The Duck Dog Who Wouldn’t Quit, Even If It Killed Him

Bryce Risser leaned on the tailgate and silently studied the steaming mug of coffee I’d poured. Finally hoisting his cup, he proposed a toast, “To Tonka, one helluva dog …. This is how he would have wanted it.”

Tonka was Bryce’s 11-year-old Chesapeake, the finest water dog I ever saw. But on this stormy afternoon at the end of the waterfowl season, Tonka’s crate was empty. Sipping coffee, we pieced together the events of the past 24 hours.

Bryce had phoned the previous afternoon. “There’s a storm brewing, and ducks are on the move. I checked the pass and it’s loaded — bluebills, redheads and canvasbacks, mostly … even some mallards. By this time tomorrow she’ll be frozen solid. Can you make it for the morning shoot?”

He didn’t mention it, but I could sense that Bryce was thinking that this could be Tonka’s last hunt. The old dog’s arthritic hips had lost their kick, and he winced even on short swims. Already a youngster — the pick of a litter sired by Tonka — was being groomed to take his place. I promised to be there.

I worked the graveyard shift at the paper that night, slept a few hours and then, because the roads were already wet, started the 60-mile drive earlier than usual. Heading west into the growing storm, l watched as autumn dissolved into winter: Rain turned to sleet, then snow, with finger drifts — some of them a foot deep — reaching across the highway as I neared my destination.

Light beamed from the kitchen window as I turned into the driveway shortly after 5 a.m. I stowed Bryce’s stacked gear in  the back of my Blazer and climbed the steps from the garage to the kitchen where Bryce, as usual, was burning the toast and bacon.

We discussed our options: pass shooting at the railroad crossing that spanned the lower end of the lake or setting decoys off a long, narrow point on an abandoned farmstead at midlake. We decided on the latter, even though it would mean a difficult trek down a steep snow-covered ridge.

The road up the far side of the lake had blown clear, but the half-mile trail into the farm was nearly blocked and we had to go into four-wheel-drive to break through. We parked behind a tree row and walked the final quarter mile, high-stepping through snow that was already a foot deep on the level, leaning into a gale that could tip a man over if he wasn’t careful.

Bryce set the decoys and built the blind, weaving tumbleweeds and camouflage netting into a framework of sun-bleached driftwood. I dug out a place for us to sit, chipping through the frozen hardpan with a branch and discarding the loose gravel a handful at a time. The blind wouldn’t insulate us from the wind or keep the swirling snowflakes from finding their way down our turned-up collars, but it would allow us to spot ducks before they saw us.

First light revealed a scene straight from a Les Kouba waterfowl stamp. Thick, dark-bellied clouds rolled off the hilltops, snow that came at us in sheets and the howling wind chased whitecaps across the open water.

Bryce always was partial to stormy days. After all, any retriever could do a respectable job of collecting waterfowl on bluebird days, but when the water was just a few degrees this side of ice, that was when only a tough-as-nails, double-coated Chesapeake would do. Tonka whined with anticipation as we crawled into the blind.

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“We only take shots upwind of the point,” Bryce said, giving the decoys a final once-over. I knew what he was thinking. Any cripples landing down-wind of the point would make their escape to open water, and the big-hearted Chessie would swim off into those four-foot swells even if Bryce commanded him to stay.

Retrievers are supposed to be steady to shot, meaning that they don’t go after a bird until commanded to do so. Tonka never saw much sense in that and usually departed when the first shots were fired. One time, years ago, we had tried to discourage this habit using a stout, 50- foot checkcord, one end attached to Tonka’s choke collar and the other wrapped around Bryce’s hand. I tossed a training dummy into the slough and fired my shotgun. Tonka broke and Bryce hollered, “No. No. No!” Even the rope uncoiled, and he braced for the moment of truth. That’s when Bryce noticed that the rope was looped around his foot. He tried to sidestep out of the noose but was too slow. Bryce was hopping on one foot  and off balance just as the slack disappeared and nipped him up like a rabbit in a snare. Tonka seemed to enjoy the new game we’d invented.

