Ace in the hole

It’s finally Ace’s turn.

At this time last year I still had four dogs. Two were old and retired from the hunt. One was a young up-and-comer, and then there was Ace, like Dwight Schrute, always a padawan never a Jedi.

Ace hunted behind both Spot and Jem until they got old, but didn’t inherit the mantle of top dog when they quit. By then we had Baby Ruth and she quickly rose to the top of the heap.

Ace didn’t seem to mind. Like all of us, he too, loved Baby Ruth. But she died last winter of cancer, six months after Spot died of old age.

I was unexpectedly down to two dogs, one whose hunting days are behind him, and one whose career has never really taken off.

It was time to get a new puppy. I put a deposit down with a breeder in Chinook and anxiously awaited the arrival of the litter last March. Unfortunately, the mother only had one pup, which died shortly after birth. I’m waiting for the next litter, but it could be awhile.

In the meantime, I’m hoping Ace steps up.

A big, handsome spaniel with oven-mitt ears, he’ll be nine this summer so his years in the field are running short. A reluctant retriever at best, he knows the game but never embraced it.

He does, however, adore me, and is seldom far from my side, an advantage at times and a hindrance at others.

My dogs have always been fascinated with birds. Anything that flies or hops about in the yard catches their attention. Except for Ace who often doesn’t seem to care.

At the lake last week we watched a baby robin that had fallen out of the nest and couldn’t yet fly, hop up to Ace who was sleeping in the sun. He awoke with a start and quickly moved away, clearly uncomfortable to be so close to the baby bird.

“This doesn’t bode well,” I told Barb.

Any of my other dogs would have snatched up that fledgling in an instant. Ruth used to carry baby birds around in her mouth for hours, careful not to bite them and thus disable the squeaker.

Ace was simply not interested.

Perhaps he’s biding his time, well aware that baby robins aren’t the preferred quarry. Hopefully, he’s saving himself for the grouse, partridge, pheasants and ducks of fall.

Well, maybe not ducks. I almost forget. Ace doesn’t like to swim.

Parker Heinlein is at [email protected].