Harley----The Dog

Harley is a dog and not a motorcycle. In truth, that takes a little explaining because Harley the dog has a number of attributes similar to the cycle. He accelerates with his front end lifted, runs like the frantic lightening, while zipping back and forth in the field of play.

The dog, a Pudelpointer, admittedly does not have the wonderful sound of the twin V motor but rather he runs silent like a submarine going full tilt on batteries. Yes, both Harleys can be comfortably warm, but the dog is less metallic, softer and loves to recline on a sofa----I will note my brother parked his vintage BMW in his living room but not on the sofa------I don’t think.

Harley lives to hunt, and I suspect even dreams of it while in recline, and once turned loose in a field of wild grasses and tall rushes, takes off like the other Harley on full throttle. It is his nature to hold his head high like a snooty Englishman and not pushed to the ground for he is a detector of game birds. Once his powerful nose snares even a few molecules of pheasant, he locks in a ridged, elegant stature. I visualize the hunters earnestly sauntering up, then signaling him to make the flush.

It is a marvelous sight as he ranges out fifty yards in all directions almost oblivious to us, but, in reality, clearly has an inner sense of our place. His tail whips in joy. There is a canine anticipation as he nears his quary, a suddenness of movement, a jerky intentness. He jumps from side to side, testing the air. Then in an instant he locks, the tail is straight out, his nose glaringly forward. The dog is in his field of dreams.  

In the vision, Ken and I, the attending hunters, move in, all full of prowess intending to reward the dog with a retrieve and ensuing praise. It is all a game and really a beautiful one. The wind pushes the fall grasses and here and there a faint hint of horse mint, and fading sunflowers. This is a fall ritual going back to my Neanderthal background. We are providing.

On a recent globally-warmed day, Ken and I set out with Harley to exercise our Paleolithic desires and bring back a fat pheasant while reveling in the glories of the White River Marsh. Harley was equally in love for here was his dream, the world of his upbringing.

Early on Harley found himself flustered, possibly because, we, the aging hunters, were not keeping up but simply waiting for him to bring the birds to us. As a result, when he located a rapidly moving bird, he inadvertently bumped it up. We shot wildly as the vibrant pheasant glared at us in terror. If I am not mistaken, Harley lifted his paw making an L sign over his forehead.

We moved on into the area we felt the fleeing bird had gone, thinking we might have a second go of it. The terrain became more brutal but Ken in his young spirit disappeared into the alder thicket like a bull moose, maybe like an older bull moose but still-----. The dog with the spirit of an all-terrain vehicle followed, probably wanting to make sure Ken didn’t get lost or bogged down. In the distance tangle I could hear Ken talking to the dog with a small blast of a whistle. They were communicating and I was confident the two of them would find the bird and maybe Ken would miss again making room for me in my more comfortable position to save the day.

Then out of nowhere, the dog appeared in front of me, rather taking stock. Ken beeped a few times off in the bog, even calling his name. Harley looked up the hill to my right and saw a figure, obviously thinking it to be Ken and took off in that direction as any well-behaved dog would do. I was a little surprised because normally the dog would know where we were by our distinct odor and the guy up the hill did not smell like us.

Harley lit out fully wanting to make Ken pleased with his always-obedient behavior. Up on the hill, and very much next to the other guy, Harley instantly proceeded to locked up in a Point. Unfortunately, we were back in the scrub picking sticks out of our noses. Directly across from the pointing Harley was a very attractive English Setter also on point. The uphill hunter, appropriately dressed and fitted with a fine over-and-under shotgun stepped forward and called for the flush. The bird rose in classic cackling form, where upon the well-served hunter missed two shots. The bird flew off to Russia and we got little more than a fleeting glance.

Harley was thrilled but I suspect he didn’t realize he had just pointed for the wrong guys. We chatted up the embarrassed hunter as he noted how he and his dog had been chasing that one bird all across the fields and not until Harley arrived and put on a pincer move would it flush. How could we fault the dog and when I saw the beauty of the English setter, a female, it seemed possible maybe Harley ventured up the hill to make an impression on something more than us.

Moments later he was off roaring about like the Harley machine we all know. What a great ride.