Archibald Rutledge > Quotes

“Game was standing beside me on the bank, but I was too busy with the big greenheads and the little bluewings to notice him. I tried in a perfunctory way to mark down the ducks that I shot that fell off in the watery marsh. But the flight was so heavy that this task was nothing but a bewildered attempt and I realized that when the shooting was over the setter and I would have to do some tall swimming to get the dead ducks. When that time came it was almost dark and the setter seemed reluctant to come. He seemed interested in something a few yard: down the bank. I went there impatiently and what did I find but that Game had brought in every duck I had shot, and had them all laid out in a row on the bank. He must have gone in after them one after another as I shot; but I was so excited and the rain and duck wings together were making so much racket that I had not realized until the thing had been done what the setter had been doing.”
― Archibald Rutledge, Bird Dog Days, Wingshooting Ways

“Dont talk to me about a bird dog of the right kind having nothing but instinct. It isn't so. I have known scores of dogs that had reasoning power, and I have owned several that had it. And in choosing a bird dog, above all things else one should get a dog that has sense. One day I was complaining to the best quail shot in North Carolina (and that is saying something, for the ‘Tarheels are quail shooters from away yonder) that my dog was a bit lazy. He asked me abruptly if he had sense. I replied that he undoubtedly had. “Then,” said he, “hang on to him for keeps. Most bird dogs of the right sort have every virtue but sense; so if he has that, too, he has them all. And if he doesn’t have all the others, and yet has sense, you can teach him all he ought to know.”
― Archibald Rutledge, Bird Dog Days, Wingshooting Ways

“Reaching the barnyard, we decided that an assault en masse was the proper maneuver. The dogs were to be the shock troops, and we were to follow up the advantage that they had obtained over the common enemy. We had sundry cudgels and ropes with which to belabor the victim.

The seven dogs went through the gate in a body; and the wild boar accommodated them by not permitting them to hesitate for a moment as to which hog they were after. Incontinently he rushed them. With great valor we watched the fray from the farther side of the fence, waiting until our chance seemed secure enough to enable us to cross the obstruction that protected us. Suddenly, hurled high over the fence, the bulldog rejoined us; all the zest seemed gone out of him. Then the two hounds fled across the yard and skulked into the stable; their attitude indicated that they carried no tornado insurance. The collie stood off and barked with hollow ferocity. The two plain dogs went manfully to work, as if the matter of laying in a supply of Christmas bacon interested them personally. But one dog was trampled by the boar. The other seized the monster’s ear and hung on grimly. Yet the beast would rip him open, I knew.

Just then, Sarsaparilla, who had calmly and aloofly watched the proceedings, stepped niftily in. He approached rather fastidiously, not from dismay but from a certain curious regard for finesse. Stationed behind the hog, he looked thoughtfully at the shaggy brute; then he quietly bowed his lunatic, dolesome head, mouthed the boar’s upper haunch until he had a deliberate hold, sunk his teeth, set his legs, and began grimly to shake his head.

The boar, I think, got one glimpse of what had him; he probably imagined it a saber-toothed tiger. Savagely shaking off the dog from his head, he squealed shrilly and turned to run.

Sarsaparilla said quite firmly, “Not so fast.” The bewildered boar could not get loose. The other dogs came back. We jumped the fence, and soon we had the old marauder from the swamps securely roped. Sarsaparilla then stalked sedately off; he had condescended to help us; but he was not going to join in any of our puerile excitement.

“What kind of dog is that?” I asked his owner.

“God in he’ben knows,” replied he, meaning no irreverence; “but he got all de sense. Sometime I gwine change his name to Solomon.”
― Archibald Rutledge, Bird Dog Days, Wingshooting Ways

“I remember an old English sporting print showing a slashing pointer with a rabbit in his mouth halting in the act of retrieving to stand a grouse. I have seen the same thing happen, and perhaps, one incident a little superior to it. One day my pointer Prince was bringing a rabbit that I had shot when he suddenly stopped. I did not know just how to account for his procedure, for he warily laid the rabbit down in the grass, then lifted his head, glanced significantly at me, and steadied to a point. His behavior appeared to indicate that he was laying aside inferior game to give the covey under his nose his undivided attention.”
― Archibald Rutledge, Bird Dog Days, Wingshooting Ways

“Whether considering dogs or men, thinking on their character and their destiny, I always wonder what it is they really want in life? Is it wealth? Sympathy? Power? Understanding? The strong desire for fame inherent in us may be just a passionate yearning to have others recognize our own aspirations. A man, perhaps, bears the same relation to a dog as God does to a man. A dog is certainly happiest when he can please his master. With all reverence I can say that if I would only trust God as my dog trusts me, there would be no trouble for me henceforth, even in this difficult world.”
― Archibald Rutledge, Bird Dog Days, Wingshooting Ways

