Without fail, when the leaves started to turn, the phone would ring and a friend we hadn’t heard from in a while, after exchanging pleasantries, would ask “Hey, how’s Ben doing?”

It was pheasant season, and our Labrador retriever was getting more calls than Steve and I were. Long before the cell phone, the messages would pile up on our answering machine. And for good reason. Ben was a hunting machine—bringing our pheasants back to us. Bringing other hunters’ pheasants back to us. I’m smiling just thinking about him.

Molly has the same potential. She didn’t know it yet, last July, riding home on my lap. Curious, but not yet big enough to see out the window, she wriggled and squirmed before settling down in frustration to chew the new Kong we brought along for the ride. (“Chew this, not that!”) She’d have been more excited if she’d known what was ahead, but tooling down the highway at 70 mph, I was kind of glad she was just chillin’ out. I knew it wouldn’t last for long, especially when she met her new big sister, Riley.

We’ve been fortunate to welcome many new puppies to the family over almost forty years—so many that this newest pack member carries the registered name of “Sayre Hill’s Eight is Enough,” although we both know that’s probably not true. All eight Labrador retrievers (Magic, Brooks, Ben, Maddie, Hailey, Finn, Riley, and, now, Molly) have been destined, via a comfy spot on the couch, for the upland fields of Pennsylvania and New York in search of pheasant, grouse, and woodcock.

We’ve always opted to do the training ourselves, and so our dogs haven’t been perfect by any stretch of the imagination. Genetics overcame our shortcomings with Ben—hence his October popularity—but Hailey was always a work in progress. While Maddie dove into the briars and the brush hot on the trail of a bird, Hailey patrolled the edges, waiting for the bird to appear on the trail. Yeah, she’d say. No need for me to go in there. Accidents have happened, though. Once during a hunt, I’m pretty sure Magic retrieved the pheasant, brought it right back, and sat down beside Steve. But we didn’t get a picture.

Christmas in July

To a dog, however, they loved to go, they got the job done, and we had fun. So it will be with Molly. The dog we were never supposed to have.

We expected to head into this hunting season with Riley and her big sister, Finn. When she lost last year’s pheasant season to a nasty cruciate ligament tear (and the subsequent surgery and rehab), we all missed Finnster Monster tearing around, doing what she absolutely loved. “There’s always next year” gave us something to look forward to. But cancer is cruel. We knew the lump was probably bad news, but we never imagined that six weeks later we’d be saying goodbye to one of our best friends at the young age of eight.

It was never the question of “if” we were getting a puppy, but “when.” You don’t, however, just go to the Good Dog Store and pick one up. Steve will tell you that I have a tendency to over-research things—whether it’s a blender or a dog. I checked genetic testing for any number of heritable diseases, hip and elbow test results, and calculated inbreeding coefficients. I’ve learned from my mistakes.

And, since Ben, I’m diving generations back into pedigrees, looking for familiar names from his lineage. Not only will I know we’re getting a great dog, but I can look into the pup’s eyes and see a little bit of Ben. So, I knew Molly—on paper—before we even picked her up. But there’s still that moment driving up the kennel driveway—“a kid on Christmas morning” doesn’t do it justice. Molly was Steve’s dog to pick out, but all three options melted my heart. There wasn’t a bad choice. The decision made, she willingly jumped on my lap—a good sign of an outgoing dog. As car rides home go, that one was pretty uneventful. “What a little angel,” Steve and I cooed as she yawned and curled up between us. (Not so angelic during the Sharknado that came later.)

Her introduction to Riley was also textbook. In the bright sunshine that July day, our three-year-old yellow Lab was happy to see us (as usual) as we let her out, albeit a bit subdued, still reeling from the loss of Finn. We couldn’t blame her irritation when the gangly, energetic seven-week-old bounded toward her. In the open yard, there really was no place to escape, so she kept circling my legs hoping to hide all of her fifty-five pounds from the incoming storm.

At least it wasn’t like Hailey’s introduction to Maddie years ago. After a long drive home from Virginia, we arrived after midnight to a sleeping Maddie, again, happy to see us. Until she wasn’t. Wide awake Hailey wanted to play with her new big sister, who found solace only on the couch, which was just out of the new pup’s reach. It would be her escape hatch until Hailey was big enough to jump that high.

