Hunting Dogs Quotes

“These naughty Frenchmen required a “poacher’s dog” compact in size and ultra obedient. Since they never knew when they and their close working hunting companion would be forced to slide quietly back over a fence or through a bordering hedgerow, these dogs were bred to point surely and retrieve quickly. Above all else, the Brittany was bred to be a superior hunter — and to be versatile. They reasoned, I guess, that a bunny in the pot was just about as good as a partridge on the grill.”
― Wayne Caldwell Simmons, The Story of Jules Verne: A Watch Pocket Dog

“Each man builds his dog in his own image, but the definition of a good dog, like the definition of a good man, is one who knows and respects the bobwhite. No sincere hunter will overshoot a covey. No good dog will flush a covey until the hunter is at his side. No good dog will encroach on another's point. A smart dog knows more than any man about the likeliest spot to find his quarry. No good man or good dog is happy to leave a wounded bird unfound. No good man hogs the best shot, as no good dog is disrespectful of the rights of his hunting companion. Altogether, the quail manages to bring out a great deal of fineness in both dogs and men.
- The Brave Quail By Robert Ruark”
― Jim Casada, The Greatest Quail Hunting Book Ever, Collector’s Edition

“Aside from its bearing, one way or another, on field trial technique, the average quail hunter (or any other type, for that matter) needs and delights in a prompt, tender retriever, regardless of breed. The daring, finished retriever brings a friendly kinship to the gunning theme. Faithful service, understandingly rendered, wins everlasting affection. Many and many a dead bird is found. And, equally important to game restoration, countless cripples are brought to bag. The chap who fails to cherish and reward his dog for tackling thorns or dangerous ice and water simply lacks humanity and sportsmanship. Have you ever sat late before a low-burning log fire and recalled how the noble animal at your feet risked his life so cheerfully for your fun? If so, then you and I share a sentiment worth owning.
- Amid Whirring Wings By Nash Buckingham”
― Jim Casada, The Greatest Quail Hunting Book Ever, Collector’s Edition

“When speed, range, and stamina are aligned with brilliant bird sense and handling response, the yardstick of bird dog greatnes, has been applied by judgment. But what counts with the average chap is his dog’s reaction to such a code of training and companionship. It, understanding of what they are out to enjoy together. In so many words, mutual enjoyment of a day’s gunning. My taste, and I'll wager that of many Bob Whiters reading this, rung to a big, hard-bitten pointer or setter—great-chested, high-headed, long-striding—from a well-bred strain of country giants with verve, hardihood, and courage that blazes the sedge and leaves smoke in the hollows. Fellows not overly friendly but with a magnificent sense of understanding and loyalty. Fellows that stride up to a weed patch, trusting high noses for an instant diagnosis. Dogs that spared pace across pastures and then turned loose like coiled springs when their pads regripped bird country. Dogs that cast in reluctantly at nightfall, with vinegar enough left to fight like wildcats of shake a few curs along the quarter's lane.
- Amid Whirring Wings By Nash Buckingham”
― Jim Casada, The Greatest Quail Hunting Book Ever, Collector’s Edition

“Jim said his only objection to setters for Florida is not their long hair—because that soon thins out down there—but that they insist on “winding” birds, whereas the pointers learn to trail them.
- Florida Bobs By Horace Lytle”
― Jim Casada, The Greatest Quail Hunting Book Ever, Collector’s Edition

“For a covey dog, give me a pointer—stamina, dash, derring-do. For a singles dog, give me a setter—patience, thoroughness, precision. Just one man’s experience, and if it doesn’t jibe with yours don’t sue me for it.
- The Old Maid By Havilah Babcock”
― Jim Casada, The Greatest Quail Hunting Book Ever, Collector’s Edition

“In fact, it’s purely my own personal belief that the nearest approach to Heaven on earth—and I don’t mean to be sacrilegious—_;, to be up on a good horse behind a brace of good dogs in the red-clayed pine-clad hills and sedge fields of Mississippi.
- Florida Bobs By Horace Lytle”
― Jim Casada, The Greatest Quail Hunting Book Ever, Collector’s Edition

“A bird hunter should consider quail as having the attributes of a gentleman unwillingly participating in the sport. The quail deserves every courtesy, including that of a clean kill. It should go without saying that quail must be shot only while on the wing. Ground shooting is the moral equivalent of stealing from the church collection plate . .. or worse. - Shooting Quail
- A Primer By Dr Joseph C. Greenfield, Jr.”
― Jim Casada, The Greatest Quail Hunting Book Ever, Collector’s Edition

“A biscuit eater is an ornery dog. He won't hunt anything except his own biscuits. Ang he'll suck eggs and steal chickens and run coons and jump rabbits. To a bird dog man, a biscuit eater is the lowest form of animal life. Strangers in Mississippi often are puzzled by the expression until natives, who usually eat biscuits instead of light bread, explain that a biscuit eater is a no 'count hound that isn't good for anything except to hunt his meat and biscuits.
- The Biscuit Eater By James Street”
― Jim Casada, The Greatest Quail Hunting Book Ever, Collector’s Edition

“Suddenly the scene is frozen for you. The mental camera clicks with Spook mouthin’ his retrieve, and Polly chasin’ a cripple through the blackberry bushes, and Buck tenderly handin’ Pete one of his two kills. And the whole thing is etched on your memory like one of the frames in a slide-projector, full color. Dark green lob-lolly pines, backing golden strawfield, brown blobs of hunters, white setters, sky now dolomite blue, and cottontufts of clouds just touched with slanting sunshine.

