On Dogs, Days Afield and the Time We Never Get Back
Story by Chris Midgette
If you only had 2.5 years of your life to hunt, what would you do? Where would you go? Would you skip some days?
Would you roll back over in bed and hit the snooze button on those cold mornings when the wind rattles the windows, or would you be the first to the truck, ready to load up and chase the sunrise? Would you let the weather, the previous night’s bourbon or the score of a football game keep you from the field? Or would you throw on your vest and go, knowing that every hunt might be your last?
That question has been gnawing at me lately, ever since I said goodbye to Cooper, my Boykin Spaniel.
Cooper lived just past his 15th birthday and hunted for close to 10 seasons. He beat the odds, not just in years, but in heart. He was there with me through the hard times, the good times, the new homes, the heartbreaks and the healing. When life felt too heavy, he carried a piece of the weight without ever being asked. And through it all, he never turned down a morning in the blind, never passed up a chance to get muddy, never needed convincing. He was ready, always.
Now that he’s gone, I find myself running the numbers, trying to make sense of it all. If a dog hunts 90 days a season for 10 years, that’s 900 days. At first 900 days sounds like a lot. But if the average dog only lives to be about 12 and you divide it, those 900 days suddenly feel painfully finite. When you condense those days, it’s just 2.5 years of hunting; of doing the thing they were born to do. Two and a half years. That’s it.
It’s a hard thing to swallow, realizing that the dogs who give us everything only get a sliver of time to do what they love most. And when I think of it that way, I realize just how much of a responsibility we have to them, not just to feed them or train them or pat their heads when they’ve done well, but to take them. To go. Even when it’s not convenient. Even when we’re tired or busy or the birds haven’t been flying. Because they don’t get to pick and choose. They only get what we give them. And if we’re not giving them those 900 days, then we’re taking something they can’t get back.
I know I missed some of those days with Cooper. Days I thought I was too busy. Days I figured there would always be more seasons. Days when I let the excuses pile up like decoys in the back of a shed. And man, I’d give anything to have them back. Just one more slow morning with the two of us sitting in the blind, sipping coffee and watching the world wake up. One more retrieve through the marsh. One more look back at me with those big brown eyes, waiting, always waiting, for the call.
And that’s been sitting heavier with me now as I look at Traveller, my second Boykin.
Traveller’s almost eight now, which doesn’t seem possible. He was a wild little brown ball of chaos just yesterday, or at least it feels that way. These days, he’s settled into that perfect middle ground: seasoned enough to know the game, but still young enough to burn a straight line through a field with the same urgency he had as a pup. He still tugs at the lead when we pull up to a marsh, still vibrates with excitement when I grab my vest. But I can see it, if I look close, the slow creep of time working its way into his eyes, the slowly graying muzzle, the deeper sleep when we get home.
He’s still got plenty of seasons left, I know that. But I also know how fast “plenty” can turn into “a few,” and how “a few” can turn into “I thought we had more time.” So I remind myself, every time I put on his collar or toss his vest in the backseat: the clock is ticking. And I’m not going to make the same mistake twice. I’m going to load up the truck a little more often, wake up a little earlier, and let a few more chores wait. I’m going to let the mud cake up and the burrs stick in our socks. I’m going to take him every chance I get.
And then there’s Túra, our young Hungarian Wirehaired Vizsla.
She’s still so young that everything is new. Every scent, every shadow, every flutter of a bird just beyond the edge of her understanding. She doesn’t have the mileage yet, doesn’t know the rhythm of a hunt, doesn’t understand why Traveller gets so excited when he catches a certain scent. But she wants to. You can see it in the way she runs ahead, then turns to make sure I’m still behind her. In the way she watches Traveller’s retrieves with growing fascination.
For her, all 900 days are still ahead. Every hunt is the first hunt. Every whistle is a lesson. Every bird is a marvel. And that, in its own way, is a different kind of responsibility. Traveller needs me to use the time we have left wisely. Túra needs me to shape the time she hasn’t yet lived. To give her the foundation that will turn those 900 days into something meaningful. To make sure she gets to grow into the dog she’s meant to be, with all the joy and chaos and wonder that comes with it.
So when I look at both of them, one seasoned and one starting out, I feel Cooper’s lesson settling deeper into me. These days aren’t guaranteed. Not to them, not to us. The dogs don’t know how short their hunting life is. They don’t count seasons or tally missed days. They wake up every morning ready, because that’s who they are.
We’re the ones who know better. Or at least, we’re the ones who should.
If you only had 2.5 years to hunt in your entire life, would you spend one of those days on the couch?
Neither would they.
And I won’t either.
Chris Midgette is a lifelong hunter and outdoor writer who believes most good stories begin with a dog and end with a memory. He lived most of his life in Virginia until very recently moving north to Michigan. When he’s not writing, he’s usually chasing birds with his two dogs or thinking about the next season.
