You know how it is when you latch onto a promising bird-dog pup. You can’t wait to turn the youngster loose in a cover. Admittedly, planted birds are great for starting a pup, but the sooner it encounters the paralyzing scent of wild birds, the quicker it will become a hunting dog.

So it was that I took my 7-month-old English pointer, “Pete,” into a sprawl of alders reclaiming a field at the foot of Whiting’s Hill in Brewer. Although the breezy air felt cool, it was actually a bit humid. Therefore, my intention was to give the pup and myself a short workout.

After parking my truck in Dave Morrison’s yard, Pete and I cut through a swale that brought us to what traditionally were referred to as the “Bar Harbor tracks.” We then followed the abandoned, alder-cluttered railroad bed under the overpass of Route 1-A. Beyond Burr Brook, we entered a field to the left of the tracks and started toward a stand of alders.

In the thick cover, Pete worked close, checking on me frequently. Pleased with his performance, I allowed he really didn’t need the dog bell rhythmically tolling his whereabouts – but it sure would be nice to hear it abruptly stop and silently shout, “Bird!” Directly, however, I noticed several unmistakable depressions in the golden rods and hardhack bushes edging the alders – deer beds.

For obvious reasons, it’s best not to work young dogs where there is an abundance of deer or other distracting game. The instinct to chase is strong in all dogs, particularly pups. But even while thinking, “I’d better take him out of here,” I heard a deer jump – and Pete departing in the same direction. Charging after him I blasted on the whistle and yelled, “No, Pete!” “Whoa, Pete!” “Back, Pete!” and several other commands beginning with, “You” and ending with “Pete!”

If I could have caught the pup, reprimanded him, and left the area, it would have been a good lesson. That, however, wasn’t the case. The last I saw of Pete was when he crossed the tracks about 50 yards away and disappeared into the woods. For half an hour or so I walked, whistled, yelled, and listened to no avail.

But because that neck of the woods was my hunting grounds as a teenager, the Bar Harbor tracks and intersecting roads and power lines were trails I knew well. I was sure Pete would work back to the tracks, but I wasn’t sure which direction he’d take then. My decision was to go back to my truck and drive to where the tracks crossed the Green Point Road, a mile or so away. From there I would follow the tracks back toward Whiting’s Hill, hoping to intercept Pete along the way.

When I began jogging, I quickly realized Pete wouldn’t chase any great distance because of the humid heat. Awash with sweat, I stopped every 100 yards or so to whistle and listen. Nothing. At two powerline crossings I studied dirt paths and saw no dog tracks. Good. Eventually, after rounding a bend, I could see straightaway to the overpass at Whiting’s Hill and beyond, a strong mile or more. And at that distance – to my great relief – I saw a white speck appearing and disappearing in the alders reclaiming the railroad bed.

At first I figured the young pointer had worked back to the tracks, cut my trail, and started backtracking. But, I thought, what if he wasn’t backtracking? What if he just started running in that direction? Realizing that Pete could be headed for Holden, I started running.

Now the next time I hear someone bragging about what great shape they’re in because they run a paved mile or so every day, I’m going to suggest they try racing a dog on a railroad bed of crushed rock while bobbing and weaving through alders to boot. With each crumbling stride, I cursed bird dogs, bird hunting, the “lightweight” label on my boots, the sound-smothering wind, woodcock, alders, railroad tracks and ties, humidity, and, most of all, deer.

I ran until I couldn’t. Nearly exhausted, I stopped at Burr Brook and listened to my heart doing a drum roll in my chest. My legs ached, my feet hurt, my mouth and throat wouldn’t have burned more if I’d swallowed burdocks. But while dousing myself with a hatful of water, I heard the distant tinkling of Pete’s bell and responded with a short-of-breath blast on the whistle.

Shortly thereafter, I snapped the lead onto his collar and sprawled on the grassy bank bordering the tracks. “Pete,” I said between licks at my face, “didn’t your mother tell you about deer?”

Needless to say, the walk back to the Green Point Road and my truck was done at a leisurely pace. With Pete curled on the seat beside me – his puppy energy obviously drained – I pulled onto the road and stopped where the tracks crossed. Perhaps it was the humidity or the overexertion or both, but as I stared along the overgrown railroad bed, the woods turned wintry and I saw a kid running between the tracks. He was toting a single-shot, 16-gauge shotgun and every now and then he stopped and listened for a pair of hounds that he last heard heading toward Whiting’s Hill.

Laughing out loud, I headed home.

I apologize for whomever transposed my Thursday column into a puzzle. If you were able to put the pieces together, you did well. With that, I’m off to Saskatchewan to sharpen my wing-shooting eye. See you in a week.