Cemetery covey

The joy of quail hunting

In my world, few things compare to the pure joy of hunting quail with friends, carrying a good double-barrel behind a brace of fine bird dogs. The adrenaline rush one experiences from a covey rise as the birds explode from cover is the ultimate upland bird hunting experience.

We were bird hunters, born and raised in the South, where good bird dogs and quail hunting were an institution. My Dad called them partridges. Back in a time when DDT hadn’t decimated the quail population, a time when farmers didn’t plow and plant every little nook and cranny but left cover for the birds. The old days.

You know, you never really own a bird dog. They become dear friends, almost family. Their one desire is to please their master, and their only reward is earning your love. They give you their all, a total commitment, and are happy to be in your company.

The hunt

Of all the dogs I have ever shared the field with, my Brittany, Heather, was the favorite. She was the first dog I ever trained to hunt on my own. Was she the best? No, but she was very good, she loved me and was my friend and companion. She was not a setter or a pointer.

In the 1970s, you hunted with setters or pointers, something with a tail. My Dad and my friends were bird dog purists, and I was the brunt of many jokes until that little Brittany proved herself again. They quickly learned to appreciate a dog that we could keep up with. Heather was a bird-finding machine.

It was a Sunday morning in mid-December, just after 7:30 a.m., when my friend Bill Dixon and I pulled into the gravel lot next to a cemetery. There was a small community church with a large porch adjacent to the parking area, and a few cars were already there waiting for the church service to begin.

We had parked here many times, as it was so close to the soybean field. The fields belonged to a college buddy. His family owned 800 acres of farmland and leased another 400 for farming. We let all the dogs out to do their business before heading out to hunt. After the dogs finished, we would normally put two or three back in the kennel and hunt the others, switching dogs during the day’s hunt as they grew weary.

The weather was ideal for the five dogs we brought. It was 34 degrees, with a light wind out of the northwest. The ground was damp from the heavy rain three days before. The dogs could sense our excitement, and they, too, were chomping at the bit to get started.

“Dead, hunt dead”

The cemetery was a square, fenced-in area, not particularly well kept, bordered by a gravel road on one side, beyond which lay the large soybean field. There were patches of sage grass mingled among the grave markers. A gate to the cemetery appeared padlocked.

Bill and I gathered guns and shells and began to round up the dogs. Our plan was to put three back in the kennel, hunt two of them this morning, and hunt the others in the afternoon. As I glanced around for the dogs, I noticed two of them on point stretched out towards the cover along the gravel road adjacent to the bean field. Close inspection revealed three more on point in the bean field.

Bill and I hurried towards the point, guns ready. We had determined that the birds would flush and fly down through the cover along the edge of the road. We approached the dogs to flush. Suddenly, the large covey exploded from cover. They flew right back over our heads towards the cemetery and a pine thicket on the other side, ignoring our well-made plans.

Guns barked out, and we saw four birds fall directly into the cemetery with the remainder of the covey making their escape into the thick pines. Bill and I stood there admiring our shooting skills and then moved towards the downed birds. The dogs reached the cemetery first and were jumping against the fence and barking, obviously excited and ready to locate their prizes.

I reached the cemetery and reluctantly lifted my little Brittany over the fence and climbed in behind her. Something didn’t feel quite right, but my enthusiasm quickly overcame my better judgment. We began our search. “Dead, dead bird,” I sternly spoke to the dog. “Hunt dead!” Before long, all four birds were retrieved and pocketed, and I lifted the Brittany back over the fence.

It was then that I glanced up at the church. About a dozen members of the congregation were assembled on the front porch. They were wide-eyed and seemed confused.

I heard Bill whisper, “Oh my! What have we done?” Then it hit me. A crazy guy and a dog in their cemetery shouting, “dead, hunt dead,” after shotguns had pierced the solace of their church service.

Seeking forgiveness

I immediately began to mentally justify our actions. We really hadn’t done anything wrong or illegal, though it was perhaps not very thoughtful of us. However, we could not dishonor our dogs by passing up the chance to kill a few birds.

Still, I felt an apology might be in order, and I made my way towards the astonished congregation, still gathered outside. Naturally, all five dogs followed. As I approached the assembly, they immediately exited the porch and escaped back into the church, while five bird dogs jumped up on the door, barking enthusiastically, seeking their attention.

Then I realized I was standing there with five dogs and a Browning side by side, approaching folks who had just witnessed a crazy man in their cemetery hollering “dead,” over and over. I guess I should have left my shotgun behind. It was obvious that my apology was not going to work out as I had planned.

As I retreated to our station wagon, a police car pulled up behind us. My heart raced as a man stepped out of the squad car, and to my utter delight, it was my friend Ed, who owned the soybean field. He motioned for us to walk over, and we approached him with our shoulders slumped and heads down in obvious shame.

Ed approached us, but his enthusiasm for our reunion was understandably absent and to the point. He had been in church with his family when an emergency call came in from someone inside the church about two crazy men and some wild dogs wreaking havoc in their cemetery.

I responded that no one had ever accused our dogs of being wild and that he knew this because he had hunted with them. However, I couldn’t comment on the part about the two crazy men. That may have had some merit.

Ed was looking down at his feet, shaking his head, and rocking back and forth as if he were holding back. He wasn’t. He proceeded to explain the consequences of our actions in terms that we clearly understood. I offered to go to the church and apologize, but Ed said it would probably be best if we rounded up the wild dogs, put our guns away and made a hasty exit.

As Ed moved away towards the church to make our apologies to the traumatized congregation, he stated that we should park elsewhere in the future to avoid being tempted by the cemetery covey. We acknowledged the wisdom of his advice and thanked him for not going to jail for disturbing the peace.

Now, Ed was a bird hunter as well as a politician, and as we loaded up, he yelled back to me.  “Can I hunt with you after lunch”? I replied that we would pick him up at his house.

As we drove down the road to another location to continue our hunt, I remembered the words of my new bride, “Honey, why don’t you go to church with me this morning?”

My response was, “I am going to church.” Although it was not technically a lie, the morning’s events seemed to be guided because of bad judgment in yielding to the temptation of the cemetery covey. I swore to myself to never hunt again on Sunday morning, a gesture of repentance which, in my heart, I knew was not theologically appropriate.

Dead! Dead! Hunt dead! ■