A long distance view of her life might lead to the mistaken conclusion that she was mostly a pampered house dog.

OK maybe she was. But if she could speak I know she would say her life had not been about lazing on the couch, or getting away with sneaking onto the bed at night, or cadging treats.

She would say it was about the pheasants.

I will forego the temptation to describe some of the highlights that burn in my brain like back lit snapshots. There's too many and my eyes don't seem to be working so good today.

The moment has been a while in coming. Yesterday I suspected and today I knew. We took the trip to the vet together. I held her as she left me.

Enough.

I'll just raise a glass and say that, friend, the world just lost a hell of a dog.

-- Thursday, January 6, 2000