Quotessence
Home / Topics / Hunting Dogs Quotes

Hunting Dogs Quotes

Browse 16 quotes about Hunting Dogs.

Hunting Dogs Quotes

“While I have great respect for the pointing breeds, I remain a hopeless afficionado of the Labrador retriever. I love Labs; don’t ask me to explain. We just seem to understand each other and to approach the world with a fundamentally similar set of priorities, an admission with which certain co-workers and an ex-wife would no doubt agree. Because I make it a point to live in places where I can hunt a lot, my kennel has to be productive. It also has to be versatile, since any given day here on the prairie might provide the opportunity to hunt everything from Huns to geese. Sure, I could have Labs and more traditional upland bird dogs, but every place in the kennel occupied by something other than a Lab would be. well, one less Lab in my life.”

“At this moment a blood-pressure estimate would bust the machine that takes it. Your heart is so loud it sounds like a pile driver. There is something in your throat about the size of a football, and your lips are dry from the temperature you're running, which is maybe just under 110 degrees Fahrenheit. You are looking straight ahead of the dog—never down at the ground—and you are carrying your shotgun slanted across your chest the stock slightly cocked under your elbow. Nothing happens. The dog creeps forward another six yards, and you come up behind him when he freezes again. This time he’s looking right down at his forefeet, and when you walk past him he jumps and the world blows up. The world explodes, and a billion bits of it fly out in front of you, tiny brown bits with the thunder of love in each wing. They go in all directions—right, left, behind you, over your head, sometimes straight at you, sometimes straight up before they level. Then a miracle happens. Out of these billion bits you choose one bit and fire, and if the bit explodes in a cloud of feathers you choose another bit and fire again, and if this bit also explodes you break your gun swiftly and load, figuring maybe there’s a lay bird and you can turn to the Old Man with a grin, and when he says, “How many?” you can answer, “Three.” More likely you’ll answer, “One” or “None.”’ - November Was Always the Best By Robert Ruark”

“If there is a broad explanation for the fascination of quail shooting, it must be that no man can bet on just how good he’ll be on any given day. The challenge of bird to man is permanent. You will catch a full night's sleep, find perfect shooting the next day, and miss everything that flies. You can get drunk as an owl, sit up all night, fly a plane from dawn until noon, and with a bellyful of butterflies kill all that rustles. My personal record of 15 out of 18 shots was set on a basis of no sleep at all for two nights, due to work and travel, with a splitting headache and hands that shook like maraca gourds. Recently I had 11 in the bag with 13 shots. We couldn't find bird No. 12, and this so upset my timing that it took me 22 shots to get the other four quail. And we had to chase the last one to death. - The Brave Quail By Robert Ruark”

“What's your idea of November?” he asked, his eyes half-closed. I wanted to tell him that it was mostly the opening of the bird season, and the Thanksgiving holidays, the persimmons wrinkled and ripe on the trees, when the weather was real nice, and it was hog-killing time in the country, and the pumpkins looked yellow and jolly in the fields, and the sun set good and red, and a lot of other things, but I couldn’t manage to squeeze it all out because I had no way with words. “The bird season,” I said. - November Was Always the Best By Robert Ruark”

“It is difficult, very hard, to try to explain what a boy feels when he sees the dogs sweeping the browned peafields, or skirting the edges of the gallberry bays, or crisscrossing the fields of yellow, withered corn shocks, running like racehorses with their heads high and their tails whipping. And then that moment, after nearly a year, of the first dog striking the first scent, and the excitement communicating to the other dogs, and all hands crowding in on the act—the trailers trailing, the winders sniffing high, but slow now, and the final eggshell-creeping, the tails going feverishly and the bellies low to the ground, presaging a point. Then the sudden freeze, then the slight uncertainty, then ja minor change of course, and then the swift, dead-sure cock of head, which says plainly the bird is here, boss, right under my nose, and now it’s all up to you. - November Was Always the Best By Robert Ruark”

