Breaking a Bird Dog - A Treatise on Training
By Horace Lytle
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Reviews for Breaking a Bird Dog - A Treatise on Training
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- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5I liked the book. I felt it was very informative. I enjoyed the way the author brought me along on his journey of training his dog. I follow much of the same theories off training one's dog through patience and understanding. I have tried many of the methods used by the author. As an owner of 5 Weimaraners, some of the procedures used don't always work on some of my dogs. I wish I was able to communicate with the author regarding some of these issues. The only problem being that the book was written on the early 1900's... I don't believe the author would be still around to this day.
Book preview
Breaking a Bird Dog - A Treatise on Training - Horace Lytle
BREAKING A BIRD DOG
CHAPTER I
FIRST DAYS IN THE FIELD
ON a certain well-remembered day in February of 1922 the writer came into possession of a little Red Setter which is to become the subject around which the chief messages in this book revolve. She was at that time just past six months old and in her veins flows Irish Setter Blood as pure as can be found anywhere that Bird Dogs are bred. This puppy was registered as Smada Byrd and it wasn’t long before she had found her way into all hearts in my home. She was an interesting little thing, full of fun and frolic, and I venture to predict that but seldom has any dog ever merited or achieved more love than we gave her.
But Smada Byrd was not to be an ornament—she was to be a field dog, unless my plans should miscarry, and that meant that she had her work to do and must learn her lessons in preparation.
Then one day bad news came suddenly to cause us grief—little Byrd had been exposed to distemper and would surely come down with it. There followed the trying siege of bringing her through, the effort ultimately being crowned with success, and she became herself again. It required several months for her to regain her strength and health, the process being helped materially by plenty of fresh air and sunshine. Hours at a time she spent just playing with my little boy, romping in the fields about my home.
Finally, one day—so swiftly does time fly—it came to me almost as a shock that the Illinois quail season was not far off; and I had been invited to join a party there. It was, in fact, well into September and not a thing had been done toward Byrd’s training. Less than sixty days remained in which to bring the little dog to a point where she would be of some real service in the field. And still I hesitated to send her away to a trainer. I simply couldn’t seem to bring myself to it—so surely had the puppy by that time become almost one of the family that we just felt we couldn’t spare her. Yet I was exceedingly busy at the office and very much inclined to feel that to send her away was the only solution to the problem.
Why in thunder don’t you break her yourself?
The question was put to me point-blank one day by Harvey King, with the bluntness that sometimes characterizes that splendid sportsman and artist who loves so well to paint real bird dogs in action or in any poses peculiar to the breed.
My first inclination was to say I hadn’t time. We are apt to get into the habit these days of thinking we haven’t time for things. But Mr. King scoffed at the idea. When I was a young man,
he said, "I wouldn’t think of having one of my dogs trained by some one else—never cared a whit for one that I didn’t train myself. You can train your little setter—why don’t you do it? You’ll never be half so satisfied with her unless you do. You young fellows these days give me a pain with all your rush and artificiality!"
The taunt in his voice was as a challenge from other days to the younger generation, and I never yet have let a challenge pass unnoticed. I decided then and there to take the time to break the little bitch. Instead of regretting it—I wouldn’t have missed it for anything in the world. It reawakened many memories, and, more than that, I found it so much fun that I have ever since been taking most of my recreation with the dogs. I still work Byrd regularly, except during the season when the quail are paired out, and have since trained two of her puppies as well as countless other dogs both for myself and others. But all this is another story—to be taken up at some later time.
I already knew, and also soon located other places, where quail could be found—for although this greatest of all game birds is now in disgrace in Ohio, and has been demoted from his once proud position of peerage to a very tame and undignified rating as a song bird,
still there is, as yet, no restriction against making him fly. I hope that before this book has ceased entirely to sell there will be another story to tell so far as the Buckeye State is concerned in this respect—and I believe it will be so. My dictionary classifies quail as a game bird
; but the statesmen of Ohio have decreed that he is but an idle singer of songs. Be that as it may, I broke my bird dog on quail—and they didn’t smell like song birds to her.
I shall never quite forget just how I felt returning from the fields with Byrd after that memorable first day of her training.
It seemed as though little or nothing at all had been accomplished. She had not sensed even remotely just what the idea seemed to be. I was the personification of discouragement and despair. I may as well say right here that it was only after a great number of trips afield that I was given the right even to hope for eventually successful results. Of course, I’m putting this pretty strong—but the point is, I want all amateurs who read this book to guard against being too easily discouraged in the early stages. One of the chief reasons for this was that, although of the bluest blood lines, neither Byrd’s father nor mother were ever hunted. Thus there was a dead generation behind her which I had to combat. It was a very noticeable contrast to Byrd’s own puppies, all of which have been keen to hunt almost from the day they were whelped. Certain it is that all the little rascals of her first litter were birdier
at five months than their mother was at fifteen. But again I digress.
To help out in the work I took along a very fine Pointer for which I had formed a great fondness, having hunted over him the season before in Illinois. We had not been out so very long before Old Ned
made a characteristic and beautiful stand and I decided not to put the check cord on Byrd, but rather let her come up to him and see what, if any, attention she would pay to his pose; and what, if anything, she would do. We were not long in doubt. She went right on past him as if nothing at all were indicated by Ned’s statuesque stand. Every which way the birds flew when she flushed them. The sad part of it to me was that she seemed not at all to realize what she had done. In fact, she appeared scarcely to notice the quail at all. That is what cut me to the