Ode to Joy

A quail hunt, at least on the property where I work, is filled with pageantry. We arrive under the ancient live-oaks at the “big house” at precisely nine o’clock in the morning—two mule-drawn wagons with six or eight horses led by hunting guides in white vests. It is such an impressive sight that first time guests often stand on the porch and video the procession with their cell phones.

In all this pageantry—mules, horses, wagons, and guides—one individual is often singled out. She stands on the seat of the first wagon, as she has done for nearly a decade, and is clearly the star of the show. She is a thirty pound, chocolate brown English cocker named Joy.

To say I love dogs would be an understatement. Dogs have been a part of my life since the day I was born. My childhood dogs were yard-dogs that never came in the house but in those days children seldom went in the house either, except to eat or sleep. Dogs ran with us—or we ran with them.

In my adult life, my wife and I have always shared our home with one or two dogs as part of the family, and I still grieve for the ones that have passed. Maybe that is why I have such an affinity for the dogs in our hunting operation and why I love spending my workday with Joy on my lap.

Every morning, after we load guests and guns and we ride out to the hunting ground, the first order of business is to stop the wagon and get two dogs down. They are English pointers, muscular little short-haired dogs with names like Buck and Gabby, Bud and Pearl, and Ike and Dot.

They are taken out of the wagon in a male-female pair and positioned side by side in the

middle of the road, with a gentle tug on their collars and an equally gentle command to “whoa”. The control of the dog handler is impressive and must be the result of hours, weeks, and even years of training. The dogs stand still and look at their handler as he mounts his horse, listening for their release—a low whistle, not unlike the whistle of the bobwhite quail.

Once released, they run up and down the dirt roads and in and out of the grassy lanes. By all outward appearances, they are running aimlessly at a brisk lope—aimlessly, that is, until one of them catches the scent of quail in the thick grass. Then it looks like the dog has come to the end of some invisible leash. His head snaps toward the birds and his body jerks sideways. He remains immobile with head down and tail up. Our guide says “we’ve got a point up here.” The other dog is usually not nearby but when she sees a point, she will also fall into a less serious point, essentially honoring her partner.

It’s still a bit of a mystery to me, especially from my vantage point on the wagon, how the dog handler interprets the actions of the dogs. Is the dog pointing a covey or a single bird or a bird that was the morning meal for a hawk? Are both dogs on the same covey or are there in fact two coveys? This is the heart of the hunt—the dogs on point and the guide positioning the hunters; followed by the moment of truth when the birds fly, the guns boom, and the birds fall. This is when Joy, the little English cocker on the wagon seat next to me, stops whining and jumping around. She stands at full-alert and goes silent awaiting the dog handler’s call.

Most of the birds fall in an open area where they are easily picked up. Occasionally, however, a bird falls into the deep grass. That takes a little more looking, even when the hunter knows where his bird fell. After a few moments of fruitless searching, the call goes up from the guide as he looks back to the wagon and hollers, “JOY!”

Joy scrambles down the steps at the side of the wagon and navigates the lanes to where the hunters and guides await. The guide points and says “dead bird in here”, and Joy goes to work. She scrambles back and forth nose to the ground in ever shrinking circles until she homes-in on her target. Finally, she dives in and emerges with a bird in her mouth. She looks to the guide who says “wagon”, and back she comes to deliver the bird to me and turn her attention back to the action in the field.

This is clearly a highlight for the hunters and is the reason that after ten seasons Joy is, at least on our wagon, the star of the show. She is the enthusiastic magician pulling an invisible bird out the deep grass and bounding back to the wagon with her treasure. That, I suppose, is why Joy is the first one the hunters greet when they come out on the porch of the house in the morning and the last one to be touched with an affectionate pat on the head before they head in for drinks after the hunt. 

There is a tendency for people unfamiliar with their life to feel sorry for the dogs on a hunting plantation. They live in a kennel and only come out to train or to hunt. But not all dogs are bred to live in a house and sleep on a couch. Many were bred to guard property, pull sleds, or perform water rescue. The Jack Russell Terrier, for example is described as a “charming and affectionate” little dog, but it was developed in England over two hundred years ago for the not-so-charming job of hunting foxes. The hunting dogs I work with are bred to find, to point, and to retrieve birds. I don’t think Joy’s life will be better or she will be any “happier” when she retires to someone’s house and will never seek out another quail in the deep grass.

When the hunters come out in the morning and come directly to the wagon to rub Joy’s head, it is as if she is their talisman—a good luck charm that might hold magical properties. But if, as John Milton has suggested, luck is the residue of design, then luck will have little to do with the success of the day’s hunt. The pointers will point the birds and Joy will retrieve them—that much is certain. It is the skill of the hunters that is a little less certain. They will need to rely on quick reactions and straight shooting rather than the luck derived from petting their “lucky dog”. And no one will be happier with their success than Joy, as she lives out her name and trots out to help them find their lost birds.