There are people who want a dog simply for companionship.
Then there are those of us who expect a little more.
We want a companion, certainly. But we also want a dog that will hunt.
I’ve belonged to both groups for most of my life, although I’m not sure the dogs ever recognized much difference between them.
Choosing a hunting dog starts easily enough. Someone has already convinced you which breed you need.
The difficult part comes later.
Puppies.
Not just choosing a puppy.
Choosing the puppy.
You hear that a breeder you’ve been waiting on has a litter coming. Your name is on the list.
So, you wait.
And wait.
In the meantime, you begin preparing. A new bed. A new crate.
Not necessarily because there isn’t an old one somewhere in the house. Sometimes you simply can’t bring yourself to put a new puppy into something that still belongs, at least in your mind, to an old dog.
Maybe later.
You start thinking about better food. Training schedules. Housebreaking. Basic obedience.
And you make promises.
This dog will definitely not be allowed on the couch.
Not like the last three.
Then the call comes.
The puppies are here.
You make your first visit as soon as the breeder allows. Seven of them.
Their eyes are barely open. They’re little more than palm-sized bundles of squirming bodies and soft noises.
There really isn’t much to see yet. Certainly nothing that tells you which one will become the dog you’re hoping for.
Still, you look.
And somehow you see autumn leaves.
A grouse rising through the trees.
A dog disappearing into cover and returning when called.
You also feel something else.
The tug from an old dog that’s gone.
A place that never quite closes.
Maybe it isn’t supposed to.
The day for choosing arrives several weeks later. Now the puppies have colored bands around their necks. Some pink. Some blue.
You thought you’d already decided.
A female this time.
The last male had been stubborn. Then again, he’d had an awful lot of heart.
You begin reconsidering.
One lively male has a piece of black electrical tape around his band.
Already taken.
You’ve read the books. You know all the supposed methods for selecting a hunting puppy.
Roll a ball. Drag a wing. Watch which pup investigates. Which one follows. Which one retrieves. Which one seems bold.
Suddenly, most of it feels meaningless.
You know what choosing a puppy really is.
A crapshoot.
And your hour is ticking away.
Another prospective owner will arrive soon, and whatever you don’t choose will become somebody else’s possibility.
So, you kneel beside the whelping box.
The puppies crowd toward you.
You pick one up. Then another.
You put one down and immediately wonder whether you just put down the right one.
You talk to them.
You watch.
You dream.
Maybe you even say a little prayer.
One puppy isn’t getting much attention.
The runt.
You’d noticed her earlier and mostly dismissed her.
Too small.
Maybe too much risk.
Now she’s been crowded away from the others and stands by herself in the far corner.
You keep studying the bigger pups.
Then it happens.
The little one lets out the best big-dog bark she can manage.
She charges forward. Scrambles over the squirming pile of littermates. Tumbles across the top.
And lands at my hands.
Then she paws at them for attention.
I smiled.
Picked her up.
And for some reason I couldn’t explain, a tear slipped down my cheek.
Welcome home, Bramble.
“Whoever said you can’t buy Happiness forgot little puppies.”
— Gene Hill
