Although the arrival of September signals the end of summer, I welcome the first of the months ending with ber-rrr. The reason being that it announces the arrival of autumn, which means bird hunting and duck hunting. Therefore, allowing that neither sport is complete without the pleasures of watching dogs work, my son, Jeff, and I recently collared a couple of pups, his a chocolate Lab, mine a liver-and-white English pointer. Suffice to say, the youngsters have been taking home-school courses in preparation for their hunting careers, which will begin come October.

For the uninitiated, training a pup, regardless of the promises of its pedigree, requires time – several hunting seasons – patience and perseverance. Nevertheless, watching the pup’s progress and development is gratifying and rewarding. Particularly when the young feather-finder is following the tracks left by an older, experienced dog whose hunting days were ended by an untimely death. Accordingly, Jeff’s 8-year-old black Lab Coot died unexpectedly in early May. Apparently, the burly, 120-pound retriever was the victim of either a stroke or heart attack induced by a breeding date during unseasonably warm weather. Whatever the cause, Coot’s death was disheartening. In Jeff’s words, “I wanted one of his pups and I lost him trying to get it.”

In time, however, a search began for a pup to take Coot’s place. Shortly thereafter, Jackie Dunbar, who raises quality Labs at her Sunnyside Farm kennel in Orland, directed Jeff to a Waterville breeder named Susan Carey. A few days later, an impressive 8-week-old male chocolate Lab left his litter mates and Waterville to stake out his territory on Jeff’s Monroe property. The pup was promptly named Kodiak because he looked like a bear cub of that species. Now, at nearly 6 months old, “Kody,” as he’s called, is fetching a dummy from afar on land or water and pays no attention to the report of a shotgun. So far so good.

So now comes my side of this September story: When my 7-year-old English pointer Pete died of cancer in December of 1999, my mindset was against bringing another bird dog home. “It isn’t worth it any more,” I rationalized. “The woodcock season’s two weeks shorter now and by the time the foliage thins out, we get about a week of good hunting conditions. Every year there’s more posted land, which means driving farther to find covers, which means someone’s there ahead of you or behind you. Besides, I’ve shot my share of birds. Probably more than my share. I’ll put in the rest of my time shooting 2s and 4s instead of 8s.”

As the autumn of 2000 arrived, however, so did ambivalence. Lying awake in the wee hours, I thought: “October’s just over the hill and I don’t have a bird dog to hang a bell on; I’ve got to scare up a pup … I don’t know, though, bird hunting isn’t what it used to be, maybe I’d better just call it good and be done with it. … But what’ll I do with my bird guns? … Forget it. I’ve had enough dogs put to sleep while I held them in my arms and told myself I was doing the right thing. … But the pleasures of owning them outweighed the pain of losing them.” Back and forth, on and on, until Ed Vanidestine, the bird dog breeder-trainer whose kennel is located on Eastern Avenue in Brewer, called me in midsummer. “I hear you’re looking for a dog,” he said.

“Off and on,” I answered. “What’ve you got?”

“A pointer pup. Nine months old. He’s out of my Rocky and Hannah breeding. He’s birdier than hell, but he won’t make a field-trial dog because he doesn’t range far enough. He’d make a nice hunting dog, though. Come out and take a look. I’ll put a couple of pigeons out.” So out I went. And after watching the pup named Bud become paralyzed with the perfume of bird scent, I asked, “What do you want for him?”

“How about a painting of Rocky?” Ed answered.

“Fair enough,” I agreed.

For the record, the aforementioned Rocky, trained and handled by Ed, cut a swath through the classy field of pointing dogs competing in the International Woodcock Championship trial held in Woodstock, New Brunswick, last October. Small wonder Ed wanted a painting of the dog.

Old habits die hard and in this case I’m glad of it. Once again I’m fussing with check cords and collars, bells and whistles, and planting birds and shooting blanks. Satisfyingly, too, I might add. At this stage of the game, Bud is aggressive but biddable when playing birdy games of hide and seek and his points are staunch and stylish. But I’ve been around too long to think he won’t get older and bolder. On certain days, therefore, I’ll wonder, aloud and descriptively, if he has lost his hearing.

Thus far, however, only once have I had second thoughts about my decision to put a collar on another bird dog. It occurred while driving to a nearby field for a training session: In keeping with Murphy’s Law, the spring-loaded bird launcher containing a chukka partridge – the device was on the floor of the passenger side – somehow released. Well, mister, let me tell you, a fox in a chicken coop wouldn’t have caused more of a ruckus. I’d have sworn there was a flock of partridges flying around the cab of the truck. Thank God Bud was in the dog box. After swerving to a stop and recapturing the bird, I mumbled, “I’m getting too old for this.” Bud assured me that I wasn’t, however, when shortly thereafter he pointed like he was posing for a picture.

In conclusion, from where I’m standing the signs couldn’t be more encouraging. So, I say, welcome, September; with your apples and acorns dropping and your sumacs and swamp maples smoldering and your first touches of frost. Your arrival brings the season of dog bells and duck calls to within shotgun range, and it appears that, owing to a warm, dry spring, the wild poultry had a productive nesting season.

There’s nothing like a pup to keep an old dog hunting.

Tom Hennessey’s columns and artwork can be accessed on the BDN Internet page at www.bangornews.com. E-mail: thennessey@bangordailynews.net. Web site: www.tomhennessey.com.