At first, it was all fun and games this summer as Molly settled into her new home and housemates. I have (or had) two or three pairs of slippers in the living room, and one was usually in her mouth…the perfect opportunity to teach the “drop it” command. Over and over again. As she learned the boundaries of biting and chewing, and when to tell us she needed to go outside, it got crazy. It got loud. With Riley over her puppy-hating stage, they’d both get the zoomies, tearing around the house like it was Watkins Glen International. But silence is bad.

“Where’s Molly?”

“Right here.”

“No, she’s not.”

Yeah. Silence is bad.

In those small windows of calm, Molly learned the basics—sit, stay, and come. And, honestly, Steve and I have to be more disciplined, never giving a command that we’re not willing to enforce the first time—a mistake we’ve made with all our dogs. Maddie, for as good a dog as she was, learned early that the first ten “sits” didn’t mean a thing until Steve came out with SIT. Oh, okay, I get it, why didn’t you say that the first time? she’d ask, engaging those sad puppy eyes.

There’s always an AKC STAR puppy class during the early weeks, as much for our training as for the dog’s. Molly just thought it was fun, seeing her friends Margo, Millie, Boo, and Sully each week and, of course, the hour of non-stop treats.

At ten to twelve weeks, we introduced Molly’s most important command—her recall word. I use “touch,” teaching dogs to come and touch my hand for the reward. And, hey, don’t be a cheapskate, make it a high value treat. Liver, hot dogs, chicken, whatever works. A light-hearted but firm “touch!” will bring her from just about anywhere in the yard—and, with luck, she’ll drop the rotten apple she’s playing with. This will also bring her back to us in the field, stop her from chasing the skunk, and keep her from running into the road toward an oncoming car.

It. Will. Save. Your. Dog’s. Life.

Fetchin’ Feathers

With the basics in place, we can get down to business. I don’t know how dogs talk to each other, but soon Riley will tell Molly about The Hunt.

Yeah, we get in the truck (I don’t really like that part, so I whine and bark and drool all over the place) and drive to this really big field. We get a stylin’ orange vest with a bell and tear around until these huge birds fly in the air. Mom and Dad miss a lot of them, but, when they don’t, we get to go fetch ’em. You can chew it a little before you bring it back, and if you take it back, they’ll do it all over again!

I also hope that Riley lets her know there will be some training beforehand, and to pay attention.

Because she was a summer “gotcha,” Molly hit the water early. We’re not waterfowlers, but our dogs are Labrador retrievers, after all. Molly jumped in Hammond Lake at fourteen weeks, thanks to Riley whining and straining at the leash at just the sight of water. Molly didn’t understand the game until Riley splashed in with abandon. Curiosity, as it usually does, got the best of Molly and before she knew it, the bottom fell away, and she was swimming. Swimming isn’t hunting, but it is a way to spend a joyful summer afternoon with our dogs.

Now at the four-month mark, because we’ve got great weather, we’re outside introducing hunt-related activities. We did our homework choosing Molly’s litter, and know fetch is an instinct she has. Still, we keep the training sessions brief, because she’s got an attention span even shorter than ours. Leaves, bugs, rabbit poop—they all easily distract her, and we want this to be fun, not turn into a chase to get a stick out of her mouth before she swallows it and tests the limits of that new pet insurance we’re trying.

In time, we’ll introduce a dead bird to her retrieval routine. We’ll start with a smallish bird, like a mourning dove (taken during the fall and winter dove season and then frozen for the occasion). Small enough that she can handle, it will introduce the concept of feathers. We’ve had dogs spit out doves. I don’t know how Hailey knew the difference between a dove and a pheasant. Excited at the shot, she’d run to the downed dove, but only after a lot of coaxing would she pick it up. And drop it immediately. I’m sure there was a solution, but we just stopped dove hunting with her.

Later, Molly will be introduced to a live bird so she can experience the wings flapping and flipping. At some point, we’ll ask her to track down a bird that didn’t fall completely to the gun, but we’ll need to find a trainer with birds whose wings have been clipped.

After she’s comfortable with birds and feathers, we’ll get out our starter’s pistol because there’s no such thing as a gun-shy hunting dog; that’s a couch potato. While all our dogs have loved the couch, none were banished there because they were gun shy; they all made the connection between the noise and the retrieve as we’d throw the bumper (a training tool to simulate the weight and feel of dead birds) and simultaneously fire the pistol. Ben was so intense that he would sit, wait, and quiver—his eyes glued on the orange bumper. We could have detonated a bomb, and he wouldn’t have hesitated to track down his prize.

