The waxing Hunter’s Moon has cleared the air and I have finally decided on a registered name for the pup I call Chubby; it’s Old Tavern Farm’s Rabble Rouser.

Imagine that! A husky, free-spirited incendiary living at the fork in the Upper Meadows’ road? Live with it, Dude. It’s real.

I was at the vet’s Tuesday for rabies shots, and Chubby, a week shy of six months old, tipped the scales at 42 pounds, four more than his mother, same as his dad. I guess he’s going to be a big one, thick and strong like his mom; same coarse, dense, wavy coat, too; a brush-buster who’ll fill the air with ragweed and goldenrod pollen. Not that bigger is better in my world. No, American breeders have ruined too many popular breeds that way. I value intelligence, athleticism, enthusiasm and stamina, not humongous. Still, I think this guy’s gonna be a powerhouse.

I enjoy watching puppies develop, especially gun dogs with all the inherited tools needed to find, flush and retrieve game birds. I have put no pressure on Chubby, who plays out back in total freedom as I read in the secluded alcove between my barn and woodshed on pleasant days, which have been rare lately. With fall here, the warm days will vanish fast, but the pup’s had an entire summer of bonding and will soon be moving into wet, thorny coverts, which I have a feeling he’ll prefer. Like his mom, Chubby’s been an easy dog to handle from the start, “biddable” in trainer vernacular. It’s the reason I removed his “for sale” sign. He displayed excellent temperament from the start, had the good sense to look before he leapt. Plus, he comes when he’s called, sits when I say “Hup!” and obeys other commands. He aims to please.

The only problem I’ve encountered is Chub-Chub getting nervous in situations where he knows not what to do. For instance, when someone new visits and greets him. It had happened often in the shed out where I read. He tends to cower to strangers, sprinkling drops of pee on the floor as he moves cautiously toward them. Because it can present problems if you own expensive carpets, I am careful. But I know he’ll get over this youthful gushing with maturity. The vet got a taste of it Tuesday, when nervous Chubby left puddles on the linoleum floors. It didn’t help that I had him on a lead for the first time, which confused him, but he was also unfamiliar with the people, animals, smells and commotion in a new place, thus the nervousness. I guess veterinary staffs must be used to it. I’m not. Never will be. It’s embarrassing.

Other than that, Chubby’s a joy. Just this week he started busting brush entirely on his own, not following Lily or Buddy, who typically do their own thing during our daily romps. As they run the field, Chubby’s been squeezing under the multiflora-rose border and hunting furiously through the wet, narrow wood line between the lower and upper fields, likely pursuing the scent of rabbits, squirrels, turkeys or who knows what else. It’s obvious from his pace and enthusiasm that he smells something.

For months the little guy’s been chasing butterflies, springing high off his hind legs to catch them, and flushing cardinals in the yard. More recently, he’s been searching rows of short Christmas trees for mourning doves and flickers, which he enthusiastically flushes and vigorously pursues, tail wild. Some of the doves hold tight before flushing. He loves that, gets all cranked up. When they finally burst into flight with that distinctive whistle, he chases them to the edge of the woods, then circles back looking for more. I can’t wait till he hears his first ring-necked rooster cackle and comes back with a mouthful of tail feathers. It won’t be long.

Yes, I think Chubby’ll be a good one. That’s why I kept him. But the poor “little” guy’s gonna have to live with an unflattering name, one that came to him by accident before he left the whelping pen. My mistake. One of many I’ve endured. We’ll get through it, me and Chub-Chub.