PROLOGUE – DECEMBER 2011

I have long owed a debt to a very close friend. I have carried this debt in my heart for a very long time, and I promised myself someday I’d tell the story for others to read.

Dogs and outdoors activities go together in so many ways. As a hunter, I dreamed for years of having a dog to train and share my hunting time with. At the time, I couldn’t talk myself into paying a premium for a pedigreed bird dog. I had trained a couple of other dogs for various things and figured I could start with a dog with some basic instincts and get him to do what I wanted.

Hector taught me humility. We were told he was an Irish Setter/Labrador cross. After he reached maturity, we figured it was Irish Setter/Newfoundland, so he didn’t have the retrieving machine instinct I had hoped for. On the other hand, he became a local legend with pheasants. As it turned out, he trained me. I’d never win a field trial, but he got me where we could handle an upland game field pretty well!

Hector graced my life for thirteen years. Back when heartworm medicine was a daily affair during mosquito season, apparently one fall, we failed to give it quite long enough. I felt like we failed him, but I think he understood. Life must go on. I often hear that if you’re lucky, you get one good dog. I’ve had a a few dogs, and several that I was very close to, but only one that managed to reach so deep into my life and heart. This is for Hector, told from my point of view. In fact, it’s my little dialogue.

OCTOBER, 1975

“Hello, I was wondering if this is the correct number for the puppies you advertised. Half Irish Setter and half Labrador? MAYBE Labrador, huh? He was good at fence jumping, you say? Only five dollars? Your town is behind Cannon Air Base over in New Mexico, right? Then I’ll be there in about an hour. You see I just got out of college and am teaching in a small town in Texas. I’d like an outdoor dog that might retrieve ducks. With all the ducks around here, the local farmers just about welcome you over to shoot the ducks, and I thought maybe I could train a pup like this. Oh, the mother doesn’t get in the water? Well, I think I can train one of them. You say they’re only 4 weeks old but getting too big for your yard. I think I’d like to see them!”

Later, that day.

“Look, honey, that big clumsy one that came running out first. He is chewing my shoe lace and pulling my pant legs. I can work with him. He’s solid black and as big as the 3 month old Cocker at the vets, and he’s only 4 weeks old. I think I’ll call him Hector. He’ll grow into that name, you bet! I can call him Heck!”

NOVEMBER, 1975

“Well, Honey, I am already starting to train Hector. He is already up to 25 pounds and will go get the tennis ball three times before he quits and goes back to sit on the porch. I’m going to bring back one of those teal when I get back from puddle jumping, and hold it in his mouth and get him used to ducks. He’s gonna be GREAT!”

MARCH 1976

“Hey Honey, did you see Hector? I walked with him over to the prairie dog town, so he could get used to the shooting, but as soon as I fired the first shot, he headed off to the house. Now that he’s nearly 30 inches at the shoulders, he can get home a lot faster than I can. Yeah, there he is snoozing on the porch.”

MAY 1976

“Hey, Tom, long time since we talked. I’m hoping for a good waterfowl season next year. We’ve got a lot of tailwater pits lined up. I’m still trying to get Hector trained to retrieve. He will run after the ball three times, and then hide the ball in the weeds and go sit on the porch. I’m beginning to wonder which one of us is getting trained.”

JULY 4^th, 1976

“Listen to that dog moan. Seems like a few little fireworks blocks away have him scared to death! I guess I’ll bring him in. Hope it doesn’t mean he’s gun shy!”

AUGUST 1976

“Sorry coach. Yeah, I know you were real proud of your German Shepherd, but if you wanted to avoid problems, you shouldn’t have sic’d him on Hector. Yeah, I know he doesn’t look like a fighter, but he always runs over aggressive dogs like that, and when ‘Killer’ started after him, Hector just kept running back and forth knocking him down every time. I’m sorry for your dog. I’m pretty sure he’ll come back out of your garage in a week or so. It’s that 9 yard stride of Hector’s. I don’t think he really hurt ‘Killer’.”

