Dusty’s Gone

My brother’s dog Dusty has died. I only hunted once with the “Dudderbutt,” as Jon and his family affectionately called her. That was a few years ago, and she was an old lady even then, white-muzzled and achy. Still, she hobbled out to that stormy blind at Delevan, where the rain came sideways and the howling wind pulled my Air Lucky spinner off the stake and sent it flying like Elvira Gulch in The Wizard of Oz.

Dusty did well, pushing slowly through the mud-colored chop to retrieve everything from a snow goose to a Eurasian Wigeon. Around 11am we took a break to eat Ericka’s homemade chicken salad sandwiches. Dusty crawled into the back seat of the truck with a lot of help, her tired eyes telling us she’d be spending the rest of the hunt there.  I like to think that morning in the marsh gave her good memories, and dreams she could drift into as the drug took effect and ended her pain.

So long, Dusty.  Next season we’ll send some ducks up your way.

crew_with dusy

~ by SpeakingZenaphorically on March 10, 2009.

One Response to “Dusty’s Gone”

  1. Good Dogs.

    Far and few in between.

    The Rasch Outdoor Chronicles

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