He stepped out onto the porch and sucked in the cool fall air. It was a
good day to go out. The ground was “quiet” moist but not wet. The low
pressure system and morning conditions pushed the air down. There was a
cold front moving in but the day would be perfect for grouse hunting.
The man looked down at his side and there sat his old, faithful,
shorthair Milo who was looking up at him full of anticipation. Through
the old dogs greying muzzle he could still see the bright eyes of the
puppy that he once was. The dog knew the conditions were perfect, knew
that those pants were his owner’s hunting pants and knew that his master
would take one more deep breath; turn back inside to finish his coffee,
then pick up his gun. Then Milo would begin running in circles and
baying…but not until then.
Soon it came, the gun was hoisted, Milo bayed and turned, and then they
both slipped out the door without looking back. When they reached the
edge of the wood they’d hunted so many times, the man paused one more
time and so dutifully did Milo, waiting for his signal. The man raised
his head as if he was smelling the air and peering far into the forest,
then he slapped his leg and said, “Release!” Those were the old dog’s
favorite words. Trembling and coiled in anticipation of the command, he
sprung into the thicket and began bounding through brush and bouncing
for bird scent. His old owner nodded in approval and began walking his
brisk pace to keep up with the dog.
Milo’s hips ached and his breath came more labored than last season or
any season before but he didn’t care, he loved to and he lived to find
birds; his master, seemed slower, too. He used to be harder to stay in
front of and he used to seem more anxious for birds to be found but now,
he just seemed to be strolling, sometimes not even shooting at the
birds that they busted up. Milo didn’t care, they were in the woods
together and there was plenty of game and there were smells to enjoy.
The day carried on and the two continued through the Big Woods,
exploring and enjoying each other’s company. As had happened so many
times before, near sunset, they came through the crest of the mountain
where they always paused before turning to go back home. Each time, it
was a melancholy moment; it was always good to go back home but it was
always a reminder that even a woodsman is never truly free. As a young
man, the hunter would have to stop at boundary lines. Then he moved to
the Big Woods and even there, true freedom was not just over the next
ridge. There was work to go back to, then chores and family-there was
always something waiting at home. Even these last few years since they’d
been alone, there was the fire in the woodstove that would need to be
tended. They would push the day until the fire was down to its last few
coals, ready to fall through the grate. They would, dutifully, get home
just in time to catch enough heat to keep the pipes from freezing and
restart a new log.
Milo looked up at his master once again waiting for the signal to turn
and head back home. They had paused under the familiar oak tree many
times before but this time the man waited here longer than usual. Milo
knew the man had lots of memories here; his son would hunt with him and
turn here, too. It’s where he learned that he was going to join the
service, where he learned he was shipping to the Middle East and where
they came to when he came back, they spent a lot of time here then. The
son had puppies of his own now and seemed busy the last few years. He
comes back with a crowd now but less often and staying shorter stays.
It’s where his daughter told him she was marrying and was leaving, too.
It is also where he used to bring his wife and they would picnic…yuck.
Milo shuddered, no bird hunting, just napping but at least he’d catch a
good nap in a sunny spot and get to roll in something. Also, the kind
woman would give him a tasty treat on those trips. He missed her, too…
Outlined over the crest of the ridge a man stood still while his dog
closely stood watch. Milo used this time to think, always in tune with
his master’s habits, he remembered that this time, for this hunt, the
routine was slightly different. This time the man did not fill the
woodstove of the empty house before he left. Instead, he wrote a note
and said, “They’ll understand.” This time there were no chores or work
to go back to. Milo realized that they were free; there were no
boundaries to end the hunt. He stopped looking back and turned towards
the crest of the hill, cocked his head and looked at his master. The man
smiled at him and said, “That’s right, Milo” and he took the two shells
out his old double barrel, put them in the crotch of their tree, turned
and looked over the crest. He raised his head again as if he was
looking for something in the habit that was so familiar to the greying
shorthair. Milo began to tremble. Then the man nodded in satisfaction,
slapped his leg and pointed away from the house, over the crest of the
ridge saying, “Release!” Milo, ecstatically obeyed and bounded and
bounced over the crest of the mountain into the new territory and into
the rays of the setting sun reflecting off the brilliant oranges, reds
and yellows of the turning trees. The man seemed lighter afoot now, too,
as he briskly followed….finally free…
Back at a long cared for but now empty house, a draft blew a note off
the table and the last glowing coals of a good oak fire turned dark,
broke free, fell through the grate and went out.
See you along the stream
Published in the Cameron County Echo on October 12, 2012