SEPTEMBER 1976

“Hey, Jim, Let’s go out and get some teal. It’s early season. I’ve been training Heck. He’ll follow hand signals, which he’s really good at, and come, at least most of the time he’ll come. Well, he did yesterday. I’m going to bring back a teal to get Hector to hold and heel.”

NOVEMBER 1976

“Hey Tom, watch this. That mallard hen over there is down and can’t fly. I’m going to position Hector right over him.”

“See, I’ve got him standing right over the duck. Now, Heck, PICK ‘IM UP!! NO!! NOOO! NOOOO!”

“Yes, Tom, that’s the first time I’ve seen a dog pee on a duck like that. Maybe it was a mistake force training him with the ducks in his mouth. Or it is possible he’s just not a hunter?”

LATER THAT MONTH

“Honey, you’ll never guess where I found Heck. He got loose in the snow storm, and had run over to the gin down the road. He was running around and around a cotton trailer. There was something under the trailer. When I called him, he ran under the trailer, and flushed about 30 pheasants out from under the trailer. I know where we’ll be come pheasant season next week.”

DECEMBER 1976

“Back, Heck. Good dog!”

“I don’t know. I wish I could say I trained him. He just takes to the field naturally. But he doesn’t retrieve. He bounces up and down like a kangaroo. I think he’s looking up and down the rows for birds. Never seen it before. And he automatically works back and forth in front of all six hunters. He’s flushed more birds than we have ever seen. Yesterday, we worked a fence line, and he busted out through the brush piles, and got me bunnies as well as a limit of pheasants When he gets too far out of range, I call him, and when he needs to go ahead, I just tell him BACK.”

“Whoa, Heck. Good Dog. Now Back!”

“No, I don’t know. He just figured it out, too. Maybe he’ll work out after all.”

MARCH 1976

“Yeah, I brought Hector along on this scout trip. I’m scoutmaster (as a result of an election held when I was gone) and we are going to spring campout here, and its still COLD at night. I figured I’d have Hector in my camper shell and he could help keep me warm. You’d think a 120 pound dog would be warm. Well, I guess he was, but he just curled up in a ball and not only didn’t help me get warm, but pushed me out of my spot in the truck. But the scouts love him. He went along on an epic snipe hunt along the edge of the caprock last night, and stayed up by the campfire. The kids love him! Now I get to ride back in the pickup cab with a wet smelly dog. It’s worth it!”

MAY 1976

“Hey, Honey. It’s funny when you hold your cookie over your head and Hector reaches up without leaving the ground and takes it away. He didn’t even touch your fingers!”

JULY 4^th, 1976

“Well, he’s still afraid of fireworks. I guess if there’s game to hunt, he doesn’t worry about it, but a few kids 5 blocks away with a string of Black Cat firecrackers . . . .”

AUGUST 1976

“I dunno, Jim. Every time I work with him, he retrieves the tennis ball three times, then stuffs it in the weeds. Lately, it’s been in that corner where he does his business. I think Hector is trying to tell me something. I’m worried that he’s not going to turn out to be the duck hunter I was hoping for!”

SEPTEMBER 1976

“Well, lookie there! Hector has brought back all 5 doves I managed to hit! Maybe there’s hope, yet.”

OCTOBER 1976

“Sorry officer. He always tried to ride behind my head on the pickup seat.”

“Yes, sir. I know he’s way to big. It is just hard to keep him over on his side while I’m driving a manual shift truck!”

NOVEMBER 1976

“I like your 260 Z car, Tom. I’m sorry Hector has crawled in and won’t get out. I think maybe he’s upset that we didn’t take him along. If you can push him over and drive around the block, I think he’ll get out when you get back.”

10 MINUTES LATER

“See, it worked. Now, we’ll see if he can get the ducks out of the ponds for us.”

2 HOURS LATER

“I’m sorry about that. The only duck you got, and he did it again. That’s the SECOND time I’ve seen a dog do that!”