All our dogs get to where they’re excited just hearing the tumblers on the gun safe. Except in May. Knowing that she doesn’t hunt turkeys, Riley is happy to head back upstairs to bed on any given spring morning at 3:30 a.m.

Training Time

We’re honest about our expectations for our dogs and are perfectly happy with what they can do. Ben would hunt forever and retrieve anything. Brooks was fun in the field, had fun in the field, but lacked that insane drive of a true hunter. We didn’t love her any less.

Any number of trainers could take Molly and turn her into a hunting machine, including her breeders, Renee and Tammy Adsitt of Peak Performance Training in Holland, New York. They’ve got a three-month basic retrieving training camp that covers all the bases, and they’ve got the time and talents to teach them.

“It’s the repetition of the training that makes it stick,” says Tammy. “A lot of people work. If it’s raining out, they really don’t feel like doing it. If they have company over, or whatever, they’re not working their dogs. As a professional, that’s our job, and we’re working the dogs every day. We’re going to have that consistency.”

Professional trainers are worth their weight in kibble, and the folks at Peak Performance are top-notch, but I can’t imagine dropping Molly off and coming back three months later. Especially at this stage of her life. If we gave up the “getting up at 2 a.m. to pee,” followed by the “getting up at 3 a.m. to pee,” moments, what would we have to fondly look back on?

In the past, we’ve toyed with the idea of a hybrid program—finding a trainer and enrolling in a series of classes—but we’ve always chosen to take the time and train our dogs ourselves. We’ve had great hunters, and we’ve had dogs who like to take a walk on state game lands in the fall. For Steve and me, the time and energy—and yes, frustration—have been more than worth it to spend time with family.

If you’re not expecting perfection and just want a hunting companion who hits the field a dozen times a season, get a good book (yes, books are still a thing) and set aside the time necessary. Tammy recommends The 10-Minute Retriever, a good strategy with short, ten-minute training sessions throughout the day. Honestly, if you’re not willing to set aside even ten minutes a couple of times a day, you should rethink this whole dog training thing until you are.

Joy, Fun, and Seasons in the Sun

That season after the hunting seasons—March and April around here—is a great time to do your reading and training preparation. It hasn’t always worked out this way, but we love to get our new pups in the spring and summer months. Ideally, we’ll bring home a March-born puppy in May. Molly arrived in July, still with plenty of summer left to train in good weather, the long days giving us extra hours to work with her.

That’s not to say we haven’t brought dogs home at a more inconvenient time. Maddie arrived in February. In the Adirondacks. As Steve was headed for major back surgery. On the bright side, she learned to go out and pee really fast before racing back to the woodstove, a trait she kept for the rest of her life. Riley, our Pandemic Puppy, also arrived in the dead of winter. Convinced she was adopted into a homeless family, she rode home in the truck as day became night, which became day, then night, then day again on the way home from Kansas. A week later a December snowstorm dumped forty-three inches on our back patio. She, too, will pee quickly and get back in the house to that woodstove.

As we inch toward Molly’s first outing, we’re excited about what’s ahead…all the retrieves (maybe some that even come straight back to our hands) and crisp fall days in the field, followed by a fresh pheasant pot pie and some heavy snoring in front of the fire. Too soon we’ll be accepting those final retrieves—some unsuspectingly. We didn’t know Finn’s final pheasant of 2022 would indeed be her last. We’ll hunt this year with the memory of her in her prime, still disappointed that we didn’t get the chance to mark the occasion. It’s not a ceremony that we look forward to, but one fitting the work and life of our dogs.

When Ben was quite gray, we waited for a warm winter day for a trip to a game preserve with plentiful pheasants. We prayed our aim would be true. The maladies of a fourteen-year-old Lab were catching up with him. He couldn’t go fast or far, but his spirit still howled like the wind. His last bird came perfectly to Steve’s hand, and we both wiped that damned sand from our eyes that came out of nowhere.

Molly has the same potential, some of the same DNA, and the same dog parents who will give her what she needs to thrive. We don’t have an answering machine anymore, but we’ll gladly pay for her cell phone plan.