Prologue

Frank was my closest friend, my grouse hunting buddy and a ruffed grouse enthusiast. We pursued this magnificent bird together for over fifty years in many states and Canada accompanied for most of the years by my three wonderful Brittany Spaniels. Duke and Britt are long gone. My present Brittany, Thunder, is now fifteen years old. Although old age has tempered his skills, he still has the enthusiasm of a young dog and he remains a wonderful hunting companion. This is a story about Frank and "The Last Grouse."

The Last Grouse

By Anthony J. Conte

The nor' easter was developing just as the meteorologist on the big screen had warned - "Rain, starting slowly, becoming torrential and accompanied by high winds, forty to fifty miles per hour. A flood watch has been declared for the next twelve hours." It was the first week in October and Frank was looking forward to the coming weekend. This would be his first grouse hunt this season. "Go ahead and rain and blow, knock those multicolored leaves to the gournd," he smiled as he checked his gear for the coming season. There was something very special about the seasons first hunt. He looked forward to this annual event every year for the last fifty some odd years and it was always special - VERY special.

His upland pants had worn spots, where briars and thorns had taken their toll and the hunting coat had seen better days. The orange on the shoulders was faded, the waterproofing in the game pouch was cracked and peeling and the zipper was cranky. "Good for at least another season," Frank muttered to himself, as he methodically went through his yearly ritual. His chamios shirt was frayed around the collar and cuffs, but he didn't want to part with this particular shirt - he was wearing it when he shot his only double on grouse. It happened down by the creek. Britt had made a solid point that afternoon. The first bird attempted to cross the creek - one shot and one down - and the second tried to make the pines - the Browning fired - Frank had scored a clean double. Yes, this shirt was special.

The distinctive aroma of Hoppes No. 9 filled the room as he ran a soaked patch through the barrel of his Browning A5 Light 12. He had purchased this gun in 1952, the year he graduated college. It had gone through numerous repairs and now had many replacement parts. The stock, forearm and breach had been replaced, it had been re-blued twice and the blueing was again worn off where his thumb rested on the old square back. It fit like an old glove. Frank loved his old smoothbore. A smile found it's way across his face as he recalled the incident where his wife took the shotgun to a local gunsmith. The bead on the barrel had come loose and was lost. The gunsmith asked his wife if the was for sale, remarking that it was an antique. "No," she replied, "It's not for sale and neither is my husband - he's an antique also." In the uplands or on the marsh, whether he was hunting ducks, geese, grouse, quail, pheasants or woodcock, this was his gun. The screw in chokes made it a "Gun for all Game."

The violent wind leashed torrents of water across the window. Like the weather-man had warned, we were having a beaut of a nor'easter. Frank snapped the cover from the can of Snow Seal and methodically worked it into every crease on his worn upland boots. He put one boot on the floor and then something happened - something weird and confusing. He could not pick up the other boot. His hand would not work. It would not open and close. He felt his mouth droop open and tried to speak - a strange sound gurgled from his throat. Again he tried - "He --," another strange sound poured out of his mouth and suddenly - everything went black and he pitched forward, striking his head on the tile of the cellar floor.

Frank awoke and felt his head spinngin. No, it wasn't his head it was a ceiling fan turning ever so slowly. Everything around him was white, the walls, the ceiling it didn't make sense. What was he doing here? He tried to raise his arm but he could not move it. His throat was tight and when he tried to speak he uttered a ghoulish sound. What is going on, he wondered. Where am I and what am I doing here? He opened his eyes a little more and saw a white fuzzy form materialize into a nurse. "He just moved his head," the nurse whispered. A second white form developed into a man in a white coat, a Doctor. Frank closed his eyes. "He has fallen asleep. Let hinm rest, but monitor his life signs. He has had a massive stroke," the Doctor whispered. "Call me if there's any change." Franks eyes grew heavy and he slipped into a deep, deep, sleep. Slowly the white ceiling turned into a cobalt blue sky and the slowly spinning fan became a fluffy white cloud. The white walls of the strange room disappeared and Frank was now crossing the creek where he had scored his double on grouse. Everything was working again his hands, his voice. This was the way it should be. He headed northeast to Sam's Hill. "I always flush a bird there," he thought. "I'll cut through the aspen, cross the ridge and work towards the old apple orchard."

He paused to catch his breath and heard the faint rippling of the creek he had just crossed. The woods were silent until now, but suddenly the beep - beep of Thunder's beeper collar filled the air. "Thunder, where did you come from?" He took a few steps and two more dogs materailized. "Duke and Britt, well I'll be - this is special, real special." Both dogs had long since passed away, but once again they were together working the ridge and headed for Sam Hart's Hill. "We haven't hunted together in years." Frank smiled to himself as he slowly worked his way down the ridge, across the semi dry creek bed and back up the hill past Sam's barn and into the old orchard. "We made it boys," he smiled, "Now let's find a bird."

The dogs worked flawlessly as they worked through the ancient apple trees. This was, without a doubt, his favorite grouse cover. The cover was thick, loaded with grape vines, barberry and stone walls, this spot was indeed special to Frank. He was so mesmerized by the surroundings that he didn't realize that Thunder's beeper had stopped and then gone into a point mode. He hurried towards the sound and saw Thunder on point - motionless. The ground was covered with fallen apples. Holding his Browning high and ready, Frank approached Thunder. The dog did not move, but he was noticeably trembling. A bird was near. Frank had experienced this wonderful moment so many times. "Whoa boy, stead," he cautioned, "Whoa."

Without a warning the air was filled with the roar of an exploding grouse, crossing from left to right. Frank shouldered the Browning, swung in front of the bird and slapped the trigger. The grouse folded and the air was filled with floating soft body feathers as the bird tumbled to the ground. Silence again engulfed the woods as Frank hurried towards the fallen bird. He was getting close to the spot. He stepped over a fallen log and his eyes searched for the fallen bird. His legs were suddenly tired, very tired and heavy. He looked up and through the trees at the intense light that was filtering down towards the ground. It was so bright that Frank could no longer see the trees or the dogs. In a moment the beam of light focused on the grouse. The majestic bird was spotlighted, wings spread, ruff barely moving in rythme with the gentle breeze. "This light is so brignt, it's blinding me," he thought. There was no sound in the orchard. Nothing. Frank noticed that the sky and the woods were suddenly white and light once again. The trees were gone. Only the grouse was visible, engulfed by the brightest light, that hurt Franks eyes and caused him to squint. "I'm lucky I found that bird." He placed his trembling hand around his prize and gently stroked the soft ruff and fanned the birds tail. "A brown phase male, probably a two year old," he summized as he placed the warm bird in his pouch.

That shaft of bright sunlight that concentrated on the exact spot where the grouse had fallen was now losing it's intensity and focus. The circle of light became smaller and smaller and continued to fade. "It's getting late and cold."

Frank paused for a moment. "Darker and colder and darker and...........................

Epilogue

Our hunting dogs do not live as long as we do, or as long as we would like. This is the law of nature. If a man and his canine hunting companion lived and grew old together and in time one or both died, many a heartache would be avoided.

When a hunting companion for over half a centruy dies, a void that cannot be filled is created. This is also the cause of many tears and much heartache. As long as there are dogs and long time hunting companions to share our special times in grouse covers, both will die and we will miss them and weep. This is the way it is and will always be. Many years have passed since I said my goodbyes to Duke and Britt. Now, Frank has joined them once again.

Goodbye, old friend. I miss you.