A Boy’s Best Friend
The Secret past of a Boy’s Best Friend
A Boy’s Best Friend Has A Secret Past
Years’ after his hunting dogs disappeared, the author learns the truth about his companion’s fate.
As a wannabe Forest Ranger, I take jobs as a counselor at the Neighborhood Youth Center, named B’klyn Heights Youth Center and we’d go to Upstate NY to camp-out during school hiatus; winter, spring and summer vacations. One of the senior counselors had a home and farm there, in addition to privat campgrounds.
Much of my childhood visits to Woodstock NY, was excruciatingly lonely. Family troubles, devastating shyness, to the point of withdrawal and a complete and utter lack if any social skills ensured a life of solitude, which was just fine by me. I’d spend most of my time drawing and painting. Hunting and fishing also, was not only my opening into the world of wonder; it was my salvation. From the age of 12. I lived, breathed, existed to draw hunt and fish. On school days I would hunt in the morning and again in the evening. On Friday s I would head into the woods by myself, often for the entire weekend. Still, I had not learned to just love solitude, but crave it as I do now. I would see something beautiful – the sunset or sunrise through the leaves, a deer moving through the dappled light – and I would want to point that out and say to someone, “Look!” But there’s no one there.
Then I met Ike & Tina and Ace.
It was the beginning of duck season. I got up at around 3 AM and walked from our house some four or five blocks to the rail yard, the across the covered street bridge. Then I dropped to the Hudson Riverbank and started walking along the water to the woods.
In the darkness it was hard going, I remembered. After a mile and a half or so, I was wading in swamp muck and went to pull myself up the bank to harder ground.
The mud was thick and slick as grease. I fell, then scrambled and scrabbled up the bank again and again, shot gun in one hand and grabbing at roots and twigs with the other. I had to just gained the top when a part of the naked darkness detached itself, leaned close to my face, and went “woof.”
No, not “arf” or “ruff” or a growl. But “woof.”
I got scared for ½ a second, and I froze. Then I let go of the fistful of scrub or shrub I was holding and clinging to and fell backward down the incline. On the way down the though hit me: bear. I clawed at my pocketknife and pockets for shells and inserted one into my shotgun. I was aiming when something about the dark shape in silhouette stopped me.
Whatever it was had remained sitting at the top of the bank, looking down at silly, me. There was just enough dawn light by this time to show a silhouette, it was a dog or two. Two big dogs, big black dogs. But dogs.
I immediately lowered my gun and wiped the mud out of mine eyes. “Who owns you, boys?” I asked. The dogs didn’t move and climbed the bank again. “Hello!” I called into the dark woods. “I have your dogs here!”
There was nobody.
“So you’re a stray.” But strays were shy like me and usually starved and skinny; this dogs was a Lab – Labrador, was well fed and healthy and his coat was shiny and thick. He stayed near me on my right-side.
“Well”, I said. “What do I do with you?” On impulse, I added, “You want to hunt?”
He knew the word, it would seem. His tail hammered the ground; he wiggled and then moved off along the river.
Just then a Falcon named Ace showed up and decided it wanted to hunt to.
I had never hunted with a bird of prey and a dogs before but I started to follow them. It was light enough now to shoot, so I kept the gun ready. We had not gone 50 yards when four mallards exploded out of the thicket and thick grass near the bank and started across the Hudson River.
I raised my gun, cocked it, aimed just about above the right-hand duck, and squeezed the trigger. There was a loud bang and a crash, and the duck fell into the water. Just then the Falcon snatched, in midair a second duck. He grabbed the duck with his talons.
When I’d shot ducks over the water or river before, I had to wait for the current to bring the bodies over to shore. This time however, it was different. With the smell of the powder still in the air, the dogs was off the bank in a great leap forward. He hit the water swimming, his shoulders pumping as he churned the water surface in a straight line to the dead duck. He took it gently in his mouth, turned and swam back. Climbing the bank, he put the duck by my right foot, next to where the falcon dropped the other duck, then moved off a couple of feet and sat under a tree where the falcon had roosted. The falcon flew down to me and landed on my shoulder.
