As we laid the box of her ashes in the ground, I thought back to day my husband, Tom, brought his newest bird dog home. Belle, an English Setter, was just a tiny thing – much smaller than the pumpkin sitting on our porch that cold October night.
It was late in the evening, and I was reading when Tom came in and put her on the bed. No sooner done, her ears perked up, hearing a dog barking in the distance, and she immediately went on point.
Her little front paw drew up and her small tail, just beginning to feather, pointed straight up to the ceiling. It was the tiniest little point I’d ever seen – remarkable, really, since she was only six weeks old. But any good bird dog has that instinct. It’s in their blood, carrying genes from generations back into the future.
Belle grew to be a great dog. It didn’t take her long to get out of the puppy stage. She was easy to train and grew quickly, developing a big barrel chest, just like her famed great-great granddaddy, Mr. Thor, whose statue stands proudly outside the National Bird Dog Museum in Grand Junction, Tenn.
She was more than just Tom’s hunting partner, though. For 15 years, she’s been a part of the family, often coming inside on cold nights to warm our bed.
You never think about the day your dog will be gone. I simply took it for granted that Belle would always be there. So making her appointment to be “put down” was one of the most difficult decisions we could make. But she could no longer run in the fields looking for a covey of birds. It was hard just standing up. No way for a hunter to live.
Tom and I took Belle to McKamey Animal Center for cremation, and she’s now lying with my beloved yellow lab, Jack. They were a team in life and are together side-by-side again. And once more, I’ve lost a piece of my heart.