Whenever someone tells me I’m going to the dogs, I tell them they’re wrong, explaining that I went there a long time ago. The first hunting dog to leave tracks on my mind was Queenie, a tri-color English setter owned by my uncle, the late John MacDonald. I was just a kid at the time, too young to hunt but old enough to be captivated by the magical equation of dog, gun, and bird.

Meat hunter that he was, my uncle shot only partridges and pheasants. I don’t think he ever snapped a cap at a woodcock. Years later, when I took to hunting the long-billed birds with my first pointing dog, a Brittany spaniel named Misty, he scoffed, “You’re wasting shells shooting those ‘humming birds.’ They’re not worth eating.” That, of course, was a matter of opinion; and by then it was my opinion that walking in behind a dog paralyzed by the perfume of bird scent, be it partridge, pheasant, or woodcock, was the essence of bird hunting. Moreover, unlike partridges and pheasants, which tend to run when alarmed, woodcock hold like they’re glued to the ground, thereby providing opportunities for dogs to point and hunters to prune alders and poplars.

Actually, my first bird dog was a Springer spaniel that became my personal guide and hunting partner before I began shaving. Since then, I’ve hung bells on a variety of feather hounds, all of which were pointing breeds. Yet, in spite of the great days and grand times we shared, I’ve yet to own, or hunt with, the storied ideal gun dog. My experience has been that, sooner or later, one way or another, a bird dog will try your patience. For example, my English pointer, Jake, had a full-choke nose that enabled him to hunt hard and fast without bumping birds, but I often went home hoarse from yelling at him to hunt close. Conversely, Sam, a gentle English setter, hunted so close and cautiously that I could have followed him on crutches.

In defense of bird dogs it can be said that bumping birds, false pointing, pottering on old chalkings, and other such annoying behavior usually results from poor scent conditions. The culprits being east wind, strong gusting wind, warm dry weather and, by far the most culpable, covers barren of birds.

In addition to the dogs I’ve owned, including my current English pointer, Bud, it has been my privilege to know many others on a first name basis. So it is that I’ve listened to dog stories on gunning grounds far and wide and, naturally, fired off a few of my own. Though each of my dogs left memories that have remained untarnished by time, one of the most unforgettable involved my aforementioned Springer spaniel, Snooky.

Here’s how it went: A chilling rain drummed on the roof of the late Carroll Soucie’s old Chevrolet sedan as we left South Brewer to go pheasant hunting. For all intents and purposes, Carroll’s car was the precursor of today’s SUV. In the back seat, panting and whining with excitement, were Snooky and Carroll’s Brittany spaniel, Midge. Shortly thereafter, we pulled off the road and parked by the Colpitts farm on outer Essex Street in Bangor.

It should be explained that, at that time, mid-1950s, bird dog trials were held in the fields bordering the Pushaw Road and Church Road, both handy to outer Essex Street. More often than not some of the pheasants released for the trials escaped and, along with birds stocked by the state, populated the surrounding farmlands. Owing to habitats that provided adequate cover and feed, enough of the birds survived and propagated to produce native stock, so to speak. The same was true of the farm fringes in Brewer, South Brewer, and Orrington, where pheasant hunting was more popular than partridge hunting.

The rain subsided as Carroll and I followed the dogs down a cattle lane leading to fields and hedgerows bordering Penjajawoc Bog. No sooner were we hunting, though, when a cloud the color of steel wool split a seam and doused us with drops as big as buckshot. And so it went that morning, with the rain intermittently letting up and the sky brightening as if the weather were clearing, only to have it sock in again and spring another leak. By choice, neither Carroll nor I was wearing rain gear. The reason being that the rubberized stuff available back then would soak us with sweat inside, so why worry about being wet on the outside? As can be imagined, it wasn’t long before we were thoroughly drenched.

Naturally, Snooky and Midge were soaked skinny but their spirits weren’t dampened in the least. Steaming and sprinkled with the sowings of fields seeding down, they displayed the intensity and desire common to seasoned hunting dogs. As an aside, the next time you’re complaining about being clawed by briars, thorn apple thickets and hardhack bushes, get down on your hands and knees and take a look at what the dog deals with.

