The Dogs' Wall of Fame

The Dogs’ Wall of Fame
By Mike Faulk

“Children and dogs are as necessary to the welfare of the country as Wall Street and the railroads.” – Harry Truman

Our friend, Chuck Alexander, has a farm in North Dakota. There’s a Quonset hut for storage of equipment. Trees and bushes on the north and west sides are meant to mitigate the wind. An old windmill bears witness to the ever-present wind. And there’s a traditional high plains farmhouse in the center of the curtilage.

The farmhouse is cozy, comfortable and convenient to the nearest town of Parshall. Decorating the walls are prints of ducks, geese, and, most significantly, pheasant. The amenities are hunter-friendly. It’s a fine place to relax after plowing through six to eight sections a day of heavy cover, coulees, or recently-harvested grain fields.

Couches and recliners often hold members of the happy hunting party napping after a hard day’s hunt. Significantly, dogs are welcome on Chuck’s furniture. A good dog covers probably ten times the ground traversed by his master during a pheasant hunt. Such dogs are no less tired or entitled to a comfortable place of rest.

That good dogs are revered at Alexander’s farm is beyond debate. Most striking about this farmhouse is the kitchen. A wallpaper border rings the top of the walls just above the tops of the cabinets. And on that border are the names of all the dogs which have proved themselves to be man’s best hunting friend in the grain fields and impenetrable cover where pheasants hide.


Much like a parent whose child is about to play his or her first ball game, I was nervous about my dog’s first pheasant hunting trip. We would be hunting with some fine bird dogs and accomplished upland game hunters. And, he hadn’t shown much promise last fall.

Rueben is a rescue – a shelter dog. Rueben and I became a team in September, 2010. I got him from A Place to Bark in Portland, Tennessee. He was literally an hour from extinction when Bernie Berlin, who runs A Place to Bark, picked him up for me from the municipal shelter. Mostly chocolate lab, Rueben has some Weimaraner in him. He’s taller than most labs, has a longer snoot, thinner fur, and bigger ears. At just 22 months, he’s had no formal training at bird hunting.

He was scared to death of all the shooting during his first dove hunt in mid-September last year. In October a year ago, he accompanied Art Swann and me on a brief woodcock hunt on Strum Island. On that hunt he encountered his first scent of game birds and actually pointed one. Mostly that day he was just a puppy annoying Art’s seasoned bird dog, Suzy.

Later in 2010 Rueben went with me to Reelfoot Lake for a weekend duck hunt. He resented having to stay in the dog box wanting instead to be in the blind with me – and all the other hunters – and their loaded guns. That would not be safe and was not allowed. He shivered, whined, and wanted no part of the cold water.

If Rueben is to be just my big old pet, it would be fine with me. But I’ve truly hoped he’d also become my faithful hunting companion. This past summer we worked regularly on his retrieving skills with some success. The fruits of that training became apparent during an opening day dove hunt this year when he retrieved 16 of the 17 doves Art or I shot.

During our 25 hour drive to the Alexander farm, Rueben, Suzy and Callie each had separate crates for transportation but acclimated to one another with little difficulty. Some adjustment to the five other dogs participating on this hunt was necessary on day one. Chuck’s dog, Max, seemed to think a neutered Rueben was a girl dog and behaved toward him accordingly. Rueben did not care for that type of attention!

Reuben and I hunted by ourselves the first afternoon. The plan was to get him in a field with lots of bird scent so he’d take to the task of chasing birds instead of chasing after the other dogs. He behaved like a kid on Halloween with far too many sweet choices. Fortunately, he didn’t get too far ahead of me staying within shotgun range and he checked back to see where I was on a regular basis.

Nothing does more for a child trying a new sport than a little success. So it was with Rueben. He watched the other dogs work our first couple of fields on Day Two. By the third field, Rueben went on point, flushed the bird as I approached, and retrieved the downed bird – all like a seasoned professional. He had his first pheasant and I showed my excitement and appreciation showering him with ‘good dog” and praise.

While he spent too much time behind me or beside me and not enough time ahead of me in his job as the “advance scout”, his first pheasant trip exceeded expectations.

Rueben spent his share of time on the couches and in the recliners as our days ended. He earned every bit of comfort they afforded. On our last morning, he pointed, flushed, ran down through the brush and retrieved the last bird I shot. For that work, he earned Art’s shout of affirmation: “That dog’s a champion.” My chest bowed up with father-like pride.

Postscript: Chuck tells me I’ll find Rueben’s name on the Alexander kitchen Wall of Fame when I next come to the high plains of North Dakota!

Rooster, Art! Rooster!

Never mind we had just driven twenty-five hours in two days from east Tennessee to Parshall, North Dakota – a town of less than a thousand near the Canadian border just west, southwest of Minot. It was about 3pm, we had bought our licenses on-line, and there was daylight enough to get in a couple of hours of hunting before sunset.

This was my second pheasant hunting trip to Parshall. The first one several years ago was not successful measured by the number of birds we took. That year had been extraordinarily dry and came on the heels of a particularly bad winter that drove the brood numbers way down. It was too hot to wear long sleeves at that latitude in October! While the company was great and our hosts, Wade and Cindy Williamson, were grand, the hunting wasn’t especially pleasant.

That trip, I was assured afterwards, was the exception rather than the rule. I know Art Swann. I’ve nicknamed him “Killer” - a monicer well-earned over the years. The gang from east Tennessee comprising the usual hunting party is a group of savvy upland game hunters. They simply would not routinely make the 1600 mile trip twice a year if poor hunting were the rule. So my invitation to make the October 2009 trek was quickly accepted.



Suzy the spaniel was wired upon our arrival. She, after all, had spent most of those twenty-five hours in her kennel. It wasn’t her first rodeo. I’m certain her anticipation was based on her recollection or at least her association of the long ride with more birds than a good dog can sniff.

Around the hills of Tennessee, coveys of quail have become even rarer than the old ruffed grouse. A good hunt at home might result in two or three scent trails over the course of a half day hunt. But Dakota is different - very different. Compare shooting a pack of Black Cat firecrackers with the Fourth of July fireworks on the mall in Washington, D.C.

Not taking the time to unpack, we suited up, loaded up, and hit the field nearest Chuck Alexander’s farm house about four sections east of town. Skies were partly cloudy. There was the usual high plains wind. Temperature was about 40 degrees.

No more than a hundred yards into the field, Suzy became birdie. Like a champion, she did not flush the bird wild – too far away from the hunters to shoot. Up the rooster came with a mighty roar and down he dropped as Art leveled his little 410 gauge double-barrel. Suzy fetched, got that taste in her mouth, and shifted her motor into a higher gear.

Occasionally getting out of our sight, we had to hustle to catch up to some of Suzy’s points. Again and again, the birds would fly. And, again and again, I yelled my favorite battle cry, “Rooster, Art! Rooster!”

Over the next hour, Suzy covered probably twenty times the ground Art and I did. With a three bird per day limit, the three of us bagged five pheasants that afternoon. Taking a few shots to find our range, our marksmanship could have been better but the hunting couldn’t have been better. Our first night included sweet dreams with "Rooster, Art! Rooster!" playing in our heads!