DECEMBER 1976

“Hey, Charlie. You gonna be able to get your thousand bucks back from the trainer you sent your German Shorthair off to? Seems like it’s Hector 4 pheasants and 6 quail to, what is it, yeah NOTHING! Oh, yeah, and a RABBIT.” (Shootin’ rabbits in front of bird dogs is a SIN, but Hector never seemed to mind.)

“Yeah, I know, he’s not supposed to bring it back to the shooter, but that seems to be his idea. He brings it to the guy who got the bir………HECTOR!! Gee WHIZ! What are you rolling in??? That calf was not WELL! OH, gosh, you’re going to have to ride back in my truck! YUCK!!”

MAY 1977

“Oh, I like that. Big black and shiny, with a mouth filled with bright white ivory, so he’s a Steinway Setter! Like a grand piano. I get it! The neighbor lady sez that when she came back, she saw two eyes and all those white teeth glaring out of the darkness, and yelled ‘Hector, is that you?’ and he came up wagging that massive tail and slobbering all over. Made her feel safe!”

NOVEMBER 1977

“Yeah, I bring old Hector with me every time I can, which is almost daily during duck season, but he and I have an agreement, I won’t ask him to get a duck, and he won’t pee on it any more! If there is a bunny or quail to flush, he knows what to do. We’re both just waiting for pheasant season. Too bad I couldn’t convince him to carry a duck, but he’s good company.”

DECEMBER 1977

“Thanks for the invite to hunt your field, sir. I appreciate being included in your traditional family hunt. Oh, yes, I understand, I’ll be there with Hector. He’ll be fed and ready to hunt.”

NEXT DAY

“Thank you sir. He’s a natural. I think he trained me…… OMIGOSH!! Hector, get OFF of that cow pie!! Gee whiz, I’m just getting last year’s mess out of my truck cab!”

MAY 1978

“Honey, you think your Dad would take Hector while I go back to college. We won’t have room where we’re staying. He’s been a good bird dog. We can go see him every weekend, and I’ll take him hunting when I can.”

JULY 4^th, 1978

“Hi, Howard. How’s Hector doing?”

“Yeah, he always whines and moans like that while they’re shooting off fireworks. Nope, he doesn’t seem to be gun shy when there’s birds to chase! He’ll be fine!”

NOVEMBER 1978

“Thanks for the invite, Greg. Yes, I hunt pheasants. We can drive up to your place opening morning. Mind if I bring old Hector. He’s quite the pheasant dog. He handles a field like no one else.”

DECEMBER 1978

“Yep, we got limits for EVERYONE. And he brings the birds back to the guy that hunts. I’m just sorry about you feeling guilty, Terry. But I don’t think he’s judging your shooting. Well, maybe he is just a bit disappointed, it was a nice bunch of roosters!”

“Oh my GOSH, knock him off that cow pie!! It’s a FRESH one. I have to drive all the way back to Lubbock with him in the cab!!”

NOVEMBER 1979

“Yea, Greg. Well, I’d rather bring Hector myself. I can get there in time for opening. I think he’ll do even better this year.”

DECEMBER 1979

“Well, you guys are yelling ‘Come BACK!’ The last thing he hears is BACK, that means to hunt ahead! I’m the one who’s supposed to yell at him”

“Stupid cow flops!!”

MAY 1981

“Thanks, Howard. I appreciate you keeping him while we were in school these years. I know you and Hector are close. I think I can hunt him a lot where we’re moving. There are a lot of birds in Lamb County, and we’ll be in a real small town.”

DECEMBER 1981

“Hey, Greg, it’s great to get back together again and hunt the birds, like we did in college. For me, it’s only about a half hour drive. You had to fly up from Lake Jackson. Yeah, Hector is still flushing and retrieving. He’s a real machine on pheasants, but don’t ask him to get a duck. HECTOR, GET OFF THAT COW PIE!”