Owing to the weather, the pheasants hadn’t ventured from their sheltering thickets. Consequently, there wasn’t a lot of scent for the dogs to sort out. There was, however, a positive side to that: when the dogs made game, the birds weren’t far from their noses and our guns. If memory serves me, Carroll and I bagged a total of three from the four or five the dogs uncovered. I can still see the rain spraying from the barrel of Carroll’s old and gray Model 97 Winchester as he dropped a cock bird that flushed after running ahead of the dogs. What made that long-ago outing unforgettable, though, was yet to come.

Soaked to the skin but satisfied with the bulges in our game pockets, we whistled the dogs around and marched double time toward the Colpitts farm. After reaching the car and shivering into it – with the excitement of hunting eliminated, our clothes felt cold and clammy – we grimaced and nearly gagged in reacting to an odor that was worse than offensive: Snooky had rolled in the remains of something rotten and rancid. By now you’d think our canine companions, once part of nature’s food chain, would have lost the instinct to disguise their scent.

Out of habit, but also hoping to stifle the smell, Carroll reached into his shirt pocket and fetched a pack of damp cigarettes and a book of wet matches. But lo and behold, in the catch-all dashboard tray common to cars of that time, was a single cheroot cigar. Directly, Carroll peeled the cellophane from the stogie, lit it, and started puffing with a purpose. So off we went with the windows fogged, our clothes steaming and our noses stuffed with the acrid smells of wet dogs, cigar smoke, and carrion. Now if you think that wouldn’t clear your sinuses, it’s a sure bet that you haven’t gone to the dogs; and if you think that’s the end of this story, you’re mistaken.

At about the time we were crossing the Penobscot on the old Bangor-Brewer bridge, the only one then connecting the two cities, it was obvious that one or both of the dogs had become afflicted with full-blown flatulence. Suffice it to say that, then and there, the U.S. Army gas mask I was issued a year or so later would have been a godsend. In spite of a cloudburst that the windshield wipers could barely handle, the side-vent windows were opened and remained so for the rest of the trip south.

It’s interesting how things that happen early in life stay with us for the rest of our lives. Particularly if they happen with special people and in special places. Accordingly, the last time Carroll Soucie and I hunted pheasants together was on a November afternoon in the early 1960s. By then, the trail now known as Parkway South had been swamped through the pheasant-abundant fields and woodlands between outer Wilson Street in Brewer and the Wiswell Road in South Brewer. Though development of the area was minimal at the time, a firearms ordinance had been implemented. Nevertheless, Carroll and I cobbled together a plan to visit to our old hunting grounds. Figuring that the Brewer cops would be at the traditional Armistice Day football game between Bangor and Brewer high schools, we drew a bead on that date.

Come that afternoon, we cast Midge – Snooky had died a year earlier at age 15 – in an alder-cluttered field handy to where the railroad tracks cross Parkway South. In short order the savvy Brittany pointed two cock pheasants, which were promptly stuffed into our game pockets. Inside of an hour we were gone with no harm done and no one the wiser. Carroll, who started hunting pheasants at about the time I was born, said the bird I shot was the biggest he’d seen. So, to satisfy our curiosity, we drove to the late Clem Verow’s all-purpose store, which was located next to the Eastern Paper Mill in South Brewer, and weighed the pheasant. It tipped the certified scales at a tad more than 4 pounds. That wasn’t the only reason, though, why I had it mounted and made into a lamp that still decorates a corner of my den.

Aside from my aforementioned uncle’s English setter, Queenie, and my Springer spaniel, Snooky, Carroll Soucie and his Brittany, Midge, along with several other departed “south end” Sports addicted to bird hunting, namely, Bob Little, Paul Goody, Foster Ellis, Pug York, are reasons why I went to the dogs a long time ago and have never regretted it. All told, I’d pay to be able to do it all again; but only with the same Sports and the same dogs and in the same places. Otherwise it wouldn’t be the same.

Tom Hennessey’s columns and artwork can be accessed on the BDN Internet page at www.bangornews.com. Tom’s e-mail address is: thennessey@bangordailynews.net