While that was the last hunt that we'd have, it was not the
last time that Blitz and I were up at the duck camp. She attended with me every weekend, and the
Rimadyl appeared to be keeping her pain free.
The precious time that was ticking away was good, quality time. We were having fun just being with each
other. But as November hit, we were now
four months from her cancer diagnosis.
That was how much time the vet estimated she'd live; maybe two more
months at best. Additional days were
blessings, and not taken for granted.
Blitz continued to get around great, and as long as the meds were given
in the appropriate intervals, she'd use her cancerous leg. Our routine was a simple one - breakfast and
a small walk in the morning, kenneling during the work day to keep her quiet,
then dinner and another small walk at night, finished off by hanging out on the
couch to end the day. Along the way
there were lots of bones, petting, belly rubs, and even some roughhousing.
That Thanksgiving we were hosting Vera's
family for the holiday, and it was nice to have the house full. Given all of the food that was around, Blitz
needed to be kenneled as she still could not be trusted not to hop up and
snatch a snack for herself. As sick as
she was, that dog loved food, with forbidden food apparently tasting the
best. As everyone there was just getting
ready to set down to a meal, my sister-in-law happened to be looking out the
window into the back yard.
"Mike!" she exclaimed, "A big pheasant just landed in
your back yard!" Our yard butted up
to a wetland area, and in the adjoining land was native prairie. We'd often see pheasants in that area, and it
was a real treat for the dog to be able to flush birds back in the days when
she was healthy as we'd walk. I walked
over to the window and asked "Where did the bird come down?"
"Right there - literally twenty yards from the back door," came the
reply. While I couldn't see the bird in
the cover, it gave me an idea. "You
guys interested in seeing what Blitz can do?" I asked, kind of not caring about the answer,
as I knew what I was going to do. But a
resounding "Yes!" was the answer, and I went downstairs to get Blitz
out of her confinement and to pay a visit to Mr. Rooster in the back yard.
Between the smells and the sounds coming from
the upstairs, Blitz was wide awake and ready to get out when I arrived in the
basement. "What do you think,
girl? You want to go outside?" I
asked, and given the movement of her rear end, the answer was obvious, even
before I posed the question.
We made our
way out the lower level walk out, while the entire family gathered at the window
a floor directly above us. Blitz and I
moved forward, heading toward where my sister-in-law marked the bird, and
almost immediately Blitz's tail was moving in that rapid motion which always
meant "Hey Boss! I got a bird I'm
smelling here!" We waded about 10
yards into the thigh-high grass, and immediately Blitz locked up tight. Her ears were perked up, tail straight back
and frozen solid, and her eyes focused dead ahead of her. "What you got, girl?" I asked, knowing
full well the answer. I moved in behind
her, quietly telling her "Easy...easy..." to try and keep her in
point. It was unnecessary, as Blitz was
still as a statue, and not going anywhere.
When I felt that I was sufficiently out of the way of the spectators
above me, I tapped Blitz on her hind end, and said "Get him!" Immediately she moved forward, and just as
immediately a beautiful rooster pheasant burst from the cover.
Blitz followed the bird's flight path for
about ten yards before returning to my command of "HERE!" The look on her face was one of confusion, as
if to say "What happened there, boss?
The shot doesn't get any easier than that!" I praised her and petted her, and turned to
head back to house. That's when I looked
up and saw my family huddled around the window, cheering wildly.
Most folks think of Thanksgiving entertainment
as football on TV, or games with the family.
For us, that year, our best entertainment was provided by a sick, but
very capable yellow lab.
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