“It is generally conceded that the pointer, being far back probably of hound strain, is superior in the power of scenting to the setter, likely springs anciently from dogs akin to spaniels. However it may be, these two great breeds have some very clearly marked distinctions: the pointer is all for business, is a slashing, tireless, bold, soldierly sort of a dog; the setter is far gentler, more easily handled, is sensitive, and is so anxious to please as to be positively obliging. it strikes me that, in the field, there is not a great deal of choice; but at home the setter is the better dog to keep. As a matter of fact, the setter appears to be distinguished by having what we call good manners; the pointer s usually a rough-and-ready customer, milling through his work in arrogant style; the setter is deferential, dainty, and I think it is not too much to say that this grand breed of dogs has in it a high artistic strain. Men who know and love setters understand what I mean.”
― Archibald Rutledge, Bird Dog Days, Wingshooting Ways

“When I have the approximate distance a grouse has gone, and his direction of flight, I follow him, but I try never to go straight at him. Wild game is alwavs able to recognize a hunter who acts as if he were on the warpath. As I never walk directly toward a grouse, so I never try to sneak up on him. That is a maneuver that will scare the wits out of him. My general attitude in approaching game is that of elaborate and rather goofy indifference; I try to act as if I were idly looking for posies, or dreaming of some lost love of the long ago. The hunter who is stalking, if he shows himself at all, should always try to create the impression that he is doing anything else in the world but hunt. By this sort of trickery I have often been able to walk within twenty feet of a grouse, whereas, had I stormed down at him, he probably should have kited out of cover while I was still fifty yards away.

If you want a real chance at your grouse, don’t let him say of you, “Oh, my gosh, here comes that killer!” Always persuade him to say unconcernedly, “I wonder who that booby is, wandering around vaguely?”
― Archibald Rutledge, Bird Dog Days, Wingshooting Ways: Archibald Rutledge's Tales of Upland Hunting

“I remember seeing a point that was both remarkable and comical, as it involved an acrobatic feature. I was walking down the side of an old stake-and-rider fence looking for a decent place to cross when my English setter Fanny, spying a loose rail with the near end on the ground, walked up it to cross. The rail was broad, and it rested on the top of the fence almost at the balancing point. As a result, when Fan got to the top of the fence, the rail tipped level. She, of course, teetered a little, uncertain what to do.

At that very instant the hot and heavy scent of a covey of quail just over the fence assailed her nostrils. She steadied herself, her feathered tail tipping up a little as it would when she came to a stand. But the rail would not stand. It kept rocking up and down, while Fan balanced herself, pointing, It would be hard to conceive, or to arrange artificially a little woodland tableau of this kind, and I hold it as one of my fondest recollections of my hunting dogs. Fan knew very well that her holding the covey depended on her holding both her point and her balance. Hers was a piece of spontaneous tight rope walking. She was still in position when I came up and made my shots on the covey's rise.”
― Archibald Rutledge, Bird Dog Days, Wingshooting Ways

“And Bolio, being far wiser than most of his kind, was fully aware of the nature of this night-prowler, the approach of whom it was his duty to challenge. Down the steps the powerful black dog had stalked, his growl warning the intruder. There were stepping stones across the yard to the little gate. Down this pathway the black warder of Jeff Wise’s lonely cabin went, slowly, certainly, his head high, his eyes ablaze. What to him were rain and the night, mystery of that vast solitude peril—the lush scent of the enemy? Such a dog has a passion for duty; and Bolio’s present duty was to fight.”
― Archibald Rutledge, Bird Dog Days, Wingshooting Ways: Archibald Rutledge's Tales of Upland Hunting

“It has never seemed to me that enough could ever be written about the ruffed grouse. The nature of this grand bird is so above reproach that it must always be classed among the royalty in the great community of wild life. Its romantic wild haunts, its patrician habits, its princely bearing, its cyclone speed upon the wing, the marvelous skill with which it unerringly executes its aerial maneuvers, its poise and rare distinction of carriage, its keenly bred woodland intelligence, the beauty and appropriateness of its tawny plumage—whatever aspect you may take of this noble wild thing, you will find it perfect. Without irreverence I may truly say that it took God to imagine the ruffed grouse.”
― Archibald Rutledge, Bird Dog Days, Wingshooting Ways

“It has never seemed to me necessary to take a bird dog into the wilds to train him. Most of the work can be done right at home; and the sooner it is started, the better. Of all qualities in a bird dog pup, give me nose. By careful and intelligent handling, almost anything can be done with a young bird dog that has a good nose. Affection and gentleness on the part of the trainer count far more than any harsh measures yet devised. If your pup has an indifferent nose, he will never amount to much in the field, even with blood looks, and pedigree in his favor.”
― Archibald Rutledge, Bird Dog Days, Wingshooting Ways

“I love a hound because he appears to me to be a dog of some spiritual significance. His sagacity begins where that of most dogs ends; where his ends, I know not. He has a perception poignant and true. He has taught me much about life. My obligation to him is that unpayable debt that we owe to one aa who has given us an insight into the meaning of existence; whose spiritual genius has led us to understand that life has about it a great deal more magic and mystery than people with dismally literal minds would have us believe; whose prescient hand has set ajar for us casements of the soul, through which are far gleams of what may be, for all I know, the gorgeous frontiers of Eternity.”
― Archibald Rutledge, Bird Dog Days, Wingshooting Ways

“I can’t do nothing more tonight,” the mountaineer told himself. “Drat my Sunday suit—what will I do without Bolio—now the b’ar season is a-comin’ on? I have had dogs what would have give me pleasure to see slip off yon rock; but this one—I'd almost as soon go over myself. Tomorrow I can tell—unless he’s dropped into the river and been washed away. And he did it a-guardin’ us, too. Damn. What a dog! I don’t know what he met, but I'll bet a thousand dollars out of my next week’s salary that that stranger thought hed run plumb into a mangling machine. If Bolio went off that rock, he had company, that’s sure. It would be just like him to turn up here tomorrow morning.”

