Stephen Wallace

“I think back, too, on the strange views that many people held about cats. They were selfish creatures reserving their affections only for situations which would benefit them, and they were incapable of the unthinking love a dog dispenses. They were totally self-contained creatures who looked after their own interests only. What nonsense! I have felt cats rubbing their faces against mine and touching my cheek with claws carefully sheathed. These things, to me are expressions of love.”
― James Herriot, James Herriot's Cat Stories

“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

“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 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