King Can Retrieve

It seemed bird calls were destined to become a major part of my young life. I’d nearly perfected my loon call and tested it at dusk, when sound carried best across the still waters of Cotton Lake.

First one loon would arrive, then two, then more, landing near shore in a puzzled flock. My record was a dozen. I imagined them murmuring among themselves, wondering which of their kind had called them in. When they spotted me, just a kid on the shoreline, I could almost hear their laughter.

I even thought about asking Mom to sew me a loon suit, but decided she’d have me committed.

I learned another bird call the day Dad and a few of his friends took me duck hunting on Cotton Lake. It was a wild experience, let me tell you.

We lived in the heart of the Central Flyway, the great migration route ducks and geese followed from Canada south. I’d watched huge flocks descend to feed in the quiet coves near the island, their voices rising in a wild, echoing chorus that filled the sky. Some flew right over our house, quacking or ha-woo-ing to each other in raucous conversation.

King was five months old now and already sixty pounds. Ken-L Ration had done its job. I still wrestled with the horse-meat dilemma, but King didn’t.

Naturally, I wanted to take him hunting. Dad wasn’t convinced.

“He’s not a bird dog, son,” he said. “He won’t know what to do with a downed duck. You really think he’ll retrieve it?”

What Dad didn’t know was that I’d been training King for weeks. We started with retrieving a ball on dry land, then moved to water. King loved it, he’d leap into the lake like a cannonball, paddling hard even when the ball drifted far from shore.

“I’ll show you,” I said, grinning.

At dawn, I tossed the ball into the misty lake. King bounded after it and disappeared into the gloom. Moments later, he returned with the ball clutched proudly in his jaws. Dad tried it himself, same result.

Dad looked stunned. Then proud. “He’s earned a try!”

His friends clapped their approval.

The hunting crew, Dad, Don, Big Al, King, and me, loaded into the boat. Dad had painted it in blotchy shades of brown and green for camouflage. “This’ll help us stay hidden,” he said, grinning.

They packed decoys, sandwiches, thermoses of coffee, and their shotguns. Dad had mounted Uncle Bert’s green Johnson ten-horse motor, which Bert said we could use anytime.

We dressed in layers topped with brown camouflage. As we neared Big Island, Dad slowed the motor and turned into a sheltered bay. “You’ll just watch this time,” he said. “If you decide you like hunting, I’ll teach you to handle a gun when you’re older. Keep King beside you so he doesn’t spook the ducks.”

Big Al and I were dropped off to set up the blind. He showed me how to arrange dead branches into a rugged half-circle large enough for all four of us, and King, to hide behind.

Dad and Don stayed in the boat, setting the decoys in a curved hook formation.

“The ducks will fly in from that direction,” Al said, pointing toward the open water. “They’ll see the spread and come in to land where it’s open. That’s when we take the shot. You stand on the left end, safest spot.”

He handed me two yellow rubber things that looked like candy.

“Twist the ends and push them in your ears. Like this.”

I followed. The world fell silent.

“Earplugs,” he said, his voice muffled. “Protect your hearing.”

Big Al raised a small brown wooden tube to his mouth and blasted several loud quacks across the water.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“A duck call,” he said, handing it to me. It was made of walnut, hollow inside, with a thin reed that produced the sound.

“This little gizmo helps you speak duck language,” he explained. “The call gets their attention and entices them to fly over and see where the sound is coming from. You’ll learn how to use it eventually.”

Another bird call to master. I could hardly wait.

Dad and Don beached the boat and joined us in the blind. I could make out the decoys now, sixty or so, floating in the faint gray light. “Ducks have amazing eyesight,” Dad whispered. “Stay low. Don’t move. Don’t talk.”

I pulled out one earplug. I didn’t want to miss the men’s banter. I’d been around women so much, it felt novel to hear men talk, rough, funny, and unfiltered.

The eastern sky began to glow. The lake turned glassy silver. Distant shapes appeared on the horizon, faint silhouettes against the light. Ducks.

Dad whispered, “They’re circling. Get ready.”

I quickly pushed the earplug back into place. Whatever the men were saying could wait.

The men crouched behind the blind, gripping their shotguns. I sat still, clutching King’s collar. His ears were up, his body tense.

Suddenly, the ducks swooped in low, wings spread, feet down, gliding toward the decoys.

“Now!” Dad shouted.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

The air exploded. Ducks scattered. A few crumpled into the water. I ducked and held onto King. He flinched but didn’t run.

“Nice shooting!” Don called out.

Dad pointed. “Jerre, send King! Let’s see what he can do.”

“Fetch!” I said.

King bounded from the blind, splashing into the water, swimming hard toward a downed duck. I held my breath. Would he grab it?

He reached the bird, circled once, clamped it gently in his jaws, and turned back to shore. When he emerged, dripping and triumphant, the men whooped and cheered.

“Attaboy!” Dad said. “That dog’s a natural.”

King dropped the duck at Dad’s feet, tail wagging furiously.

We kept hunting as the sun climbed higher. Ducks came in waves, some too fast, some too high, some perfect. They got a few more. King retrieved every one. The men were impressed. I was bursting with pride.

When the hunt ended, we gathered the decoys and packed the boat. Back home, we dressed out the ducks on the picnic table near the house. I didn’t mind the mess; I wanted to learn everything.

That night, Mom roasted a few with wild rice stuffing. The kitchen smelled rich and earthy. I took a bite, dark, gamey meat, strong but delicious.

I couldn’t stop smiling. That day had everything: excitement, teamwork, pride, and the thrill of watching King prove himself.

From then on, I knew one thing for sure: King was a bird dog after all, and he knew it.