Next we’d anchored the rope to an old wooden fence post, which Tonka snapped off at ground level and dragged through the slough, collecting about 20 pounds of reeds and cattails along the way.

Now, huddled in the blind, we chuckled thinking about that long-ago training session and how we had finally decided that steadiness wasn’t such an important quality in a retriever after all. It was a decision we were about to regret.

A small band of bluebills skimmed the choppy surface of the lake, their wings whistling as they banked for a closer look at our set. Bryce took a pair with his little 20-gauge side-by-side, dropping both on the upland shore of the point. I missed cleanly twice. l’m not much of a shot on waterfowl. I can handle upland game alright, but I never got the hang of gunning incoming ducks.

Tonka delivered the ‘bills to Bryce — retrievers always seem to know who shot which bird —and gave me the cold shoulder, just as had on a similar morning several years earlier.

Bryce was at work that day, so I’d loaded up Tonka and the two of us had headed for the railroad crossing. Shortly after we got in position, Tonka’s ears perked up and l knew he’d heard wings through the fog. Sure enough, a dozen bluebills appeared, and as soon as I shot, Tonka sailed into the lake with that patented entry of his, swimming in circles looking for something to retrieve. Realizing that I’d missed, he came back, shook and gave me a look.

The next time I shot, he ran out only up to his knees, took a look and turned back because l’d missed again. On my third attempt, Tonka walked to the water’s edge, and when I came up empty on my fourth try, he stayed sitting by my side as if to say, “If you ever hit anything, let me know.”

The ornery retriever had fallen asleep by the time I finally figured out the appropriate lead and knocked my first bluebill out of the sky. Hearing the splash, he flew into the water to fetch my kill, and my shortcomings were forgiven, if not forgotten.

The impatient old Chessie had that same look in his eyes this morning as Bryce and I reminisced, passing up more shots than we took: “Hey, how ’bout shooting something so I can get to work.” There was no reason to rush. The sky was full of ducks, so many that even I managed to down a few bluebills. Besides, once we had our limit we’d have to pick up and go home, and we wanted to make the morning last.

When our bag included enough bluebills, we decided to finish with a brace of drake canvasbacks — big bull cans — we planned to have for dinner that evening. In this weather the cans would come in high and hard, and even if we managed to make a clean kill, a bird’s momentum might easily carry it to the downwind side of our spread.

It takes a special retriever to fetch canvasbacks. When crippled, they’ll swim until the dog gets close, then dive under the surface, popping up a good distance away. It’s an evasive maneuver that can discourage even the most experienced dog. Not Tonka. He’d patiently tread water, steadily closing the gap until he got close to the bobbing duck. Then, when the duck dove, Tonka would dive too, grabbing the surprised bird by the tailfeathers. It was a sight that always amazed me and pleased Bryce, who realized that this was his once-in-a-lifetime dog. We relived many such retrieves that blustery morning.

Like the nasty afternoon a few years before when we’d hunted the railroad pass at the other end of the lake. An elderly gentleman — we put him in his 80s — who we had never actually met but who often frequented the same pass, had taken a position about a hundred yards down the tracks.

A flight of cans had come down the chute, the wind at their backs. We picked the longest necks in the bunch, dropping them both, and Tonka hit the water on the fly. It took the better part of 15 minutes for him to track down the first bird. When it would dive, he’d swim in circles, waiting for it to resurface, then resume that chase until eventually he got close enough to dive himself. There was no quit in that dog. With the first bird on shore, Tonka lit out for the second, which was dead but had drifted half a mile by then.

We were admiring those big northern ducks and heaping praise on the dog who collected them when the old gentleman, a football field away, got up and headed toward us, his Irish water spaniel and curly coated retriever at heel. We figured that he was coming to compliment the superior dog work, if not our shooting.

He walked slowly and deliberately, taking two small steps between each railroad tie. When he got to us, he bent over and grabbed our ducks by the necks, one in each hand, and said, “Thanks for picking up my ducks.”

Without another word, he turned and walked away, Bryce and I watching in silent shock and a low rumble coming from somewhere beneath Tonka’s raised hackles. Apparently that old fellow had a powerful hankering for a canvasback dinner. We never saw him again. None of us missed him.

