Article by: Cole Herb
Taking a chance on an unlikely bird dog pays off.
I remember the day like it was yesterday, the day I got a phone call from a friend. He stated that he had a six-month-old, male English Setter that he was trying to find a home for. He knew I pheasant hunted and I might be interested. “Aw, man,” I said, “I just got a six-month-old, male German Shorthair five months ago.”
My next question was, “What’s the reason for finding a new home?”
The hamster wheel was starting to turn. No way someone is getting rid of a perfectly good bird dog. This dog has to be dumb, gun-shy, or medically incompetent, I thought.
My friend said, “The original owner said his tail doesn’t point straight and he can’t compete with it.”
The hamster wheel stopped turning for a second. “What?” I said. “I have never heard such a thing.”
My friend said that the previous owner was going to get rid of him one way or the other, so my friend was trying to find a home. “Let me talk to my wife,” I said.
I relayed the message to her and she gave the same exasperated feelings I had. “We don’t need another puppy, but we did talk about getting a Setter instead of a Shorthair,” she said. “We are taking a major chance on something that doesn’t sound right.
“Think I should go over and look?” I asked.
“I suppose you better. Keep me posted.”
“I’ll plan on going there after work to see the dog,” I said as I walked out the door.
Walking up the driveway, I greeted my friend and asked him where the dog was. He gestured with his hand over to a little bed by the front step. There laid a little, white fluff ball, curled up, watching me with intent eyes. “That’s him, huh? Come here, boy,” I said, “Let me take a look at you.”
The little, stiff-legged puppy stood up and pranced over to me. I patted his head and neck, looked him up and down. Stared into his big brown eyes – I felt something stir in my heart, kinda like when the Grinch felt his heart grow from Christmas cheer. “He seems to be a pretty good dog, doesn’t jump up or bark – calm as heck,” I said. My friend said he’d been a real good boy the last three days, just laying around. I started to get a bit anxious about this decision. Getting a worthless bird dog is a 12-year sentence to becoming a house dog – nothing wrong with a house dog, but I wanted him to pheasant hunt also, and I already had a dog. I grabbed his metal bowl and “accidentally” dropped it. No flinch, nothing – he just sat at my side waiting for more scratches and a chance at a new home. My heart started pounding a bit more. If this dog is stupid, it’s on me – I could hear the wife now.
“What’s his name?” I asked.
“Oh, it’s Chance.”
I deadpanned and looked at my buddy, “Are you serious?”
“I’m serious,” he chuckled, “that’s what he answers to.”
“It couldn’t be any other name,” I said.
I slowly shuffled to my truck door, opened it, I clearly remember the words coming off my lips, “Let’s go, Chance—get in.” His tail was wagging and nails clacking on the asphalt as he scampered across the driveway.
I got him in May of 2019. I already had a year under my belt with my GSP, “Ranger.” We had started creating a bond. I didn’t know if Chance would even hunt, and also what connection I’d have with him or he with Ranger. Of course, Ranger did not want to welcome an intruder to the house. Up until this point, Ranger was the only child, the firstborn, if you will. The summer went along with not many hiccups; Ranger and Chance became buddies and life carried on. Hunting season was finally approaching. Ranger was turning two in December and Chance would turn one.
The 2019 hunting season seems pretty far in my distant past now, as hunting seasons keep moving along, but a few memories will stick with me forever – all because I took a chance.
Sometime in November of 2019 was the first time Dad and I could get out – mainly since bowhunting whitetails comes first. “This is where we tell if Chance even has it,” I said to Dad.
Now mind you, I didn’t work with him one bit. I noticed he’d point robins in the yard and he didn’t seem gun-shy, unless the little sally heard thunder, but I’d not put in a lick of work with Chance.
Here goes nothing. Right away, Ranger went into beast mode – full of spit and vinegar. “Hunt ’em up, Chance,” I said. He was nonchalant, almost elegant-like. Nose to the wind, never venturing too far. He’d run with Ranger when Ranger would come by on his sweeping passes. “I don’t know Dad, he just doesn’t seem trustworthy,” I said.
Ranger got a couple birds up and we got one. Both dogs got the smell of pheasants in their noses. “That’s what we are after, Chance… smell it.”
We came to a pair of draws; our friend Dave took Ranger with him on the smaller one. Dad and I took Chance on the wider one. A quarter-way through, the wind hitting Chance in the face, he stopped. He lifted his front right leg, tail trying to stretch straight in the air. I gave Dad a slight whistle and pointed at Chance. Chance was on point! I walked in to try to flush the suspect of interest. Nada. “False point,” I said. We went a bit further up the draw. The right front leg and tail resumed their previous position. I give a slight shrug to indicate that I was suspicious about the point. The result repeated itself. I walked in and stomped on the tuft of grass Chance was pointing. “Sorry, boy, no bird.” Chance did not move or flinch. He stayed solid, pointing that grass patch.
I was getting a bit frustrated now – looking back, it’s a bit silly to be frustrated on a good point, but I already had my doubts about Chance. Chance had this face he gave me when I told him “no bird.” He looked at me like I was a big buffoon. He looked at the tuft of grass and with God as my witness (and my father), he put his face in the grass and pulled out a rooster! A live, wild, rooster pheasant. “Chance, I could kiss you,” I said. I had never seen anything like it.
From that time on, we have shared countless points – double points, Chance and Ranger backing each other. They have become an amazing team. My life wouldn’t be the same if I hadn’t taken a “chance.”
By the way, his tail points pretty stinking straight if you ask me.
Since getting Chance I have tried to live with this metaphor in mind. I’m a firm believer that one chance can change your life. It’s about more than just taking a chance on a dog named Chance. Just like him, a lot of us need an opportunity. Hunters live in the chance ethos; yes, the saying goes, “I’m trying not to leave it up to chance,” but sometimes that’s all you get in hunting and in life.
My point in all of this is, don’t be afraid to take the leap, whatever it may be – things might just work out like one of the greatest things that happened to me: a straight-tailed Setter who now has over 100 wild rooster points under his paws.