DECEMBER 1982

“Thanks for the chance to hunt your in-law’s farm, Doug. Hector and I love pheasant hunting. He’s slowed down a bit, and works well with just the two of us. It’s been pretty dry this year, and he has trouble smelling them when it’s ……. YUCK, I didn’t know you had calves here!! Hector, get off that!”

JULY 4^th, 1983

“Gee Whiz, the neighbors are getting TIRED of his whining. I guess he’ll have to spend the night inside! Too many fireworks!”

MAY 1985

“No, doctor, we try to give him his daily pill to prevent heartworm from the first warm nights in early spring until the first hard freeze in the fall. I guess he got heartworm from a late season mosquito. I know it is dangerous to treat an older dog, especially one that has lived his whole life outside for heartworm. We’ll take care of him.”

DECEMBER 1987

“You should have seen it, Honey. He and I were tired. I had helped him up that last ditch, and I got out my sandwich and thermos, and shared a late lunch in the field with Hector. Greg wasn’t there this year, so it was just Hector and me. After about 30 minutes, I got up, and a pheasant had been hiding in the overgrown grass at the edge of the field, and flushed. I shot and clipped bird hard, but he kept flying. Hector jumped up like he was a kid, and followed the bird nearly a half mile, and brought him back. The guy who was harvesting cotton in the next section got off his stripper, and drove over to tell me it was the best retrieve he ever saw and shook my hand. I could only whisper ‘Thank you’. I sat with the pheasant and Hector’s head in my lap until the sun went down. Had to pick him up and get him in the pickup.”

JULY 4^th, 1988
“I worry, honey. I don’t think he can hear the fireworks. We’ll keep him in the kitchen.”

JULY 6^th, 1988

“Doctor, I know he’s bad. I’ve been bringing his food over to him when he whines for it, but today, he couldn’t eat. I think it’s time, he’s so miserable now. I’ll hold him, if you don’t mind. You give him the shot. I think he understands.”

Little Old Boxes

I walked up to the open garage, trying to look pleasant and open to everyone, but I was a man on a mission. Everything was spread out in rows on tables of various types; card tables, a couple of the folding tables you see at church suppers and neighborhood fish fries, and one slab of plywood on folding sawhorses. I could see that the display of household knick knacks and kitchen cast offs had already been picked over and scattered by the early birds. Garage sales are as competitive as bass tournaments for some folks. Hopefully, there would be some interesting leftovers for an amateur such as myself.

“What are you interested in?” the friendly young housewife who was running this little enterprise asked. There were several young households that had pooled their cast offs, and, after everyone in the group had gone over the loot, had opened it to whoever could find parking close enough to look it over.

“Oh, I love a bargain. Do you have any outdoor equipment, such as hunting or fishing tackle?” I’ve found if I don’t say the G word (guns) some of the young housewives are more open to dealing with me. It is getting to be a touchy world, indeed.

“No hunting stuff, and several of the husbands in our group fish in a bass club, so they went over the fishing tackle pretty well. You might look over in the corner, I think Heather’s grandfather’s old tackle box is with the yard tools we have.”

Sure enough, there was a little blue steel box, as likely to be a small tool box, as a tackle box. A young woman, Heather, I suppose, stepped over as I opened it up. “I remember my grandfather having that at our place at the lake when I was a kid. All us kids would go out in his old red and white Lone Star boat. He had old rods and reels, and sometimes just cane poles that we could use. I seem to remember that we always caught fish, and had a good time. Usually on worms, or minnows. There were some more fishing plugs in it, but my husband took some of them for bass fishing. He said the rest wasn’t good for anything. You can have it for $3. There’s still some old stuff in there. I think there were some fishing things that Grandpa dragged around behind the boat.”

