110% Gus
If a dog ever warranted a pre-death eulogy, it is Gus.
Gus came about through a rather odd set of circumstances. I was greatly impressed by what would be his sire, Oscar, during a field trial and was looking to breed our female setter, Tess. It seems that Oscar had made other plans with his sister, Harli, and Gus came about two months later.
In-spite of Gus’s awkward start, his childhood was quite tame. (Gus is in the middle - looking at the camera.)
That was Gus’s rather awkward beginning. Having a family tree that was trimmed a bit at its base was not an issue, however. Gus showed incredible intelligence and willingness to use his abilities for the forces of good. Yet, like the kid that tries too hard to be your friend, Gus tends to go beyond the measure of what’s required – or appropriate. Everything Gus does is one-hundred and ten percent of what is normally required.
Gus was an intelligent pup. Of course, he couldn’t read - he liked to look at the pictures.
Mostly, it is tolerable – even amusing. His antics and wild ways have given us hours of entertainment. Simply commanded, Gus will dive into his kennel or bed like a Marine hitting a foxhole to evade a tossed grenade. In his rush to return indoors, Gus often hits an icy patio at light-speed. In an instant, graceful setter becomes a careening bowling ball destined to launch patio furniture like pins in his failed effort to change course. Even when his angle of approach is generally on-course, Gus’s miscalculated velocity often, and abruptly, meets an immovable door-frame.
This is not to make Gus out to be a (fur) ball of nervous energy; pacing and racing in annoying fashion. Indoors, he becomes quite settled. Even when playing his favorite game of “fetch”, Gus merely trots to the thrown object and will endlessly comply until told the game is at an end. Meaning understood, Gus will lay down and chew the object or roll a bit while tossing it about. His most annoying habit being his constant need for affection. Any hand left idle will be lifted with a cold nose and tossed onto his broad head in a single stroke.
In the house, Gus is as calm as a throw-pillow.
Ah, but outdoors, once released, Gus hunts with all the enthusiasm of a blitzing linebacker dashing, unabated, to the opposing quarterback. That is Gus’s approach – cover ground with reckless abandon. Defying the road less-traveled, preferring, instead, no road at all, the clattering commotion Gus produces in thick cover scatters wildlife and wildfowl alike in its wake! Without malice or intention, Gus often flushes game he will never know existed!
Outdoors, Gus is a white and ginger blur!
However, there isn’t a disobedient bone in Gus’s athletic frame. He generally complies eagerly with whistle and hand signal commands. Though mentally lost in his search for game, Gus remains in relatively good range. The white and ginger (my term) meteorite hurling through cover gives the impression that he is out-of-control. Yet, he faithfully tracks my whereabouts and often looks to me for direction. Unlike several of his kennelmates, past and present, Gus has never gotten physically lost during a hunt.
Yes, in thick cover, he is a menace to everything – mostly himself. This cannot be overstated. Most owners of long-coated dogs have to comb-out pesky clinging burrs and seed pods at the end of the day. For Gus, after hunting, it’s more a form of triage; finding and pulling numerous embedded thorns out of his hide and sealing wounds. A broken tooth or cut tongue, it’s a given that Gus will be bleeding from his mouth within minutes of being released. Most certainly self-inflicted, I have yet to actually see any of the events that caused the damage.
Not fifteen minutes into a hunt. This is very typical for Gus.
Back at home, Gus gets treatment for a few lacerations. He generally gets one like this annually.
Much of the country we hunt that has upland game, has them because they are protected by thick – thorny – stands of hawthorn, multifloral rose, blackberry brambles and thistles of all kinds. To name a few. It has cover because it is too rocky and steep to farm and is used as grazing land. Out west, domestic grazing animals are contained on this pasture by barbedwire fencing. It’s a vicious circle of circumstances that requires a more controlled approach to locating the upland game within.
Gus’s technique for crossing barbedwire fences is typically unique. Instead of learning to hesitate, look for openings, or crawl under the bottom wire, Gus challenges himself by charging toward the fencing at a dead run then diving between rows of wire like a circus lion through a flaming hoop! This practice tends to remove equal amounts of hide from his back and his belly! As a cringing witness, I sheepishly check through one squinting eye for any “masculine” parts that may have been left dangling from a pointed barb.
Yes, best suited for the vast open prairies, like the bison, this “bull in a china shop” disrespects both barb and brush. Rushing head-up and headlong across trackless and, more importantly, obstacle-free countryside is where Gus belongs. Even then, his tendency to bolt across the landscape at a constant rate of - blinding – speed takes a toll in other ways.
A major issue being that Gus will not self-regulate his water breaks. While other dogs periodically come in for a dose of water and brief rest, Gus has to be called in. He willingly complies, sucks the water down like an Indy 500 pit-stop, and, ignoring the need for a break, he is back to the races!
Prairie country - Gus’s rightful environment.
Incapable of metering-out his effort in a controlled manner, Gus literally runs until he drops. While other dogs learn to reduce activity, seek water and shade, Gus cannot be bothered. I can convince him to take water and I can keep him in the shade but I haven’t found a way to alter his pace. Indeed, if Gus is voluntarily laying in the shade, tongue gasping, he is done for the day. Or, as I recently discovered, past that point.
It all began on a relatively cool September morning in a blue-green ocean of sage. Together with his more methodical son, Dakota, and my son’s Griff, Huxley, Gus was seeking his first sage grouse. Temperatures rose to the lower 70’s in less than three hours of hunting. Even though water was dumped into and on the dogs, it was determined that a return to our camp was prudent. There, the dogs were given unlimited access to water and shade around the trailer and truck.
Drinking their fill and adding a few snacks, dogs rested peacefully. Even though he would not eat and could not seem to keep down the copious amount of water he was taking in, I was not concerned. That was fairly normal for Gus. After spending the night with Gus puking like a partied-out college freshman, we pulled camp and got him to a veterinarian.
Second day in the hospital.
It would take three days of I-V liquids at the vet’s and another week of force-feeding mush-textured food and bags of subcutaneous liquids at home before it was certain that Gus would pull through. The vet insisted that Gus had a newer form of Leptospirosis; treating him and our other two setters with the same regiment of pills. However, Gus had several previous spells with after-hunt malaise and not keeping water down. It is that and the fact that the other dogs never showed symptoms – including Dak and Hux who shared the same trip and quarters – leaves me still wondering.
Vet suturing gash under Gus’s tongue.
In the span of less than a year, in three separate episodes, Gus had suffered a broken tooth, stitches UNDER his tongue and a near-death experience with heat exhaustion.
Me? I’ve come-away with a few serious pages of notes from those lessons. First of all, I believe that Gus has no intention of growing “old”. And two – Whatever the cause, I will never hunt Gus in temperatures higher than 50 – no setter in temps reaching 70 for any length of time. Since adopting that policy, Gus has hunted late fall excursions without further incident.
Well, nothing beyond what’s normal. For Gus, that is.
Gus is a gift from God - so help me, God !
