Scott: Make hunting dog year-round companion

Most upland game and waterfowl hunters wax eloquent about how much they’d rather leave their shotguns at home than go afield without their dogs. They mean it, too. Or at least they do until their favorite hunting seasons close.

Then their best buddies get unceremoniously shoved into kennels, in which they’ll spend virtually all of their time until hunting season opens almost a year later.

There’s something wrong with that picture, even if it’s only for economic reasons. You don’t want to know how much it costs per year to keep a small beagle, let alone an 100-pound Labrador retriever. It’s way too much money to justify actively partnering up with a pooch for only a few days out of 365.

Dogs are, by genetic heritage, pack animals. Each pack is ruled by a single animal. If the pack becomes disillusioned with its leader, the once-but-not-future king  is killed and sometimes eaten.

The odds that your dog will eat you are astronomically low. A dog that loses confidence in its master’s role is  apt to decide that hunting by and for itself is a surer bet.

The most exasperating  result of this behavior is the hunter is forced to spend precious time hunting for his or her dog.

Some people would argue that releasing a hunting dog from its kennel for a formal training session once or twice a week is sufficient to maintain canine discipline from one season to the next.

If discipline is synonymous with mechanical line-of-sight or line-of-shock-collar obedience, that argument is not completely without merit.

If  the primary goal is to create a working bond between a hunter and his or her dog, one that allows both parties to use their skills and intelligence for their mutual benefit, then biweekly “come,” “sit,” “stay” and “fetch” drills aren’t going to cut it.

My canine alter ego is a beagle named Grace. She enjoys sharing a number of off-season activities with me including fishing, mushroom hunting, preseason scouting, setting deer stands and riding shotgun while I run errands around town.

The direct result of the two of us spending so much offseason time away from home together is that Grace is an enthusiastic member of our mutual admiration society ... er, I mean pack.

Her attitude is displayed when we’re doing anything outdoors other than rabbit hunting. She stays  nearby and checks in every 10 minutes or so.

Rabbit hunting requires different responses from both of us. I’m in charge of deciding our general direction, and I use hand signals to keep Grace apprised of where I want us to go.

We’ve naturally fallen into a pattern of working separate sides of linear cover like hedge rows and brushy draws.

Grace takes command as soon as we find a rabbit. She thinks her job of making the rabbit run past me is the hardest part of the task. She  expects me to bag the bunny the first time around, so we can find another one.

Sometimes I do my part, and sometimes I don’t.

Every chase will end in one of three ways: I’ll shoot the rabbit, it will take refuge under something even Grace can’t penetrate or I’ll call her off the track.

Yes, that’s right. I can call her off a hot track. I’m not saying, she’ll like it, but she will break off the chase and come in.

Why would a hound do such a thing? It’s not because I use an electric shock collar. I don’t own one, and I don’t want to share my hunts with a dog that has to be plugged into electricity before it will work.

Grace obeys me because she trusts the year-round bond we’ve forged.