By James Davis
Opening weekend had come and gone. As the season progressed, the heartbreaking scene, would repeat itself every morning. Loading the skiff, both “Pilot” and “Rogue” would come flying out of the kitchen, down the steps, and into the garage. They knew adventure was on the way! A chorus of barks and roos were let out as they jockeyed for position, racing around my truck. However, when the rusty kennel door squeaked open, Pilot, my youngest Chesapeake, would get the nod. His block head and barrel chest leaping into the box, ready to go. Rogue, would look up through her amber eyes, confused as to why she wasn’t going. Disappointed, she would slowly sulk back into the house.
Strong north winds, falling temperatures, and cold water are trying conditions for pups in their prime much less any dog over eight years old. After a life in the arena, age sets in. The body breaks down. Once bulging muscles disappear and joints stiffen. Reflexes slow, eyes cloud, and hearing fades. Dogs that once jumped into boats and battled endless chop are slowly removed from the lineup. Rogue, now thirteen, retired a few years ago. While my young gun pup, Pilot, has taken her position, my memories with her are clear. Mornings when the skies came alive and sandwiches were shared.
Arriving home, the old girl would be stretched out on the couch. Her aged legs and muscles twitching, dreaming of past retrieves. A gentle hand placed on her shoulder, would announce my arrival, as years of booming guns had taken her hearing. She would fly off the couch, a tail wagging, face licking ball of energy! We would head to the local park and using some of the harvested birds, I would throw a few marks. A chance to play the game. Each retrieve, proudly bouncing back with her head held high, a mouth full of feathers and a happy tail. Living on borrowed time.
The first weeks of the season had started cooler than most, however, an Indian summer had recently set in. Looking for an opportunity to get her in the game, the next days forecast called for unusually warm temperatures. With it, a chance to captain the skiff, critique the the stool, feel the warmth of a sunrise, and scan the horizon. More importantly, it would be just us, as it had always been. Side by side, sharing our deepest secrets. Smiling, laughing, and crying. This would be the perfect opportunity to borrow time.
Morning came fast. Packing up, the brown bombers raced around the truck. Much to Pilot’s surprise, Rogue’s name was called, and I motioned for her to kennel up. Today was her day! Arriving at the marsh, the stars shined bright. Orion’s belt and the big dipper were visible as we dragged the skiff down the trail. Rogue bounded ahead, stopping every few feet to look back. Her forever watchful eyes on me. At the waters edge, the roosting flock of geese took to the sky. Their honks of discontent filling the air. Pushing off, the October hunters moon bounced off the water mirror, illuminating the way. We followed the light, poling deeper into the night.
Reaching the point, I dragged the skiff into the cattails. Wading out, the water was shallow and the ground firm. I placed each decoy. A mix of geese, mallards, and teal. Rogue the old veteran, sat on the bow, with a keen eye on the set up. The day broke, aside from the gaggle of geese we had kicked up and a few distant crows, there was not a bird in the sky. A few hours later, thoughts of picking up came to mind. None the less, Rogue was happy to be on the water, playing the sport she had mastered. Sitting next to each other, the rising sun warmed our old bones. Combined with the dead skies and motionless spread, we were lulled to sleep.
I am not sure how much time had passed but the loud quack startled me awake. A brace of mallards had snuck into the spread and were mingling with the imposters. I rose, the birds jumped straight for the heavens. My eyes caught the iridescent green flash of the drake’s head as I swung up and above his yellow bill. The trigger was squeezed and down he came. At the shot, Rogue woke in a panic, noticed the commotion, and was off through the running water. Making her way back, her sides heaved and haunches trembled. Taking her place next to me, cold water dripping from her belly, I reached for the lifeless migrant. “Good girl. Good girl”! I gave her happy pats and ear scratches. She clambered back in the skiff, ears perked and eyes to the sky. The sun moved high into the heavens and the noon church bells rang, signaling the end of the game. I pulled the stool. Smiling, we worked our way back to shore. A perfect morning to borrow time.
The following day, there was no racing around the truck. The garage was silent. Food and water was rejected and her legs no longer supported her frame. Cancer had come calling. A rush to the vet revealed it had taken root and eaten her insides. I sat on the floor, her head resting on my thigh. Stroking her soft ears, I told her that I loved her and that everything was going to be ok. Looking into her tired eyes, tears ran. Time had been the fee and I the ferryman. This was her final journey. Crossing the river Styx, I held the duck wing close to her nose. The lethal dose flowed. Her nostrils filled with good memories as she took in her last breaths on the road to Elysium.
