Over the course of my childhood (which, some would argue, has never really ended), my family always had a dog in the house. The pooches came in all sizes, shapes and temperaments, and all were good at something.

The first, Pepper, I remember only because of an early family photo featuring my buck naked brother chasing the poor beagle across the kitchen floor.

He (Pepper, not my brother) also had a tragic flaw. He never met a car he couldn’t chase. I think you know how Pepper’s story ends up.

The second pooch, an ill-tempered toy poodle named Claude, I remember well mainly because he was such an ornery little cuss, I never petted him. Not once. (Before you write me off as equally ornery, let me point out that I tried … repeatedly … and eventually decided keeping my fingers attached to my hands was more important than scratching the rabid little devil behind his ears).

Claude’s claim to fame: He was a world-class corn-on-the-cob eater, and could reduce an ear to nothing but a bare cob in less than a minute. Not coincidentally, he was also a world-class biter, nipper and gnawer of human skin, and probably devoured a Quarter Pounder worth of foot flesh over his angry decade or so on earth.

After that came Odie, a well-mannered, goofy, jolly golden retriever (or so we told each other, when the garden variety mutt was listening) who showed a penchant for mouse-eating, timely vomiting, and minnow-fishing.

None of those dogs, however, was what one would call a “sporting” dog. And none of them swam (Odie’s wade-all-day-in-search-of-who-knows-what was the closest we came).

Then came Pudge.

Pudge, if you’re new to this space, is the new addition to my family. After spending my early adult years dogless, and after deciding, somewhere along the way, that having a canine companion was, in fact, a step I thought I could manage, my fiancee and I began searching in earnest.

Pudge joined us in March, and I met him (appropriately enough) at the Eastern Maine Sportsman’s Show, just after Dawn picked him up at the breeder’s.

She brought him by for a quick visit. He didn’t end up wanting to leave.

And all weekend long (at least when he wasn’t out shaking hands with the public as they streamed past the NEWS booth), Pudge sat by my side, (more, I’ll admit, because he was very tired and didn’t know what else to do than because he had decided to be loyal to his new father).

Without exception, the critics had kind words for Pudge (which is, of course, why he’ll join me at most of the future NEWS kiosks). Everyone loves a dog, it seems. Even if his master is a bit of a pain in the Milkbone on occasion.

“He’s so cute,” they’d all say, ruffling his fur and letting him lick their hands.

“Are you gonna hunt him?” the men would all ask, leaning in to look carefully at his snuffling snout. (In case you’re not a bird-hunter, let me assure you that these well-meaning men were not asking if I planned to touch off a few rounds in the general direction of my new springer spaniel. “Hunting him,” in the vernacular, means “hunting with him.” … I think).

Then everyone – men and women alike – would finish with the same refrain: “He’s gonna love the water.”

That sounded great to us. Of course, so did getting to the point when Pudge wouldn’t treat our fingers like they were sirloins, and wouldn’t treat our entryway like it was an outhouse.

As often happens (even to dogs and columnists) eventually, Pudge grew up.

Now our pooch is nearly six months old. He has actual muscles, and doesn’t stop to wait for a nonexistent elevator every time he tries to head up a flight of stairs.

He jumps and runs. And (thankfully) he doesn’t make us bleed, nor our entryway smell any more.

Springer spaniels, dog people will tell you, are what are called “versatile” hunting dogs. That means (as far as I’ve been able to tell … Pudge and I are about equals when it comes to our bird-hunting knowledge) that they’re adaptable to a number of different situations.

Simply put, they can flush upland birds, as well as swim out and do a bit of duck-dragging.

At least, that’s the theory.

Since I’m not much of a bird-hunter (yet), and since I’ve never given a puppy swimming lessons (and, truth be known, stalled out in “Minnow” swim class at the local Y as a kid), I was a bit anxious.

What if we got the only non-water-loving springer in the world? What if he decides he’d rather sit on the shore and engage in his favorite pastime – wood-eating – while the rest of us swim?

All it took was one trip to the family camp on Beech Hill Pond to find out that Pudge neither wanted my help, nor needed my sympathy.

In the interest of full disclosure, things were a little hairy at first. It seemed Pudge didn’t understand the concept of “docks,” and backed off ours … into the lake … after about 20 seconds.

Needless to say, that wasn’t the confidence-building experience I’d had in mind, and memories of my own ill-fated swim classes flashed through my head.

But after that, he got better.

Sure, he cheated at first, and hopped along on his back legs, chasing objects we tossed into shallow water.

But every now and then? He’d really swim a few strokes … before panicking and pawing for bottom again.

After 20 minutes, he was improving. After an hour, he was nearly comfortable.

And the next day, after I returned from work? I walked down to the water and found he’d become a regular Mark Spitz, and was paddling around for pleasure.

Now, of course, the onus is on me. It seems I may have the makings of a true versatile hunting dog on my hands.

And even though he may be too young to realize it, he may not have a versatile hunter on his.

John Holyoke can be reached at jholyoke@bangordailynews.net or by calling 990-8214 or 1-800-310-8600.