The day goes on, and there’s a fullness in it. The warmth of good companions, the steady, not-too-perfect dog work, the high excitement of the search, the pleasant lull between the points.
- A Letter to My Cousin By David H. Henderson”
― Jim Casada, The Greatest Quail Hunting Book Ever, Collector’s Edition

“Why hunt birds? The simple answer is that nothing, absolutely nothing, beats watching a pair of pointers cover a picturesque piece of ground in a workmanlike manner and slamming on brakes to a stylish point. Or an even better answer might be that nothing beats admiring your pointers as they precisely handle a running covey. This tableau, immediately followed by the feel of a fine double shotgun brought into play and accompanied by the thunderous sound of the covey flushing, is an experience without equal. There may be a few things I haven't tried, but nothing I have attempted, seen, or read about even comes close.
- Why Hunt Birds? By Dr. Joseph C. Greenfield, Jr”
― Jim Casada, The Greatest Quail Hunting Book Ever, Collector’s Edition

“Jules was in some pretty fancy company, all right. Running alongside him that day were two solid, wide-ranging Pointers: a liver and white Rip Rap dog and a slippery lemon Elhew bitch Blume swore by. Rounding out the field were his pride and joy, a breath-taking English setter he called Babe and another Brittany, one almost twice the size of my little Jules.

We hadn't gone far, perhaps only a few hundred yards when Jules dropped out of sight. Blume’s highly esteemed dog trainer/handler was the first to locate him. “Your dog is down over here," Joe cryptically announced, his condescension purposefully unmasked, “Maybe he’s got a rabbit!”

“Oh boy; now they’re reading my mind,” I thought to myself.

As I topped the little rise that stretched before us, a beautiful composition began to unfold. Jules hung rock solid on the far side of a naked wash, his back foot still raised as if frozen in mid-stride, his head faced forward while his eyes were locked in hard to the left. Somewhere under that big cottonwood log and brush top breathed game — A bunny perhaps! One by one, each of the other dogs arrived: first, the Setter with her beautiful, white flowing flag, then the cat walking Brittany, and finally, the wide running Pointers with their twelve-o’clock high tails. Each, honoring Jules’ find, fell into his own exquisite cast iron point, until finally the painting was complete. Slowly we walked in amongst them. At the last possible moment, Blume turned to me, and with a little smile, kicked the old cottonwood log. The explosion was startling even for hunters who'd been there many, many times before. It seemed like every quail in West Texas was huddled up under that log.”
― Wayne Caldwell Simmons, The Story of Jules Verne: A Watch Pocket Dog

“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

“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

“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

“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

“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

“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

“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

“A good dog, and he must be a good one, is absolutely essential to the utmost enjoyment of grouse hunting. I do not mean that it is necessary to have a dog in order to kill grouse. There are other systems whereby they may be killed just as dead and in just as great numbers; but I repeat that a good dog is essential to the utmost enjoyment of the game.”
― Burton L Spiller, DRUMMER IN THE WOODS. Twenty-One Wonderful Stories About Grouse Shooting

“Setters were my first love and pointers are my present amours, but my observation leads me to believe there is no marked difference between the good ones of either breed. Under present hunting conditions I would train my young dog to follow a trail until the bird was found and flushed. Just so long as he was following scent I would stay with him and give him my moral support, and we would find that bird if it took the rest of the day to do it. I would teach him by example that finding birds was his job and that I would stay with him from soup to nuts.”
― Burton L Spiller, DRUMMER IN THE WOODS. Twenty-One Wonderful Stories About Grouse Shooting

“How they come trooping back, those memories, undimmed by the passage of time. Was it yesterday that little Gyp went off the high bank when the river was in flood, after a crippled grouse and, all unmindful to our cries to come back, swam out into the full force of the current? Then down through the white water he went, rolling over and over, now lost to view, now emerging for a moment and still fighting valiantly. Was it yesterday that I waded into the backwash at the foot of the rapids and gathered him in my arms, half drowned but with the bird still in his mouth.

No, that was not yesterday, for faithful little Gyp has been sleeping on the sunny bank below the old willow these many, many years.”
― Burton L Spiller, DRUMMER IN THE WOODS. Twenty-One Wonderful Stories About Grouse Shooting

“Was it yesterday that Vaughn’s pointer went down the river and out over the bar into the storm tossed Atlantic after a broken winged shelldrake? I remember how we watched him from the shore until his head was but a mere speck in the distance, and then that, too, disappeared. Then, because the wind and tide set toward the east, we went a mile upriver to the bridge, crossed it and came back to the beach on the other side, hoping against hope that we might find his body.