It was fully light now, and I would and could see that the dogs and falcon had a collar and a tag. I petted both – they let me, in a reserved way – and pulled the tags to the side to read it.
“My name is Ace,” said the Falcon’s tag.
“My name is Ike,” said the dog’s tag.
“My name is Tina,” said the dog’s tag.
That’s all it said in all cases. No address or phone number. No owner’s name, even.
“Well!,” I said – the dog’s tails wagged -- “I’d like to thank you for bringing my duck back to me.”
And that’s how it stated, we were a great team together.
For the rest of the season, I hunted the Hudson River or one of it's tributaries, early morning. I’d cross the bridge and stat down the river, and Ike, Tina and Ace would be there. By the middle of the second week, I felt as if we’d been hunting with each other, all our lives, forever.
When the hunting was done, they’d trot back to with me until we arrive at the bridge. There they would sit and the falcon would perch on the nearest tree limb and nothing I did would make them advance further.
I tried waiting to see where they would go, but when it was obvious I wasn’t going to leave, they merely lay down and went to sleep. Once I left then, they crossed the bridge and then hid in back of a building to watch. They stayed until I was out of sight, then turned and trotted north along the Hudson River and into the woods and the falcon followed as well.
If the rest of his life was a mystery, when we were together we became fast friends. I’s cook and extra egg sandwich for them, and when there were no ducks, we would talk. That is I would talk; Ike and Tina would sit as would Ace perch, his and hers enormous head would rest on my knees, his and hers huge brown eyes looking up at me I then notice she had one off colored eye, it was baby-blue, while I petted them and regaled them with my stories, told them my life’s troubles and tribulations.
On the weekends when I stayed out, I would construct a lean-to or erect a tent for two or more and make a fire. Ike and Tina would curl up on the edge of my blanket and/or sleeping bag. Ace would be perched in a tree nearby. Many mornings I’d awaken to find then under the frost-covered blanket and/or sleeping bag with me, sound asleep, my arm thrown over them, his and her breath rumbling against mine in unison, against mine side. The Falcon would be overhead standing guard over us all night.
It seemed Ace, Ike and Tina had always been in my life. Then one morning they wasn’t there. I would wait in the mornings by the bridge, but (sigh) they never showed again. I thought they might have been hit by a car or plane or something or their owners might have moved away or passed away. But I could not learn more of them. I mourned them and missed them.
I grew up and went into the crazy parts of my life, the mistakes a young brash young man could make. Later I got back into dogs – sled dogs – Huskies --- took a job as ISSO in Alaska at Ft. Greely 90 miles South of Fairbanks and ran the Iditarod dog races across Alaska and their tundra.
After my first run, I came back to NY with slides of the race. A outdoor/ sporting—goods business in Woodstock NY had been one of my sponsors, and one evening I gave a public slide show and talk at one of his store.
There was an older dude a mountain-man sitting in a wheel chair, and I saw that when I told how Cookies, my lead dog, had saved my life, his eyes teared up, and he nodded .
When the event was over, he wheeled up and shook my hand. “I had a dog or two like your Cookie – a dog that saved my life.”
“Oh, did you run the sled, too?”
He shook his head.
“No, not like that. I lived up the river in Woodstock NY when I was drafted to serve in the Korean War. I had a Labrador retriever and I raised and hunted with him and his mate. When I was wounded – lost the use of my legs. When I came back from the TMC – Hospital. He was waiting. He spent the rest of his life by my side.
“I would have gone crazy without him. I’d sit for hours and talk to him…” He trailed off, and his eyes were moist, again. “I still miss him.”
I looked at him, then out the store window. It was spring, and the snow was melting outside, but I was seeing a 13 yo and a Lab or two with his Falcon, sitting in a duck blind in the fall.
“Your dog,” I said. Was he named Ike?”
The man smiled and nodded. “Why, yes. But how… Did you know him?”
That was why Ike had not come back. He had another job, taking care of the old man his sick owner.
