After we buried Pappy the other week, we had to say goodbye to our fearless goose-fetchin' pup, Libby, just before Christmas. Dad walked out of the house one mornin', and she was layin' up under the tree, watchin' over the house like she always did. Reckon Pappy and Mr. Richie, our good friend who died in May, needed a good goose-fetchin' puppy of their own.
She was the runt of the litter, but what she lacked in size, she made up for in enthusiasm. When we'd come rollin' out the house with the guns, she'd attach herself to our legs until we finally gave her permission to get into the truck. If we didn't take her, boy, we'd get the guilt trip of our lives. Never seen a more despondent sight than her standin' in the driveway as we headed out without her.
We did take her more often than not, and she would earn her keep over and over again. I wish I had a dollar for every goose, duck and dove she fetched up for us. She wasn't too shabby as a pheasant flusher either, and she fetched up her share of them as well. Her only bad habit was breakin' on the gun, but after watchin' her shake and wimper with excitement as the birds were circlin' overhead, it was hard to be mad at her for that.
She went strong for quite a few years, but she started slowin' down a bit a few years ago. She didn't hunt much last year, and we hadn't taken her out at all this year (her decision.... we offered, but she didn't get in the truck). The picture below, from January of 2011, was probably one of her last hunts.
She'll be a tough one to replace, for sure.