We all know of that unbreakable bond between a bird hunter and their bird dog. Some choose setters, full of grace and beauty, stylish when locked on point and some go for those “multi-tool” retrievers which are just as capable in the grouse woods as they are the duck blind. I happen to be a fourth generation, dyed in the wool spaniel guy. For me they check all the boxes. While not a pointing breed, they are quite good at everything except extreme cold weather waterfowl duty. They are beautiful with a chiseled physique, elegant big ears and flowing feathering. Each one I have met had a big personality and a magnetic connection to their person.
My first exposure to an English Field Cocker was a little black cocker with a white patch on his chest, out of a kennel in Illinois. He was explosive in the field and responsive to his master without hesitation. An experience with this little guy on an early season goose hunt where we dropped three greater Canadas in the decoys, solidified the choice for my next pup. This little cocker grabbed each of these geese by the wing and dragged them back to the blind, roughly 50 yards. These dogs have the heart of a lion yet are sensitive and connected to their person.
I picked up the sole male of the litter, a little orange and white stud with unending curiosity. Based on early traits I observed in his personality, I dubbed him Maximus Gauge… Gauge for short. He developed into a masterful hunter and the best boy one could ask for. Our first five years together were pure magic. We chased waterfowl from little ponds in Michigan to the Prairie Pothole Region of the Dakotas. Not a pheasant, Bobwhite, sharpie or Hun was safe on the rolling hills out west when he was on the ground. And when it came to preserve birds, forget about it…Gauge could clear a field in no time flat.
They say you should never brag about your bird dogs until they are gone. Even though I did a bit of bragging since the first time I saw him work a field, it wasn’t necessary. Everyone who hunted behind him absolutely raved about the little cocker who was just dynamite in the field. Not only was he great at finding and retrieving birds, but he was also a true English gentleman. He scoffed at cigar smoke but basked in the sweet smell of a nice cherry cavendish emanating from a pipe. He liked the occasional sip of beer, but it better not be a light beer or he’d give a disapproving snort while begrudgingly lapping it up. His look was reminiscent of Winston Churchill, although stoic and serious most of the time, he had a jovial childish side that was absolutely hilarious.
While his career was cut short after two serious orthopedic injuries, the years we spent together in the field were nothing short of magnificent. After five surgeries he was relegated to house duty for the next nine and a half years. His younger brother, from a Springer mother, entered the pack and took over bird hunting duties. He would get a slight attitude and give the side-eye each time I left with hunting gear, but I think he understood. The risk was too great to put him back in the field, another injury would have meant amputation…not a risk I was willing to take.
As time flew by, like every other bird dog out there, Gauge got old. Jumping onto the couch became difficult, then impossible. The limp went from occasional to permanent and steps became progressively more challenging. This is the cycle we dogmen choose and repeat over and over again. The only thing guaranteed is that we must eventually make good on the unspoken vow we made, the day we first brought them home.
When it becomes clear that nothing else can be done to maintain their quality of life, they’ve nothing more than a brittle shell of their former self and their very dignity is at risk of compromise, it’s time to make the unselfish decision, and say goodbye. His last couple of days were spent in our bed, bacon and eggs for breakfast and filet or rotisserie chicken for dinner. Treats galore and almost constant love and attention from the entire family. We said goodbye on August 11th, 2025, and he crossed into the great hunting field beyond after giving our family 14 and a half years of joy and service.
It’s been said that a bird hunter typically only gets one great dog in their lifetime. I would relegate that assertion to the trashcan where it belongs. In my five decades of life, I have already had three…all great but in very different ways. As I write this, a very bold and stout three-month-old curly Boykin stares into my soul with little golden eyes, waiting to react to my next move towards the door. Based on his performance so far combined with a boldness I have never seen in a pup, he’s on pace to be the fourth great dog of my lifetime.
After Gauge passed, a friend and fellow dogman articulated a profound thought…he said, “each time we bring a puppy home we are putting a down payment on an eventual tragedy…but its worth it to have them in our lives.”