“Yes,” I said, turning to him. “He was my best friend.”
A Boy’s Best Friend Has A Secret Past
Years’ after his hunting dogs disappeared, the author learns the truth about his companion’s fate.
As a wannabe Forest Ranger, I take jobs as a counselor at the Neighborhood Youth Center, named B’klyn Heights Youth Center and we’d go to Upstate NY to camp-out during school hiatus; winter, spring and summer vacations. One of the senior counselors had a home and farm there, in addition to privat campgrounds.
Much of my childhood visits to Woodstock NY, was excruciatingly lonely. Family troubles, devastating shyness, to the point of withdrawal and a complete and utter lack if any social skills ensured a life of solitude, which was just fine by me. I’d spend most of my time drawing and painting. Hunting and fishing also, was not only my opening into the world of wonder; it was my salvation. From the age of 12. I lived, breathed, existed to draw hunt and fish. On school days I would hunt in the morning and again in the evening. On Friday s I would head into the woods by myself, often for the entire weekend. Still, I had not learned to just love solitude, but crave it as I do now. I would see something beautiful – the sunset or sunrise through the leaves, a deer moving through the dappled light – and I would want to point that out and say to someone, “Look!” But there’s no one there.
Then I met Ike & Tina and Ace.
It was the beginning of duck season. I got up at around 3 AM and walked from our house some four or five blocks to the rail yard, the across the covered street bridge. Then I dropped to the Hudson Riverbank and started walking along the water to the woods.
In the darkness it was hard going, I remembered. After a mile and a half or so, I was wading in swamp muck and went to pull myself up the bank to harder ground.
The mud was thick and slick as grease. I fell, then scrambled and scrabbled up the bank again and again, shot gun in one hand and grabbing at roots and twigs with the other. I had to just gained the top when a part of the naked darkness detached itself, leaned close to my face, and went “woof.”
No, not “arf” or “ruff” or a growl. But “woof.”
I got scared for ½ a second, and I froze. Then I let go of the fistful of scrub or shrub I was holding and clinging to and fell backward down the incline. On the way down the though hit me: bear. I clawed at my pocketknife and pockets for shells and inserted one into my shotgun. I was aiming when something about the dark shape in silhouette stopped me.
Whatever it was had remained sitting at the top of the bank, looking down at silly, me. There was just enough dawn light by this time to show a silhouette, it was a dog or two. Two big dogs, big black dogs. But dogs.
I immediately lowered my gun and wiped the mud out of mine eyes. “Who owns you, boys?” I asked. The dogs didn’t move and climbed the bank again. “Hello!” I called into the dark woods. “I have your dogs here!”
There was nobody.
“So you’re a stray.” But strays were shy like me and usually starved and skinny; this dogs was a Lab – Labrador, was well fed and healthy and his coat was shiny and thick. He stayed near me on my right-side.
“Well”, I said. “What do I do with you?” On impulse, I added, “You want to hunt?”
He knew the word, it would seem. His tail hammered the ground; he wiggled and then moved off along the river.
Just then a Falcon named Ace showed up and decided it wanted to hunt to.
I had never hunted with a bird of prey and a dogs before but I started to follow them. It was light enough now to shoot, so I kept the gun ready. We had not gone 50 yards when four mallards exploded out of the thicket and thick grass near the bank and started across the Hudson River.
I raised my gun, cocked it, aimed just about above the right-hand duck, and squeezed the trigger. There was a loud bang and a crash, and the duck fell into the water. Just then the Falcon snatched, in midair a second duck. He grabbed the duck with his talons.
When I’d shot ducks over the water or river before, I had to wait for the current to bring the bodies over to shore. This time however, it was different. With the smell of the powder still in the air, the dogs was off the bank in a great leap forward. He hit the water swimming, his shoulders pumping as he churned the water surface in a straight line to the dead duck. He took it gently in his mouth, turned and swam back. Climbing the bank, he put the duck by my right foot, next to where the falcon dropped the other duck, then moved off a couple of feet and sat under a tree where the falcon had roosted. The falcon flew down to me and landed on my shoulder.
