Stanley Steamer/ October 3, 2007
When the heart aches like mine does now, it’s hard to believe it will ever mend. And I know for sure things will never be the same around here. You see, Stanley died today. It’s so hard to even write that phrase.
Stanley was a German Shorthaired Pointer. A pointing dog who wouldn’t point. But then morphed into a spectacular field dog. Classy to look at but ordinary in many ways. He was sent to me as a gift with a Pointer puppy I purchased from one of the Ted Turner ranches in New Mexico. It was a situation where that part of central New Mexico had tons of rain during the summer of ‘99. The roads and kennels had been partially washed out and the breeder just needed to get the puppies out of there. I didn’t really want another pup but the price was right. I didn’t want another Shorthair and sure didn’t want a male. “Send me the smallest female in the litter,” I pleaded.
Stan arrived with the little Pointer bitch and brought new meaning to the word “playful”. All puppies are cute but Stanley was off the charts. He always had to be carrying something around–a ball, of course, was the favorite but it could be anything he encountered legitimately or had stolen. I once witnessed him standing for more than an hour with a ball in his mouth waiting, hoping one of the others would play a game, any game, with him even if for just a few minutes. He graced the pages of Pointing Dog Journal with one of his baby pictures. Stan had a way of winning your heart with his sad looks. Like if he wanted to come into the house, he would stare through a picture window on the porch with longing, soulful eyes until you couldn’t pretend any longer you weren’t looking. He had all the moves. And a great voice with good pitch control. It seems as though most of the Continental breeds will howl at a distant siren but Stan could actually yodel. I didn’t teach him that but confess I did encourage it. I could have taken this show on the road.
He didn’t point a bird for his first three years. And then only under duress. Throughout his life, play came first, even before eating. And of course it was much more fun to chase than it was to point. So it was a matter of keeping the great attitude–his and mine-- while trying to train him.
His ground speed was phenomenal but when he would hit a scent cone, he wouldn’t even slow down. He knew at the end of the scent cone were likely some feathers–somewhere, and maybe a bird to chase. No e-collars; I wanted to bring this dog down to earth but not dampen his spirit. Just lots of planted birds. Stan had chase but no point. Same story on wild birds. I finally decided after 2 ½ years of this that Stan and I were at the end of the road.. I tried to find a home for him, wanting to give him to a family that would provide the great home he deserved. No luck.
Finally, my friend Nick said he would work with him. He likes to work with problem dogs. I was sure I wouldn’t have to feed him again. He stayed with Nick for some 3-4 months then one day Nick said, “He’s ready to come home.”
“Oh, dang.” I thought. “Are you sure you don’t want to keep him?”
“Stan’s doing better. He understands the idea of pointing now,” Nick allowed.
So, I picked him up. By this time Stan was three-plus years old. I always did like his personality, but he grew a little too much for my taste. At about 65 pounds, he stood the tallest of any of our eight dogs. He was beautifully conformed and he could absolutely fly. Like a Thoroughbred race horse, Stan was correct in every way for speed.
I put him in the string with the other dogs that year. I knew I would have to hunt him by himself so there wouldn’t be any competition with another dog. He was a natural retriever and started putting that together with this weird concept of stopping to point when he found birds.”Now, that’s a novel idea,” he must have thought. Absolutely no class for the next month or so. Then he found that pointing was as much fun as blowing through a covey-- just so he could watch them fly. “Besides”, you could almost see him reason, “I can’t catch them anyway. I think this idea of pointing them has some merit. I’ll try it.”
A cold, indifferent, if contrived stance on birds grew into a classy, staunch and very dignified point that year. Intensity increased on point and the ground speed was as good as ever. He had really come into his own. He loved the new twist on his profession. I can say it was one great package that only got better for the next several years.
And now it’s over. Saturday at this time he was fine. He had a little gastro-intestinal distress that afternoon and went off his feed on Sunday. That was unusual for Stan and I was starting to get concerned on Monday when he still wouldn’t eat. He was drinking a little water but never ran a temperature. Monday morning I rushed him to the vet’s office when we noticed a bloody anal discharge. They ran IV’s and treated him as if it were a Parvo case, keeping him in isolation. And early this morning just before Sandi arrived at the vet’s office to check his progress, he checked out for the last time. This time it was the fat lady’s turn to sing, Stan, though she could never yodel like you did. So long, pal, we’ll miss you terribly.
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Post script:
The first parvo test (from a stool sample) came back negative. All the dogs on the place are vaccinated annually for Parvo (and about everything else we could encounter in the desert Southwest). Everyone at the vet’s office was confounded that second day when that report came back–no parvo. But he had all the classic symptoms: rapid heart rate, lowering white blood count, depression, vomiting, diarrhea, but no elevated temperature, until the very end. When he died, we were still unsure what the problem was so we opted to do an autopsy. The necropsy report: parvo. This time they had tissue samples. The parvo hit him hard in the small intestine. How did an adult dog with a long history of annual vaccinations come up with parvo? He hadn’t been off the property for at least a month. No other dogs came onto the property for months, except possibly a coyote. Stan was an incorrigible eater of feces and we do what we can to mitigate the temptation for others who might be inclined. (It must be an acquired taste.) Was the vaccine defective? It was well within the expiration date and had been stored properly. Was there an occult carrier who slipped onto the property—a coyote jumping the fence? Someone suggested flys can carry the virus. We have more investigation to do.
Someday, I may fill that empty spot in the dog trailer, but for now that place belongs to Stanley. Maybe I can teach one of the others to yodel as we’re going down the road but, like I said, it could never be the same....
GIL RUSSELL (2 photos included)
2751 N Lone Dove Trail
Tucson Arizona 85749/ 520-760-8853/ Quailman85749@Hotmail.com
