6/17/2025
Where did our ten years go, my graying friend, my love? How unfairly fast the time has come when your body can’t obey your great, great heart. No matter Tip, we were young together and knew what life was all about. Let’s turn back now and build a fire and take a little nap. – Gene Hill, “Idler of March”
Gene Hill knew a dog’s love.
He was an outdoor writer for many years, and was perhaps best known for his stories about dogs and the bond they form with their people. Though he passed away back in ’97, his writing continues to express what many of us experience but don’t know how to put into words. His writing is bedrock, easy to read, and positive. He clearly loved his family, his dogs, and the time they spent together. That resonates. I love my family as well. And I, too, have experienced deep, meaningful connections with dogs. And I’ve had some good ones.
Queen, a lab mix, was my first dog. Got her for Christmas when I was seven or eight and just a puppy. I didn’t know what I was doing and wasn’t a reliable trainer. But she taught me what a friend was. And forgiveness. We had Queen bred to a Yellow Lab and she had a good litter. I laid with her in her dog house when she was big pregnant. I don’t know how I fit. It was tight. But Queen made room for me and licked me on the face. We kept one of her pups… a male we named Chance that my dad trained. Chance was great and I learned from being around him that a dog could be a good citizen.
A few years later, I saw an Australian Shepherd pup that I just had to have. But my parents said that I’d have to find another home for Queen if I took in a new pup. I was young and dumb. When Queen’s new family came to pick her up, she wouldn’t leave me to get into their car. I had to get in before she would get in. That’s the last time I remember crying.
I had just walked into Mr. Wages’s feed store one day when I was about eleven, and before I could get to the ropes and spurs hanging on the back wall, I was immediately taken by a little fluffy puppy in a box by the door. “What kind of puppy is this?” I asked. “That’s an Australian Shepherd. A real cow dog pup.” I was had with “cow dog,” blinded to any reason, bound and determined that she would be mine. Taffy was a gem. Queen waited for me at home, loyal, thinking the best of me. I was a traitor. And as much as I loved Taffy, I have always regretted quitting on Queen.
I never really could do anything with Taffy. She was too much for the boy I was then. She was beautiful and she was athletic. But that didn’t stop her from getting stepped on by a cow when she was still just a pup. Even though her leg healed up over time, she went along on three legs unless she really needed to get with it. She just didn’t know when to quit.
I wish I could go back and have another go with Queen and Taffy. Those two dogs don’t reflect my best. But they are the ones that turned me into a dog man. I’ll never forget them.
My roommate graduated and moved off as I was going into my senior year of college. I didn’t know much about gun dogs but decided I needed one anyway. Particularly, I decided that needed a German Shorthaired Pointer. I heard about this breeder up near Ranger and went looking. After talking to area vet clinics and begging for help, I was given directions to a lady’s house who had some shorthairs. I knocked on her door and asked if she knew where I might find a good pup. She said that she knew of a litter from her good dog Boudroux that was due soon. As soon as she said “Boudroux” my ears perked up.
I had read too many issues of Gun Dog magazine not to recognize that name. But I didn’t dream that she might be talking about the same dog. She invited me back to her office in her kennel so she could get me the man’s number who owned the female. As soon as I walked through the door to her office I knew that I had stumbled into an amazing opportunity. The walls were covered in Field Trial ribbons and Gun Dog of the Year awards. There were even a few framed covers of Gun Dog magazine with Boudroux’s picture on them. The lady (I can’t remember her name now) took me back to see him in person. She had several good dogs, but it wasn’t hard to know which one he was. Boudroux was just that special.
I had Lord Augustus Boudroux put on his pedigree papers but always called him Gus. Back in Nacogdoches I asked a gun dog trainer of area wide fame if he would help me train him. He said that he was retired and that I should have called a few years prior. I told him that my pup was out of Boudroux and he asked if we could start that afternoon. Gus came knowing more about bird hunting than Mr. Richardson and me combined. Which really means Mr. Richardson, because, practically speaking, I knew nothing.
