02/04/2025
The Tenacity of the Chesapeake
“ The Scars of Timmie”
Thirty-seven of the ninety-five ducks Timmie retrieved were cripple and one of them was a large Canadian red leg which is a real prize in any hunter’s bag. That was shot down with a broken wing and landed in a swamp which was thick with rushes and what we called cripple brush. This brush grows from four to six feet high, is very thick, spreading out with short limbs growing through each other, creating a barrier which is almost impossible to walk through. Timmie started out fast on order to fetch and was soon out of sight in the direction of the duck the fell. Minutes went by and we heard or saw nothing of the pup. I was worried about the pup and I told the two hunters who were with me I was going in to find my dog. I started into the swamp. The water was about two feet deep with a muck bottom that made every step hard labor. So with two hips boots full of water I reached the place the duck fell. A wounded black duck will go to the deepest point to put distance between himself and the hunter. I would listen for some sound that might direct me and after reaching the middle of the swamp, I began to call “Come Timmie, my boy”.
No longer was I interested in the big northern cripple but was sweating with the thoughts of the numerous things that could have happened to an 8 month old pup. I cursed myself for leaving his collar on and could picture him choked to death of drowned by being hung up. Over an hour had elapsed since his departure and a thousand things could have happened in that length of time. Calling Timmie again and again- begging and pleading with him to come, to do what I was sure was impossible by this time. I gave up hope of his ever returning.
Sitting atop a muskrat house, thinking of many things, calling his name again and again, I heard a splash off to the right, almost 70 yards. I tried to run and I was completely wet from head to foot, my clothing freezing. I kept telling myself that splash might have been a duck or a rat. Again I called and the splashes were much louder. I knew then that I had found the pup and at least his was alive. I found Timmie. He was holding the big five and half pound red leg firmly in his mouth and was so tangled up in a loose roll of abandoned barbed wire that it was out of the question for him to ever get out of it alone. How he ever crawled into it will always be a mystery unless he followed the cripple and found him hidden there. I tried to make him let go of the duck, but even though exhausted from struggling to keep his head above the water and trying to escape the unintentional death trap with 14 rusty barbs deeply imbedded in his flesh, a 2 inch rip in his foreleg that let tendons and muscles be plainly seen, and numerous other barbs pressing painfully against him, it did not make him forget that he had been scolded severely for dropping a bird until he hunched down and was ordered to give.
Walking around in front of him, spreading out the wires to get hold of the duck, saying “Give”, satisfied him that his work was done on that retrieve. After several minutes of bending and breaking the rusty wire the pup was loose. Then he staggered toward the duck, half wading and half swimming through the muck. He picked up the duck slowly and returned it to me, hunched down half submerged in mud and water, he made a perfect delivery. With the duck in my belt and a very tired and bloody pup in my arms, I returned to the blind, packed up my gun and wrapped him my hunting coat and returned home.
After a 10 day lay-up, Timmie went back to work with a slight limp and finished the hunting season is good shape. The winter of 45 and the summer of 46 repaired the damage and this season he worked fine with only a few scars as reminder of the swamp mishap. To me, each scar is a tribute to a dog with a great heart and unexcelled courage. He is not for sale. Ray Poquette.
Field and Stream Sept 1947