I remember how, as we stood gazing out over that welter of wind-driven water, Vaughn’s sudden, exultant shout rang out. “By God! There’s my dog!” And there he was, fighting his way in through the breakers, with the shelldrake, still alive, in his mouth.

No, that was not yesterday, for I have not seen Vaughn for more than twenty-five years.”
― Burton L Spiller, DRUMMER IN THE WOODS. Twenty-One Wonderful Stories About Grouse Shooting

“You could spend the whole hunting season, going up and down the state from the Canadian border to salt water, and you wouldn’t find a bird dog anywhere that could hold a candle to Jack, A big, bold dog, with stamina enough to go eight hours a day and seven days a week, yet wise enough to slow his pace without command and hunt to gun in thick cover. He had a chokebore nose that could wind a grouse at a hundred yards, and he had an uncanny way of going boldly in on them to the last tricky inch, and nailing them there with the accuracy of a magnetic compass.”
― Burton L Spiller, DRUMMER IN THE WOODS. Twenty-One Wonderful Stories About Grouse Shooting

“Toby was there, in a tangle of birches and blackberry vines, locked up on a bird. Without too much confidence in myself, but with the clumsy weapon pushed out before me ready for instant action, I went in and paused close behind the dog. Instantly, some thirty feet ahead, a grouse hammered up toward the tops of the birches. New gun or old, I couldn’t miss a shot like that, and I tumbled the bird back to earth.

Although I had shot almost directly over the dog’s back, he did not flinch or move a muscle. Then, as I looked at him, he swung his head an inch to the right and stood there without a quiver.

“Another one?” I asked him, and a second bird flushed, beating sharply upward as the first one had done.

Again I connected, and again the dog swung his nose another inch to the right. A third grouse came out, exactly like the others, and I tumbled that one back with the rest. Still, Toby had not moved an inch, but now he took two infinitely cautious steps and froze once more, this thing, I thought, might well become habit forming, and if it proved to be so, I was wish to become an addict. Then the fourth and last grouse came out to meet its fate.”
― Burton L Spiller, DRUMMER IN THE WOODS. Twenty-One Wonderful Stories About Grouse Shooting

“If from that you infer that I believe real grouse dogs are almost as scarce as the proverbial hen’s teeth, you are correct in your supposition. My experiences have led me to believe that not more than one in twenty-five of the present-day crop would make the grade, even under the most favorable conditions. The majority of them would go part way, but the summit would still be uncrowded.”
― Burton L Spiller, DRUMMER IN THE WOODS. Twenty-One Wonderful Stories About Grouse Shooting

“That is the way I wish my dog to think of me: as a companion and pal, rather than as a terrible and uncertain-tempered god. When I whistle him in he must come promptly, not with his tail between his legs, and belly to earth, but joyously and eagerly, with his body doing an Oriental shimmy in sympathy with his vibrating tail.

It required three months of daily endeavor to accomplish this, for he was a shy pup, but I made it a rule to play with him every day, boisterous and breath-taking romps which lasted for a half hour or more. But invariably, before the completion of these periods, we paused for a few minutes of schooling: never anything drastic, but such simple things as holding a ball in his mouth, or any other thing which suggested itself at the moment. The idea was not to teach him an assortment of tricks, but rather to let him learn that good times and obedience went hang in hand.”
― Burton L Spiller, DRUMMER IN THE WOODS. Twenty-One Wonderful Stories About Grouse Shooting

“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

“When it came to effectiveness on multiple species of game birds, Farley was a “Jack of all Trades.” In his three seasons, | harvested valley quail, scaled quail, pheasants, ruffed grouse, blue grouse, Hungarian partridge, chukar partridge, sage grouse, and sharptail grouse over his staunch points. Had I been able to shoot straight, I would have added a lesser prairie chicken in Kansas to the list. Farley also pointed some bobwhites in Kansas, but I had no chance to shoot.”
― Andrew M. Wayment, Idaho Upland Days: Reflections on Bird Dogs, Banner Days, and Other Roadside Revelations

“While I have great respect for the pointing breeds, I remain a hopeless afficionado of the Labrador retriever. I love Labs; don’t ask me to explain. We just seem to understand each other and to approach the world with a fundamentally similar set of priorities, an admission with which certain co-workers and an ex-wife would no doubt agree. Because I make it a point to live in places where I can hunt a lot, my kennel has to be productive. It also has to be versatile, since any given day here on the prairie might provide the opportunity to hunt everything from Huns to geese. Sure, I could have Labs and more traditional upland bird dogs, but every place in the kennel occupied by something other than a Lab would be. well, one less Lab in my life.”
― E. Donnall Thomas Jr., Fool Hen Blues: Retrievers & Shotguns and the American West