Good Dogs And Grandkids

A brisk January morning on a small oxbow off the Satilla River was a dream for the author with his 11-year-old grandson beginning his waterfowling journey and his 11-year-old lab nearing the end of her’s.

We were only a few minutes into legal shooting time when a shot rang out behind me.

“What are you shooting at?” I exclaimed as I whirled around.

“A duck,” Easton answers as he slips another shell into his 20-gauge Beretta A390.

“Did you hit him?” I ask.

“Yes sir,” he replies in a calm, polite, but ever so slightly braggadocios tone. “He’s just over there behind that log.”

The log is about 30 yards away and blocks my view of the duck, although I can see ripples in the tea-colored water just behind the log providing evidence of the expired bird’s location.

I am also aware of Easton’s shooting skills and have little doubt of the dead duck’s existence. Easton is my 11-year-old grandson and has been hunting with his dad since he was a toddler. He shot his first deer at the age of 7 and his first duck when he was 10.  On this day, he is hunting with me as his dad is at work.

We are hunting this brisk January morning next to a small oxbow lake just off the Satilla River in southeast Georgia. While we occasionally see a few greenwing teal, these woods along the Satilla River basin are too tight for the big ducks. Wood ducks, which are plentiful, are usually our target. And that is fine by me, a wood duck breast wrapped in bacon and grilled medium rare is just about as good as it gets.

Wood duck hunts can be hit or miss, and this morning most of the birds flew just out of range. I’m convinced that a wood duck has already decided where it is going long before it ever flies off the roost. Decoying and calling add an element of excitement but rarely seem to make much difference.

Easton, as it turns out, was the only one in our party to fire a shot this morning.

Waiting ever so patiently by my side is my 11-year-old dog Ryleigh. She senses that her time has finally arrived. I bring her to heal and line her up in the direction of the still hidden woodie. By now, she is visibly trembling but not from the cold. This is what she was born and bred to do.

“Dead bird,” I say with encouragement.

She locks on, and with the command “back,” she is off, climbing over partially submerged logs, maneuvering around cypress knees. Without need of further handling and with strong and deliberate swimming strokes, Ryleigh makes her way to the duck using her nose to complete the blind retrieve. She picks it up aggressively but gently, having been trained at an early age to be soft mouthed. After all, this duck is for the table and preparation starts now.

Working her way back to me, I can tell it is not easy for her. Her daily dose of Rimadyl and Monoflex make this work bearable but not pain free. I can relate having started my morning with a coffee and cup of yogurt topped off with a course of vitamins and anti-inflammatories. Ryleigh comes to heal, sits and waits for the command “drop,” gently but intentionally releasing the bird to my hand.

Ryleigh is a yellow lab, but at this point she is tannic stained with a heavy coat of black mud on her vest. Green duckweed clings to her head and muzzle. She is tired, but happy. I can see it in her eyes. After many years of hunting together, we can read each other’s body language. She can sense that I am also tired, but happy.

At the age of 11, Easton is just coming into his own, becoming very proficient in the woods and on the water. His waders purchased only six months ago will probably not fit next season. His excitement for hunting encourages me that this long-time family tradition that my grandfather passed on to me will continue. While he may be a bit slow to rise on school days, Easton is typically the first one up on hunting days. Unlike Ryleigh and me, he has many more days ahead in the field. At 11, Ryleigh is in her twilight years, and I’m thinking that this will likely be her final season.

I’m reminded of the old saying “Time flies when you’re having fun,” and as I approach my 68th year of life, the passage of time has become exponential. I’m very much aware that I have more hunts behind me than in front of me. But for today, Easton, Ryleigh and I are living the dream. God bless good dogs and grandkids!