Saving Grace

Molly is now 14 years old. Her hunting days ended before her desire. I think her last good upland bird hunt was April 2, 2005 with Aaron. She could still hear a whistle. Her nose is strong, her body is not.

I took Molly out for an afternoon of bird hunting today. She joined Doc and me for a day afield on land owned by a young man who is engaged to Aaron's childhood "sister" Jenna. We had nearly 40 acres of cut wheat field bordered by a couple hundred acres of standing corn. Nothing is more problematic for a pointing dog than standing corn on a windy day, unless of course the dog can't hear. That's a problem and a half.

Doc and Molly romped near me for most of an hour. Wherever Molly ran, Doc ran right along. Wherever Doc ran, Molly tried to run the opposite direction. Doc LOVES Molly. Molly DESPISES Doc. If not for his youthful vigor, than for his uninvited intrusion into her sanctuary of our home. All was well until I decided to walk from one end of the field toward the car--which I had foolishly parked next to the corn field. Once there, Molly was off on scent of a wild bird, Doc was along side and they were gone.

Birds began to scatter from the field. Three to the east, two to the west, and a couple more right at me. The sound of the shotgun brought Doc. No Molly. The last I heard her bell was the moment she vanished in the corn. Too much wind and rustling of corn stalk leaves.

Forty minutes later, after walking the edge of the field and hearing nothing I feared the worst. If she was going to go, hunting would be the way but Cathy and Patrick might not understand. Doc and I loaded up to begin a search of the other side of the field which included a road--Hwy K. A half mile away from the field I spotted a white dog walking west on the blacktop. There she is-Molly. Aaron and Patrick's dog. Birddog.

Molly, instead of returning to the place where she started into the field, traveled South and then West. Eventually emerging from the corn maze at the edge of a sink hole. Being the veteran duck hunting setter that she is, Molly took to the water and swam across. Her trail was visible in the duck weed. Once out of the water, Molly was on her way home to Windsor. Trotting with her head up, Molly was pointing toward home. I pulled up along side of her and Molly was more than happy to jump in for a lift. She likely knew she was a fish out of water. At home Patrick gave Molly a bath, dried her off, fed her and I found her at home sleeping on the couch. Tired, sore, and probably not humbled.

At 9:30 this evening I pulled the roaster out of its basement storage spot. I'm cooking a pile of hot dogs for a Sunday event. Behind the roaster, I found a block of wood I recognized by its shape. Fourteen years ago Molly went on her first hunt and brought home a partridge--ruffed grouse for you Madisonians. Aaron was probably five almost six. With my help we sketched a partridge on the block of wood. Aaron colored it in with his markers. No dull brown, off white and gray for Aaron. Green, red, purple, orange where the colors he selected. I wonder if little kids see things in excitement where we who take for granted see in drab and white?

The art work was saved for a reason I suppose. Some things just should be kept to give to the children of our children. When the child artist dies before the child is a parent, the value of the art work changes. The piece is no longer for giving, it's for remembering what was and what should be.

To my left is a picture of a smiling Aaron, January 2005. In his face I see Cathy, PT, me, our families, our ancestors, yet Aaron is gone and that can't be. My heart thumps in my chest because I am forgetting his presence. I can still recall the feel of the size and stickyness of his hands and the width and thickness of his shoulders.

God we saved so much why couldn't we save Aaron?

Tom