The snow seemed to be letting up, although it was hard to tell with the wind making such a fuss. It was almost noon when the canvasbacks appeared through the curtain of white: Half a dozen cans, mostly drakes, headed clown the middle of the lake. When they spotted our decoys, they set their wings and veered toward the lee side of the point.

“Take ’em,” Bryce whispered. We sat up and fired, one duck folding cleanly and landing safely on the ground, the other — mine — sailing downwind over the decoys on a broken wing. Tonka ignored the dead bird and raced off to fetch the cripple. Bryce lunged after his dog, but he was too late. Tonka swam through the decoys, ignoring his master’s pleas to “heel.”

Bryce reloaded to kill the swimming duck, but Tonka was already too close to risk a shot. My heart sank as the fleeing canvasback led Tonka farther and farther out into the lake until both disappeared in the roller-coaster surf.

Bryce reached for his whistle and blew on it until the pea froze in his spit. He tried firing two shots in the air, hoping Tonka would think that there was an easier fall in the water and come back for it. He didn’t.

“Damn you dog,” Bryce yelled at the waves. Then, softly, he said, “Damn fool old dog. You won’t come back from this one.”

We waited, pacing the shore and staring out at the lake hoping that the stubborn old retriever would have the good sense to quit but knowing he wouldn’t. Not a word was spoken.

Figuring that we’d have a better vantage point on high ground, we picked up the decoys and climbed the hill, Bryce taking most of the load; penance, I suspected, for bringing his aging retriever along on a day like this.  

We walked the overlook for a quarter mile. Nothing. No sign of anything out in the cold black water, and no movement along the ice-crusted shoreline, either.

I arrived back at the truck first, hoping that Tonka had decided to join us at the usual meeting place. There was no dog. Bryce moved slowly down the trail, so preoccupied that he didn’t notice the snowdrift blocking his path until he was knee-deep in it. He paused, looked back one more time, then plowed through to the clearing on the other side, stamping his feet and using his gloves to brush snow from his legs.

Loosening the strap across his chest, he allowed the bulky canvas decoy bag to slide off his back. His other burden would be more difficult to shed.

We sat on the tailgate for half an hour, warming ourselves with nonstop stories about the hard-headed old retriever who had brought so much pleasure into our lives.

I poured the last drops of coffee from the thermos. It was time to head home. “If he had to go,” Bryce said, his eyes glazing over, “this is how it should be … it’s better than wasting away in a kennel. Better than putting him down.”

We lifted our cups in a final salute, stashed the decoy bags next to Tonka’s empty crate and started the truck. The defroster slowly cleared a half-moon opening on the icy windshield, and through it I spotted something moving. Rubbing my glove furiously over the glass for a better look, I gasped. Bryce threw open his door and said, “Well I’ll be … “

There, with a very-much-alive drake canvasback in his mouth, was one exhausted, shivering old Chesapeake Bay retriever. Bryce dispatched the duck and lavished more praise on his dog than he had in the last 10 years combined. Tonka seemed annoyed with all the attention: “Hey, what’s all the fuss? I was just doing my job.”

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Back-tracking in the snow, we pieced together the details of his odyssey. Apparently Tonka had followed the duck all the way to the south end of the lake, a distance of half a mile, finally pinning his quarry against the rock railroad embankment. With no other option, the duck attempted to escape by climbing the embankment. That was where Tonka caught up with him. From there the dog, with the protesting duck in his mouth, had plowed up the steep hill, bounding through snow that was over his head, and returned to the abandoned blind. Finding us gone, he followed our trail back to the truck. It would have been an incredible feat for a dog in his prime. At Tonka’s age, it was more like a miracle.

There was no riding in the crate that trip home. Tonka rode in the back seat, Bryce’s hunting jacket draped over his wet, quivering body and the canvasback, the last he would ever retrieve, on the floor next to him.

This story, “This Is How It Should Be,” appeared in the December 1994 issue of Outdoor Life. Have a request for an old OL story you want to read again? Write us at [email protected].

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