Yoga for Duckhunters

from the studio to the tidal flats


His tail was as straight as a lion’s when he struck the icy water which filled the air with another flight of ducks, and another until soon the swans at the distant shore lifted their wings. My eyes came back to the form of the dog, now submerged and fighting to stay afloat on the ice he broke through at each crushing leap he took with a body I had only before seen at a leisurely pace in the field or curled asleep in the recliner near the fireplace back home. Cogswell forgot every command and was lost to instinct as the ducks circled and tried to sit back on the open water he churned, ignoring our calls and never knowing our fears that he did not have the vitality to fight his way out of ice if he stopped for even a moment to panic.

This was a dog who had never lost his cool. He paused when other dogs charged. He sniffed the air from a standstill when other dogs followed scent. He slept and lounged and loafed the first few years of his life, showing only a few rare moments of competitive daring if spurred on by his littermates. In a litter of dogs with the distinctive fine bones, dished profiles, feathered features, and high spirit of bloodlines developed for the hunt and the thrill of the flush, Cogswell was a taller, more muscular and heavy-footed, jug-headed dog with a short coat and slow, ox-cart-pulling demeanor and build. And, here he was, with his mind lost in a sea of birds calling so loudly and the icy water crashing all around.

He couldn’t hear our calls for him to come back. Flocks of mallards flew over and circled, pairs of mergansers darted past, and the terns came up between them screaming for their nests. I was running and calling for Cogswell as I watched him struggle in deaf pursuit further out into the ice where he was now caught in the channel he made and unable to get to the surface.

He was on the surface now and running. Run, I thought, get to the shore before breaking through again, and he did. But the ducks weren’t leaving their hole, and he followed them back across the water, breaking through the shallows and again gaining the surface. For twenty minutes I yelled and ran the shore until my partner, having waded out to the gravel bar snatched Cogswell up by his collar like a mustang-sized misbehaving rascal of a puppy who kicked and bucked still crazed by life.

We marched him away from the frenzy of birds as they settled back to the water behind us. As we marched, Cogswell mellowed and changed back to himself. He changed back from the wolf and became the English setter again, despite his momentary outburst as a water dog. When we rounded the curve that took all birds out of view and let go of his collar, he was his cool self again and sheepish. “Cogswell,” I said. “That was so not like you.”

We sat together for a few minutes, and he looked out over the water the way humans and animals do when satisfied and sure of who they are by what they see and sometimes sorry for it as much as they know the urge will come over them again to be wild and free. I was glad he did it with as mixed a feeling as can be had by someone responsible for training a dog to be safe and sound and still admiring an animal for not always being predictable as long as it ends well.

Cogswell walked at my heel for the miles back to the truck without a command and without further interest in single ducks or ravens flying overhead. It was that feeling when you’re walking away and not looking back so there is nothing of interest ahead, just the world at your feet until you feel quite yourself again.

“Go on,” I said. “You don’t have to heel up.”

But then I realized what I’d just learned about Cogswell. When he didn’t have to be good, he was as good a dog as anyone could hope to bring along to the park. When the world spun and vaulted him in a vision of wings and soaked the air with the scent of birds so heavenly he’d throw it all away to get there again and never leave it as it stirred and sounded all around, it was good-bye.

Now we were just trudging up the hill for another ride down, and he was giving me that good-ole “I love you honey” like I didn’t know any better what kind of dog he really was. And I scratched his ears because I was glad he had it in him, anyways. The bloodline of setter tricks up the sleeve to pull out when it counts and keep a girl going further in the same direction to get ahead of it til next time.



  1. Makes me like that dog.

  2. Wonderful writing Christine

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