I opened the box, it was a green steel box, with a metal shelf. There were some old loose hooks, a little rusty in the top section, and an old Heddon Sonic and a Pico Perch. Just holding it in my hand, I could remember when I would hold the Dacron line on my finger, and hold the line against my ear to hear the Sonic humming behind my boat nearly 50 years ago. Down under the shelf was an old Shakespeare Direct Drive reel with green braided line, just like I was remembering, a few Eagle Claw hook packets, and a couple of plastic floats that had been tangled up with a plastic worm, to make that gooey mess when the worm dissolves the plastic. There were some loose sinkers, and one old crappie rig still in the package. There was also a rusty needle nose pliers and an old pocket knife with rust on it.

“I’ll take it. I can use the box for small tools and parts, and maybe put the reel on my shelf.”

Which was mostly true. The reel was eventually going on my shelf. I already had nearly a dozen old Shakespeare reels, a few of which were tight enough that they might be used, but mostly, they fit with the reels I and my Dad and father-in-law had owned when I was young.

I probably will take the lures on a fishing trip some day. In fact, I tell myself, I’m going to take them and try to fish with one of the Shakespeare reels and an old rod I have. But truthfully, my time at the lake is usually so filled with family and having to keep things running, that my plan won’t happen until I finally retire to the lake.

But the box is going to go on a shelf in my store room, in the back. It will take its place next to other, similar boxes that have come my way in just such a manner. It all started when I was in high school. My Dad had given me an old, ratty looking steel box. It was painted with some kind of orange tractor paint. The hinges were sprung, and there leather handle was all eaten up from being out in the weather, probably under the seat of one of our tractors. Dad explained that it was his father’s tackle box. I had never known my father’s father. I did know that he was an outdoorsman, like I was turning out to be.

My Dad was a farmer, through and through. He often said deer hunting was a luxury we could not afford. I was allowed to shoot the jackrabbits that damaged our crops, and occasionally control the rats that found their way into our barns and work spaces. While we lived hundreds of miles from the nearest fishing waters, I had learned to love fishing as a boy on vacations with my Mother’s Dad. Fortunately, although my Dad never really did a lot of fishing himself, he was always ready to take us on a fishing trip each summer, and perhaps again in the fall, when the crops were not quite ready, and we had time because my sisters and I loved fishing so much. We even had a boat most of the time, and he often traded to get bigger boats. He loved trading. And we were lucky to get to fish in places from Possum Kingdom to Yellowstone.

But being a practical man, apparently Dad had used his father’s tackle box as a tractor tool box. It is a practical thing, to use a box in that way. But I always felt that there was something to be learned from old boxes when they have represented something special to their previous owners. When I find an old tackle box, especially when it is the only tackle box someone had, I feel a connection.

That is why I have several old tackle boxes that still have a bit of tackle in them, on the shelf next to the old orange box.

But when I’m gone, there won’t be a single tackle box. These days, I seem to have an entire storeroom dedicated to tackle (actually, one at the lake, and one here at the house). And I’m not alone! For most fishermen these days, their entire boat is a “tackle box”. They have compartments filled with organized plastic boxes, stuff into organized nylon bags. Our favorite lure seems to change with the latest development in hydrodynamic design, or chromatic paint, or improved plastic. Or maybe what our computer analysis program tells us will fill the livewell.

At one time, I had a huge Umco “Possum Belly” tackle box (something from the ‘70’s, for all you whippersnappers) that might have been my “tackle box”. It was so large and heavy, that my father-in-law forbid me from bringing it on trips, forget even trying to carry it on his 18 foot long Lone Star Commander boat! But someone jimmied the lock on my lake property storage, and apparently my Umco treasure chest, with a lifetime of lure accumulation, is somewhere else! I just hope that whoever now has my box has bad luck!

So, like a row of burial urns, my small collection of small metal tackle boxes sits in my storeroom, each with a little bit of the tackle that they came with (but I always throw out the mass of melted lures, bobbers, and plastic worms and outdated mono). I believe it ties me to a time gone by. Maybe the previous owners will enjoy going out with me by way of their favorite boxes in my little 1949 Lone Star row boat and dragging some of their lures over some promising water. Maybe I’ll make that sentimental fishing trip, after all. Maybe after one more trip, the boxes will let me use them for tool boxes.