Today (January 2, 2005) I had to dig a hole. A hole that any dog owner of a good dog never wants to dig; yet we seem to think about it all the time. We think about where to dig the hole and how we will honor and commemorate the passing of a devoted animal. The place of the hole was carefully chosen after mulling over the several choices I had decided on over the years. The places considered included several locations of glory at various field trial venues and training areas where the joy and beauty of a good pointing dog came to life. But, alas the simple choice was taken, atop the hill behind the house, where he could look over the house and kennel that contains several of his offspring. There's a large cherry tree shading the area and a brush pile next to it that I occasionally plant birds in for his youngsters to point.

Kirby was his call-name, registered as Right of Way, a play of words with his sire's name, Wrongway. He was selected from his litter for his independence and the fact that he had no patches over the eyes. A large black marking adorned the lower half of his tail, I may have recalled reading somewhere, that a marking like that, was the preference of the notable grouse dog man, Sam Light. He was house broke in 2 days and derby broke shortly thereafter. I can recall shooting at a pair of pheasants during his first fall of hunting. I was aiming at the lead bird and hit the following bird; the other barrel missed the lead bird a second time. I was happy to get that bird, but I was even happier to turn around and see him still standing tall. He didn't even know what "whoa" meant, but he could sure act like he did.

After successful puppy and derby seasons, including shooting dog wins while he was just a year of age, he continued to win in shooting dog stakes and even knocked on the door a bunch of times at championship events. The week before running him in the 2nd Empire State Classic, I noticed he came up a bit lame on his right front leg. I ran him anyway and he took 3rd place. While looking back through his file, I noticed in the picture of the winners, he held that leg up. That injury would effect him for the remainder of his career, most didn't even know about it or notice it. By the end of his field trial career the ankle joint where that injury occurred was so calcified over, he could barely move the joint. That never stopped Kirby he just endured the pain.

That injury probably caused him to break the other leg on my birthday last year. The other front leg probably got stuck between some logs in an old clear-cut and snapped the bone. I couldn't find him, because he was going big at the time like he usually did, I searched for him thinking he was standing on a bird. He was back at the truck, waiting for me with the leg hanging.

This past weekend, I left town to go visit some friends for an overnight stay, to celebrate the New Year. Kirby and my other dog Dewey were left in the fenced area of the yard, which I have done several times before with never a problem. Upon my return I knew immediately something was amiss. Dewey was running free outside of the fence and had a noticeable limp. Had I left the gate open? A couples of calls to Kirby with no response and there was definitely something wrong. I entered the fenced area of the yard to be greeted by a growling pitbull; one that you could just see enjoyed a brutal fight. I yelled at him and he scurried into an open crate, which I quickly kicked closed. A closer inspection of the yard, revealed Kirby lying dead. Rigormortis had already set in and the small pool of blood was dried along side of him.

Kirby must have given his all in that fight, just like he would to find a bird. Most of his teeth were missing or broken, fur and blood spattered throughout the yard and on the house. One gate was slightly pushed outward, enough for the slighter of build, Dewey to escape with some bite wounds and scratches. This ending was just not right, if he had made it to the New Year he would have been 7 years old.

Time will pass and the pain will ease. New dogs will come and more holes will be dug, but damn-it I miss that dog. He was a smart dog, always learned his lessons well and never forgot them. I swear he could think his way to a bird. I think what I will miss most are those long rides to field trials where he was my co-pilot, putting his head on the arm rest, just staring up at me with those big brown eyes, like only a setter can, waiting for me to rub his ears.

Jeffrey Crum