An alder clump standing sentry on the west bank of an East Colrain spring hole catches the evening sun peeking over the sugar-bush ridge and casts a gray shadow just past the center of the small, light-green, algae-blanketed pond.
I’m parked on the farm road, shooting the breeze with the landowner who just happened to be there, while my dogs, English Springer Spaniels Ringo and Lily, burn some energy flushing whatever they can find concealed in the small, marshy wildlife sanctuary. They know the drill well, having been there once or twice daily every day of their lives, and they love every minute of it, especially Ringo, soon to be 9 but going on 5.
As the farmer and I talk — meandering in conversation from sugaring, to haying, to moose, deer, turkeys, coyotes, and, yes, even mountain lions — Ringo circles the pond, weaving in and out of the dense, wet cattail ring surrounding the pond, nose high, flushing red-winged blackbirds everywhere. The birds flee to the high cover, scolding him like the white-haired spinster next door, as Lily monitors his adventures from the periphery, switching between high spots on the farm road and the tailgate of my truck, now and then taking a quick loop through the heavy cover and returning to the open. Once there, she finds a promontory point, sits erect, ears and nose alert, and watches her buddy “Bingo” bouncing around, barking intermittently at the bitching blackbirds taunting him from low perches.
Over the years, Ringo has become “Ringy” most of the time, and “Bingo” or “Bingy” around high-energy activities. The hard “B” just suits him better than the softer “R” in the name given him by the field-trialer who fed him for the first nine months of his life.
The origin of the name Ringo is not difficult to ascertain. He was the son of Denalisunflos Ring, the 1996 national champion owned by the late and legendary Kansan field-trialer Roy French, who made his fortune extracting oil from “dry” wells before breeding arguably the finest field Springers in North America. His claim to fame in the late 90s was that he was still participating in national field-trial events past his 100th birthday. Apparently, his dogs inherited his spirit, at least that’s what they said about Ring, known for his boundless energy and stamina. They said he could go all day, a trait he inherited by “Bingy.”
The problem Ringy presented to his first owner was related to this insatiable hunting instinct and an annoying independent streak. Kept as a potential field-trial champion, he was quickly weeded out when it was determined that his instinct to hunt superseded his willingness to comply with commands. “All he needs is some one-on-one, a little TLC, and he’ll make a great hunting dog,” said the New York breeder/field trialer who delivered him to me in a Westfield parking lot. On that point, he was right, because his castoff has delivered me hundreds of game birds during eight joyous hunting seasons.
Yeah, Ringy has his faults, and I’m man enough to admit it. But they’re foibles I can cope with, because they’re all related to his illimitable hunting drive. He is, indeed, the first dog I’ve owned that required an electric collar in the field and elsewhere. As a young dog he’d make me proud with his enthusiasm for long, grueling hunts that typically produced many flushes and kills through exhausting thick cover in which many dogs would wilt. Not Ringy. The thicker the cover, the better he likes it.
The problem was, whenever we approached my truck after a long, strenuous hunt, Ringy’d spot the vehicle and decide to take one last defiant loop through an adjacent cover rather than retire to his Porta-Kennel. Sure, he’d come back eventually; and, obviously, it was always wise to follow him if you hadn’t limited-out, because a bird was almost certain to flush; but still, it was embarrassing and potentially dangerous near a road, so I invested in a collar and that “issue” was quickly resolved. Once he knew the collar was there, I rarely had to use it; in fact almost never. Call it championship-quality compliance, albeit with a sometimes defiant look that told you he’d rather do it his way.
These days, Ringy’s a different dog, sort of. Closing in on 9, he’s mellowed considerably, but not in the field, and as my neighbor and I chatted near his East Colrain spring hole, I pointed out the animal’s youthful grace and enthusiasm as he pounded the dense cover. In a matter of minutes there he had every rabbit fleeing and every bird flying and squawking at him angrily from the sparse alders, rosebushes, sumacs, and pines standing in the wetland. Now and then, he’ll flush mallards or wood ducks or Canada geese that have touched down for a rest, but this time of year, with the hayfield high, he’s more interested in the field birds. In the marsh, he focuses on the red-wings until he’s flushed them all into higher perches. Then he loops wide through the hayfield, stirring up the bobolinks, an unusual bird that stays on its low perch in the field until the dog is right on top of it, then flushes and hovers overhead like a Cobra chopper, scolding vociferously. Ringo will utter a frustrated bark now and then, akin to his bark at a treed pheasant or grouse, then move on, nose high and into the breeze, looking for another bobolink to flush and pursue. He’d flush those birds all day, Lily too, if I let them. But I usually let it go on for a half-hour or so, get them panting, give them a whistle, box them up, and return home.
On this day, immersed in pleasant conversation on a gorgeous spring evening, I had lost track of Bingy when he popped out of the cover to our left and approached my neighbor. He stood proudly at his side, head thigh high, with a limp female red-wing secured between his teeth. It was dead. Ringy had caught it and was damn proud of it. When Lily understood what was happening, Ringy teased her, played keep-away for a bit, head high, then lowered his head and dropped the dead bird onto the dirt road, guarding it briefly before leaving it for Lily. The 2-year-old bitch scooped it up, departed into the brush and quickly devoured it.
“Kennel-up,” I said to Ringo, who heard the command clearly, passed me, trotted along the edge of the road to the other side of the culvert, nose high, crossed the road, worked the other side and leaped into his box, reluctantly of course. The observant Lily soon popped out of the brush and followed suit. With her appetizer in the tank, it was time for dinner at home.
Soon after we departed, the wetland birds settled back into the habitat and continued whatever activities we had briefly disrupted. One less red-winged blackbird there meant nothing to the big picture, and everything to Bingy. I guess that’s why he continues to chase those birds. Even though it appears to me he’s dueling windmills, he knows that every once in a while he comes up with something. And every once in a while is good enough for Bingo, who, like his fabled father, has never understood the word quit.