I remember the day, with great clarity, when I was sixteen years-old and went to pick out my first English Pointer puppy on my own. I was filled with excitement and anticipation. I had already had several pointers, but they were given to me, and I was not involved in the selection process. However, on that fabled day, it was all up to me.
I went to my great-uncle’s house, Alton Black, to see some puppies he had. Uncle Alton had any manner of dogs in his pens. He had birddogs, coon dogs and Lord only knows what all else. I had long since been enamored with Uncle Alton, he was an old bird hunter and renowned dog man. In my eyes he was almost God-like. He was certainly a legend of sorts to say the least.
When I arrived at his house, I began to question him on the proper way to pick out a puppy. What qualities to look for and the things I should avoid. He looked at me and said "son, close your eyes and pick one up”, so I did. The puppy had a problem with one of his front legs, it was elongated and worried me. Uncle Alton assured me it would be alright and that it wouldn’t slow the puppy down not one bit.
On the way home, I was beaming with pride, and I was deliberating in my mind for a name for the puppy. The men I hunted with once had a dog named “J.J.” and I had heard stories about him for years. It was settled; I would name my new puppy J.J. in honor of a dog from long ago. My new puppy would have some big shoes to fill…..
That fall I was hunting with Bill Rountree one afternoon in Emanuel County and saw the most spectacular sight; my new puppy pointed a single and I managed to make a good shot. I had killed the first bird over my new puppy. I was so proud. I can take you to the exact spot right now, some forty years later. Uncle Alton was right, that front leg never slowed J.J. down at all. The dog became a bird finding machine and in my mind’s eye, I can still see him working a covey of birds.
Years later, I found myself over in middle Georgia looking at a litter of puppies. I had gone with a friend as he was doing some dog swapping that day himself. So, while we were there, we looked at that litter of puppies. There was one, a black and white pointer that captivated my attention. I decided not to get the puppy, and we left headed home.
We had gone down the road a few miles and stopped to get a cup of coffee. When we got back in the truck and looked at my friend and said we got to go back. He said he was just waiting on me to figure out that I was supposed to get that puppy.
We returned and the owner of the puppies said that little black and white puppy had its paws up on the fence and had cried ever since we left. That puppy knew he was supposed to go with me. I put the puppy on the front seat, and we came back to Midville. I named him after a teenage boy who had worked for me in my restaurant. I was quite fond of the young man and thought it was fitting to make the puppy his namesake.
Jake was his name and that name suited not only that young boy, but that birddog puppy as well. I don't know where that young man is these days, but that puppy became an incredible bird dog and although he died many years ago, he lives on in the hearts and the minds of everybody who ever saw him hunt.
In the early years of our adventures in Texas, Jake was there putting on a show. We set out hunting one morning in a dry riverbed. It was cold and tough hunting in that old riverbed, but the birds were there. I had Jake and Lucy out and they were burning up that red dirt that Texas is so well known for. They pointed ten coveys in pretty short order, and our shooting was equal to their bird finding ability. I hope that on my last day on earth, I can recall that morning's hunt one more time. I’m smiling as I write this, thinking about ole Jake.
About a month or so ago, I took a friend to Sparta, Georgia to pick up a pointer puppy. I was not in the market for a puppy, but there was one that captivated me, I left without her. A couple weeks later, we returned to get my friend another puppy. I left a second time without the puppy I was so taken with. My friend offered to turn around, but I declined.
I started thinking about names for the puppy I left without bringing home. I name puppies after people I loved and had great respect for. I always like old southern names. I talked to another friend about it and she suggested I ask the man who had the puppies what his grandmother’s name was. I replied that not everybody understands my reasons for naming puppies after people.
I had a name pop in my head, “Lottie” although I’ve never known anybody named that. It seemed appropriate. My hunting partner has an old dog that most likely won’t make it through another season. I talked to him, and he agreed he needed a new puppy. I told him the puppy was already named and liked the name “Lottie”
Last Friday morning I rode to Sparta one more time. There were three puppies left, and the owner planned on keeping one. I walked in the fenced in dog yard and Lottie ran straight to me and jumped on my leg; I reached down and picked her up. I looked at the owner of the puppies and said you can pick one of those others, this one is going to Midville.
We were talking before I left and told him I had already named the puppy. He asked what I named her, and I replied “Lottie”, he said that was my grandmother’s name. I smiled. See, there was a reason that name came to me. It’s like poetry, dogs and people come into our lives because they were sent by a much higher power……