It was fully light now, and I would and could see that the dogs and falcon had a collar and a tag. I petted both – they let me, in a reserved way – and pulled the tags to the side to read it.
“My name is Ace,” said the Falcon’s tag.
“My name is Ike,” said the dog’s tag.
“My name is Tina,” said the dog’s tag.
That’s all it said in all cases. No address or phone number. No owner’s name, even.
“Well!,” I said – the dog’s tails wagged -- “I’d like to thank you for bringing my duck back to me.”
And that’s how it stated, we were a great team together.
For the rest of the season, I hunted the Hudson River or one of it's tributaries, early morning. I’d cross the bridge and stat down the river, and Ike, Tina and Ace would be there. By the middle of the second week, I felt as if we’d been hunting with each other, all our lives, forever.
When the hunting was done, they’d trot back to with me until we arrive at the bridge. There they would sit and the falcon would perch on the nearest tree limb and nothing I did would make them advance further.
I tried waiting to see where they would go, but when it was obvious I wasn’t going to leave, they merely lay down and went to sleep. Once I left then, they crossed the bridge and then hid in back of a building to watch. They stayed until I was out of sight, then turned and trotted north along the Hudson River and into the woods and the falcon followed as well.
If the rest of his life was a mystery, when we were together we became fast friends. I’s cook and extra egg sandwich for them, and when there were no ducks, we would talk. That is I would talk; Ike and Tina would sit as would Ace perch, his and hers enormous head would rest on my knees, his and hers huge brown eyes looking up at me I then notice she had one off colored eye, it was baby-blue, while I petted them and regaled them with my stories, told them my life’s troubles and tribulations.
On the weekends when I stayed out, I would construct a lean-to or erect a tent for two or more and make a fire. Ike and Tina would curl up on the edge of my blanket and/or sleeping bag. Ace would be perched in a tree nearby. Many mornings I’d awaken to find then under the frost-covered blanket and/or sleeping bag with me, sound asleep, my arm thrown over them, his and her breath rumbling against mine in unison, against mine side. The Falcon would be overhead standing guard over us all night.
It seemed Ace, Ike and Tina had always been in my life. Then one morning they wasn’t there. I would wait in the mornings by the bridge, but (sigh) they never showed again. I thought they might have been hit by a car or plane or something or their owners might have moved away or passed away. But I could not learn more of them. I mourned them and missed them.
I grew up and went into the crazy parts of my life, the mistakes a young brash young man could make. Later I got back into dogs – sled dogs – Huskies --- took a job as ISSO in Alaska at Ft. Greely 90 miles South of Fairbanks and ran the Iditarod dog races across Alaska and their tundra.
After my first run, I came back to NY with slides of the race. A outdoor/ sporting—goods business in Woodstock NY had been one of my sponsors, and one evening I gave a public slide show and talk at one of his store.
There was an older dude a mountain-man sitting in a wheel chair, and I saw that when I told how Cookies, my lead dog, had saved my life, his eyes teared up, and he nodded .
When the event was over, he wheeled up and shook my hand. “I had a dog or two like your Cookie – a dog that saved my life.”
“Oh, did you run the sled, too?”
He shook his head.
“No, not like that. I lived up the river in Woodstock NY when I was drafted to serve in the Korean War. I had a Labrador retriever and I raised and hunted with him and his mate. When I was wounded – lost the use of my legs. When I came back from the TMC – Hospital. He was waiting. He spent the rest of his life by my side.
“I would have gone crazy without him. I’d sit for hours and talk to him…” He trailed off, and his eyes were moist, again. “I still miss him.”
I looked at him, then out the store window. It was spring, and the snow was melting outside, but I was seeing a 13 yo and a Lab or two with his Falcon, sitting in a duck blind in the fall.
“Your dog,” I said. Was he named Ike?”
The man smiled and nodded. “Why, yes. But how… Did you know him?”
That was why Ike had not come back. He had another job, taking care of the old man his sick owner.
“Yes,” I said, turning to him. “He was my best friend.”
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