Remembering Buck the Labrador, a retrieving legend

Bird dog emeritus Buck, a lost or abandoned Labrador cross who had the good fortune to be found 15 years ago by my longtime pheasant hunting buddy Terry Franck, died New Year's Eve of injuries suffered when he was struck by a vehicle on the gravel road in front of his rural Quasqueton home.

The 16-year-old retrieving legend, who had been too infirm to hunt during the past two seasons, probably did not have long to live anyway, but he deserved a more peaceful end.

Buck wandered onto Terry's farm as a pup 15 years ago and quickly endeared himself to Terry, his family and his hunting buddies.

With the exception of his instinctive dislike of raccoons, he was a gentle soul, never quarreling with other dogs, seldom even barking.

He adored Terry, always hunting directly in front of him, frequently looking back over his shoulder to make sure his master was near.

The shock collar he wore could probably be sold as 'like new,” since Terry never had to use it. Nor did Terry ever have to raise his voice; Buck always did the right thing without having to be told.

Buck covered more than his share of the ground and found more than his share of the birds, but his forte was retrieving downed pheasants.

With an unerring ability and indomitable will to find them, he always beat the other dogs to them and, no matter who shot the pheasant, he always fetched it to Terry, even if he had to run past several other hunters to do so.

What a boon it was for 'average” marksmen like ourselves, whose shots were not always lethal, to never have to worry about the recovery of downed birds.

We became so confident in Buck's abilities that we stopped bothering to mark in our minds where they fell - a habit we've had to relearn in his absence.

Even though Buck lacked fancy breeding and formal training, having learned and polished his skills on the job, a mutual friend of Terry and me, Rusty Chesmore of Verona, Wis., a Lab enthusiast who knows good dog work when he sees it, recently told me Buck was as good as any 'Lab-style” dog he had ever hunted with.

I have been impressed by skilled dog handlers directing well trained retrievers to downed birds using just whistles and hand signals. I was even more impressed the first time I saw Terry, who had never before attempted a hand signal, direct Buck, who had never before seen one, to a pheasant that had fallen dead, beyond Buck's line of sight, into a beaver pond.

On more than one occasion he saved me the embarrassment of having what should have been an easily killed bird get away.

A few years ago, as we tried to fill a couple of fall turkey tags, a gobbler got up right in front of me and flew straight away. I emptied my shotgun, tail feathers flying with each discharge, but the tough bird kept on flying.

Unknown to me but not to Buck, the gobbler fell to the ground beyond a rise, where Buck apprehended him, dragged him back and deposited him at Terry's feet.

Buck's remains lie buried on his home farm along the switch grass-lined creek he loved to hunt. His master, a skilled wood worker, has fashioned a cross with his name on it, which will mark his final resting spot as soon as the ground thaws this spring. Whenever we hunt what will henceforth be known - in my mind, at least - as Buck's Creek, we will think fondly of him.

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