But on the following morning, with the rain over and the sky clearing, the great black hound did not appear. Jeff Wise was up by daybreak, and his chief business was to find his dog. He woke to a world washed clean; to delicious fall fragrances; to misty hemlocks and a cloud-filled gorge. Before the sun was up, he had been out on the platform of rock; he had searched the wooded brink of the canyon. But not a sign remained of the desperate struggle that had been waged. What the night had concealed, the day could not divulge. The evidence of that obscure and fatal encounter the storm had completely obliterated. The hemlocks shed their rainy fragrances as before; the falls roared their ancient mountain anthem; the rhododendrons shivered dewily, shedding silver drops into their dusky shadows. Giant red dahlias in Jeff's yard seemed to mock him with the affluence of their gorgeous beauty.”
― Archibald Rutledge, Bird Dog Days, Wingshooting Ways: Archibald Rutledge's Tales of Upland Hunting

“Dogs are laughably like people; one may go straight, but two will jump the traces and splurge all over the landscape. I have often noticed that when two dogs take a shine to each other, frolic much together, execute little secret expeditions, form a soulmateship, it is high time to look for trouble. This is especially true if the older dog has questionable motives. Is it not the same with us?”
― Archibald Rutledge, Bird Dog Days, Wingshooting Ways

“A hound has a genuine and profound distrust of the general scheme of things in this life. Melancholy of an ancient and appealing sort is his. What makes his pessimism worthy of regard is the fact that it has its source in remarkably sagacity. His honest and steadfast refusal to be optimistic not only lends to his character a noble severity but also gives to his philosophy the serene charm of truth. He invariably seems to me to belong to an older and a wiser generation, which regards the behavior of all other living things as an exceedingly juvenile performance. A hound is the only dog that can make me self-conscious of my own ridiculousness. Fixed by his appraising eye, I shrink into my true stature.”
― Archibald Rutledge, Bird Dog Days, Wingshooting Ways

“As these two grouse rose and came up the hill toward me, beating their way masterfully up to the treetops, I had, even while getting ready to shoot, a chance to watch their flight. It does not appear that anyone can ever regard it as anything but thrilling. In our attempts at locomotion, we improve our cars, our airplanes. But the grouse, countless centuries ago, perfected a flight that has the finality of finished art. It is graceful, swift, powerful, and yet strangely enigmatic. It attains what the finest automobile strives for: formidable power immediately available and under the most delicately adjusted control.

I do not know that it is a better flight than that of the quail, but it is far more impressive. And because the grouse is a bird of the forest and must needs do constant maneuvering while in flight, I think he handles himself more deftly than the bobwhite. In the flight of the larger bird there is endless variety. Especially interesting to me are three features: one is the occasional silent rise, the big bird taking wing with hardly a sound; one is the instinctive habit of putting an obstruction between himself and his pursuer, and the other is his love of often going almost straight up to clear the trees and then tearing away over their tops, as if he were running the hundred yards in the Olympics. Indeed, the flight of birds alone would afford a man a lifelong study.”
― Archibald Rutledge, Bird Dog Days, Wingshooting Ways: Archibald Rutledge's Tales of Upland Hunting

“There are, however, marked differences between the two greats of bird dogs that have long been generally recognized; and these differences may influence the choice of other men more than my own. The pointer was the first dog ever used to point game, and he seems to be built strictly for business. His place is in the field. When well broken he is almost unbelievably staunch. One brace of English pointers once stood point for an hour and twenty minutes, while a single English pointer stood game for six hours. A pointer has been known to have been frozen to death while on the point. But for all practical purposes the setter is just as staunch. A setter of mine once found a covey of quail at dusk, gone to roost in tall grass. I suppose I must have searched and called for half an hour before the dog was discovered, statued, with the whole covey just a few inches off his nose. The setter is the better companion; he is more gentle, affectionate, and demonstrative. The pointer always looks stripped for action; he does his work with admirable efficiency, and with a grim determination that is in high contrast to the setter’s ease and grace. Of the two, the pointer is the more independent and needs less encouragement. The pointer works as if it were his business to work; the setter as if wanting to please a watching master. The setter seems to work with his master; the pointer works for him. And each can do his work in a way to give eternal joy to the eye and the heart of a sportsman.”
― Archibald Rutledge, Bird Dog Days, Wingshooting Ways: Archibald Rutledge's Tales of Upland Hunting