Jem would do just fine without me

The late, great outdoor writer Charley Waterman once penned a story about a big-running bird dog he owned named Murphy.

“You may have seen him passing your place at one time or another,” Waterman wrote, “for I have no idea where he hunted when I couldn’t see him.”

My dog Jem is a lot like that.

I love Jem to death, and still chase him much of the fall, but to be honest, I think Jem would be perfectly content hunting without me.

Oh, he’d still need a ride there and back. However, like most of my hunting partners, once out of the truck, he’d take his own path. And like my hunting partners sometimes do, he’d even occasionally check in with me.

“Seeing anything?” he’d ask as he passed by, inquiring more out of politeness than genuine interest. Then he’d continue his cast until he was out of sight, his chunky black and white silhouette belying the athlete inside. Often the only way I can keep track of him is to look for birds flushing on the horizon.

Before I belittle him any further, let me first praise him. I’ve probably shot more birds over Jem than any other dog I’ve owned. He’s an enthusiastic flusher, an eager retriever, and a bulldog in thick cover. He’s a friendly dog, doesn’t fight, and would sell his soul for a table scrap.

I have other dogs who hunt closer and slower, who like to stay in sight. Jem’s like an ex-wife: he’s not happy until he can’t see me.

He’s not a fast dog. He simply maintains a steady pace and never stops. I stay in shape just trying to keep up with him.

We recently bought a Go-pro camera and a harness to attach it to Jem. I’m looking forward to seeing where he goes and what he sees. Until we get the camera mounted on him I can only guess.

Sometimes I have a pretty good clue, like the time he was bitten by the rattlesnake or when he cut himself on barbed wire retrieving a rooster. The other day I saw him cross the frozen creek and later saw him dripping wet, the result -- I’m guessing -- of a fall through the ice.

The next time I saw him his coat was dry, he’d gotten a haircut and was wearing a new collar. He asked if I’d seen any birds.

“No,” I told him. “How about you?”

But before he could answer he was already gone, a rooster flushing on the horizon marking his path.

Parker Heinlein is at

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