“Some people step into their backyards to shoot quail; others spend thousands of dollars annually for the same privilege. But they all share one defect of character: All quail shooters are abject liars. I know, for | have been lying steadily about quail and bird dogs since I was 8, and got physically sick from excitement when I killed my first one. The quail shooter’s mind works roughly like this: They aren't making the same kind of cartridges anymore, because when you point them at the bird the bird won’ drop. Obviously something is wrong with the powder... The sun was in my eyes... The damn bird flew around a branch just as I shot. The dogs have lost their sense of smell... . The rabbit hounds ran up all the quail... One of the other hunters was in the way, or I would have killed two... It was getting too dark to shoot with safety. All the birds got up wild, ahead of the dogs . . . I slipped and fell... I had a headache and my timing was off... When I was going good after the first two coveys, we couldn't find any more for an hour and I cooled off. The safety on my gun jammed ... The little single dog won't backstand a point any more... The woods were too thick... The birds wouldn't hold to a point. These are the things you tell yourself. You tell other people that you only used half as many shells as you really used, and then you say that you had to run down a couple of wounded birds and shoot some more.’ - The Brave Quail By Robert Ruark”

“Each man builds his dog in his own image, but the definition of a good dog, like the definition of a good man, is one who knows and respects the bobwhite. No sincere hunter will overshoot a covey. No good dog will flush a covey until the hunter is at his side. No good dog will encroach on another's point. A smart dog knows more than any man about the likeliest spot to find his quarry. No good man or good dog is happy to leave a wounded bird unfound. No good man hogs the best shot, as no good dog is disrespectful of the rights of his hunting companion. Altogether, the quail manages to bring out a great deal of fineness in both dogs and men. - The Brave Quail By Robert Ruark”

“Aside from its bearing, one way or another, on field trial technique, the average quail hunter (or any other type, for that matter) needs and delights in a prompt, tender retriever, regardless of breed. The daring, finished retriever brings a friendly kinship to the gunning theme. Faithful service, understandingly rendered, wins everlasting affection. Many and many a dead bird is found. And, equally important to game restoration, countless cripples are brought to bag. The chap who fails to cherish and reward his dog for tackling thorns or dangerous ice and water simply lacks humanity and sportsmanship. Have you ever sat late before a low-burning log fire and recalled how the noble animal at your feet risked his life so cheerfully for your fun? If so, then you and I share a sentiment worth owning. - Amid Whirring Wings By Nash Buckingham”

“A bird hunter should consider quail as having the attributes of a gentleman unwillingly participating in the sport. The quail deserves every courtesy, including that of a clean kill. It should go without saying that quail must be shot only while on the wing. Ground shooting is the moral equivalent of stealing from the church collection plate . .. or worse. - Shooting Quail - A Primer By Dr Joseph C. Greenfield, Jr.”

“Suddenly the scene is frozen for you. The mental camera clicks with Spook mouthin’ his retrieve, and Polly chasin’ a cripple through the blackberry bushes, and Buck tenderly handin’ Pete one of his two kills. And the whole thing is etched on your memory like one of the frames in a slide-projector, full color. Dark green lob-lolly pines, backing golden strawfield, brown blobs of hunters, white setters, sky now dolomite blue, and cottontufts of clouds just touched with slanting sunshine. The day goes on, and there’s a fullness in it. The warmth of good companions, the steady, not-too-perfect dog work, the high excitement of the search, the pleasant lull between the points. - A Letter to My Cousin By David H. Henderson”

“Why hunt birds? The simple answer is that nothing, absolutely nothing, beats watching a pair of pointers cover a picturesque piece of ground in a workmanlike manner and slamming on brakes to a stylish point. Or an even better answer might be that nothing beats admiring your pointers as they precisely handle a running covey. This tableau, immediately followed by the feel of a fine double shotgun brought into play and accompanied by the thunderous sound of the covey flushing, is an experience without equal. There may be a few things I haven't tried, but nothing I have attempted, seen, or read about even comes close. - Why Hunt Birds? By Dr. Joseph C. Greenfield, Jr”

“Setters were my first love and pointers are my present amours, but my observation leads me to believe there is no marked difference between the good ones of either breed. Under present hunting conditions I would train my young dog to follow a trail until the bird was found and flushed. Just so long as he was following scent I would stay with him and give him my moral support, and we would find that bird if it took the rest of the day to do it. I would teach him by example that finding birds was his job and that I would stay with him from soup to nuts.”