One of the best days of my life involves a day hunting quail with Gus.
It was a wonderful day. Perfect, even if it was in the midst of some really hard years. We finished the day at a stone marking Elizabeth Crocket’s old home place. It’s where she was awarded land in payment for her husband David’s service to the Republic, and where she moved with her younger children towards the end of her life. There was a rail fence around the monument there. The early fall sun was just going down, Gus was at my feet. We had covered many North Texas miles since we started out that morning as the sun just just coming up, and I suspect that we found every bird on the place. I remember leaning on that old rail fence and thinking that life could not possibly be any better than it was right then. The sun was shining in my eyes in that perfect way that only happens at sunrise or sunset. It’s as if God was reminding me that if I would but trust him and follow him all would be well. I needed to hear that. I still need to hear that. And I still love the sun on my face. It reminds me that I am alive and all is well.
Yes, Gus was special. I eventually graduated and moved to College Station to pursue a Master’s of Ag Business degree from A&M. I took Gus with me but we never hunted together again. Eventually, he went to work for a go-ahead-on Upland Bird Hunting outfit in New Mexico. I never heard from him after that, but I imagine him spending the rest of his life doing what we was meant to do and what he loved to do, and that he was the number one requested dog on the ranch by discerning hunters.
After Heather and I were married and settled into our Sugar Land townhouse, I convinced her that we needed a dog. Now, we had no space for a dog, just a little two bedroom with about a seven by ten courtyard. We decided a little Boston Terrier would be perfect. And Louis (named for Louis L’Amour) was perfect. He was cute as a button, healthy, and was great to leave loose in the house for hours on end while we were gone to work. He didn’t make messes and was always excited to see us when we got home. He was so good, and left alone so much, that we decided he needed a friend. So we got another little Boston and named her Molly.
Molly entered our family ready to be in charge. We brought her home to meet Louis when she was seven weeks old. The first thing she did was pee on the floor. The second thing she did was take Louis’s toy away from him. Louis sniffed the pee, sniffed Molly (and got growled at), and then looked at us with a look that said, “What in the world is this?!”
They got along pretty good as long as Louis did what Molly wanted. Where Louis was easy, Molly was feisty. When the kids were little, she would sit on the couch and bark at them when they ran by. She needed them to know that, “This is my house by God and you kids need to remember that!” When their friends came over and ran by she would growl. I don’t know if she ever bit anyone, but it would have been like an old lady fussing. No big deal. And kinda sweet. I’m not sure that you understand what it’s like to have a dog with a personality that lets you call her biting a kid sweet, but there you go. That was Molly. I miss her dearly.
We went some years after Molly before we felt settled enough to get another dog. Baker came to us needing a good home. He was an Australian Cattle Dog (Blue Heeler) and latched on right away. Mainly to me. Baker was just about as close to perfect as you should expect from a dog. I do believe that when dog was given the title, “Man’s best friend,” Baker is what was meant. He did have some flaws. Like how he treated other dogs. Particularly male dogs. He just didn’t care for them at all. He was also a little bit too attached to me. If I was in the house he wanted to be right by me. He was actually a little obsessive about it. Even I got to where I needed a little space from him from time to time. Even with his faults, Baker was the kind of dog that is easy to take for granted. And perhaps that’s the compliment that he would be most happy with.
Baker was nearing his end when Heather called to ask if we needed another heeler pup. I quickly replied, “No.” …
You can read a little about Daisy here, but to say that she has, in a mere year and a half, stole a big piece of my heart would be a bit of an understatement. The way I have most often described Daisy is full of promise and potential. That’s still true, but lately another “p” word has begun to get some usage. Perfect. Some might say that I’m biased.
I expect that I’ve got time over the next fifty years or so for about five more dogs. Maybe a few more than that. Now that I think about it, I probably aught to start thinking about another cow dog to help Daisy. Even though I’m not real sure what she would need help with…