words - words like “sit” or “heel” or “stay” or “fetch.”
Hans was a German Shorthair hunting dog. He belonged to John and Karin Schmid. They had a cottage on Boulder Lake and during duck hunting week-ends, it was my occasional practice to spend the night sleeping on their couch. Hans would wake me in the morning before the alarm clock rang. Anxious and ready to go before there was any light in the sky, he loved to hunt ducks as much as I did.
While John and I might criticize each other’s wives without incurring the other’s ire, I placed too high a value on our friendship to mention my low opinion of his dog’s intelligence quotient. Hans may have been a great duck dog but, otherwise, I was sure he was just plain dumb.
On command, Hans would plunge into the frigid November waters of that northern Wisconsin lake, take a hand signal and retrieve a bird with superb efficiency. That isn’t necessarily a sign of intelligence. You’ve got to understand Hans was a German Shorthair. He didn’t have the undercoat of a Chesapeake or a Lab. He didn’t have enough body hair to offer much protection against the cold. Whenever he returned from a retrieve, he’d shiver and quiver and shake the whole blind.
After bringing back a duck, Hans would never shake off water while outside the blind. He’d always crawl inside and wait until John and I had been lulled into a false sense of security. Then he would shake and send a quart of icy droplets toward our exposed necks. His aim was good. After that performance, he’d begin his Olympic class shivering.
Hans had another interesting characteristic. He appeared to be unable to learn to swim around a decoy set. He preferred to return to the blind by way of the mathematical center of the layout. By the time he got back to land with one duck in his mouth, he’d have three decoys hopelessly entangled around his legs.
The routine was well established. We’d untangle him. Then we’d untangle the anchor lines. Then we’d wade out and re-set the blocks. Then we’d return to the blind and berate Hans for causing the mess. Hans would say nothing. Being reprimanded, he would put his muzzle on his paws and look up at us through sad, penitent eyes. Then he would shake ice water at us and I would quietly think: “Dumb Dog”.
As Hans got older and grayer and increasingly arthritic, he still enjoyed retrieving ducks, but he couldn’t take the cold as he once did. Before sunrise, John and I would walk to the shore blind. While Hans watched and shivered and supervised, we’d check the wind and find the underwater cement block that marked shotgun mid-range. We’d argue over the best set configuration and, finally, place the decoys and return to the blind.
The three of us would get in the blind and wait for 15 or 20 minutes for things to quiet down and for the sun to begin to color the eastern sky. When there is just enough light to be able to shoot, the temperature drops another five degrees and it’s time to prepare for action. Waiting in the cold can be a miserable experience, but no one ever accused duck hunters of having too much sense. At this time, Hans would be nowhere in sight.
When the 12 gauges roared, however, things would be different. The adrenalin rush would erase any feeling of cold and Hans would appear from nowhere. He’d give us reproachful looks if we missed, but if there was a bird in the water, Hans would plunge in, retrieve the duck and wait for us to untangle him and reset the blocks. Then he’d shake the ice water on us and, a few minutes later, disappear.
It took me a long time to figure it out. Maybe I’m not too smart.
Whenever Hans became cold and uncomfortable, he would quietly leave the blind. He’d walk up the hill to the cottage and scratch at the door. Karin would let him in and he’d curl up on the rug before the fire while John and I sat in the blind - numb, dumb and freezing.
When he heard the shooting, Hans would get to the door as fast as his arthritis would allow. Karin would open the door and he’d come down to the blind to make the retrieve. Then he’d quietly go back uphill to a warm fire and some food.
As any frost bitten duck hunter would tell you, that is one smart dog.
People in the media, as well as many other people who don’t know anything about us, like to pass fishermen off on the unsuspecting public as contemplative, laid back, pipe smoking, gentle creatures, loathe to make critical comment about their fellow man and, in general, all-around good guys.
I suspect trout fishermen, in particular, stand in good report and are well recommended because of the prevalence of the “catch-and-release” policy adopted by many of them. Catch and release is, indeed, an admirable activity. Those who practice it understand you can’t catch the fish again if you permanently take it out of the water.
In any event, the media considers the fisherman to be one of the most admirable of the sub-classes of the genus Homo sapiens. There are many who believe the media, for once, is accurately reporting the facts. So widespread is the positive public image of the fisherman that it is politically incorrect to suggest he is anything except a paragon of all of the known human virtues.
You can, therefore, imagine the consternation which developed when a contrary opinion was recently expressed. Brad Avery contends fishermen are scoundrels, destroyers of public morality and improper role models for our young. He claims trout fishermen, in particular, are an unwholesome and scurrilous lot, capable of exhibiting a depravity not experienced by civilized man since the attacks on the Roman Empire by the hordes of Attila the Hun.
Being personally addicted to the pursuit of trout, I found Brad’s characterization of those who fish to be mildly disagreeable, but it got me to thinking. I had to take a bunch of aspirins to relieve the headache. Still, the frightening possibility that Brad might somehow be correct persisted. Sleep escaped me and it became clear. I had to do something about the matter.
Luckily, we live in a marvelous age where the answers to all important, earth-shattering questions can be determined by the results of polls. Newspapers carry them every day. Should all Congressmen be convicted and sent to prison? Take a poll. Is broccoli good to eat? Take a poll. Is it ecologically responsible to extend the deer hunting season for another week? Take a poll. Obviously, the question of whether or not trout fishermen are fine fellows can be determined by taking a poll.
I went to work on it and came up with a carefully worded inquiry. It posed a single question, to wit: After all is said and done, don’t you really believe those fine people who fish are worthy and commendable? The person polled had the choice of checking the box marked “YES” or the box marked “POSSIBLY”.
In order to satisfy myself that the poll was free from any and all bias, the proposed wording was submitted to the people who take the polls for both the Democrat and Republican National Committees. Their comments and suggestions were requested. To a man, those professionals agreed the wording of the submitted question was well calculated to receive a fair and unbiased response. Moreover, to insure an unprejudiced and impartial sampling of opinion, they recommended the questionnaire be sent only to those males who bought fishing licenses during the previous year.
And so it came to pass. The questionnaires were mailed out, and soon the attached, self addressed, stamped postcards poured in. The results were quickly tabulated. You will be amazed and, surely, confounded by them.
Thirty Four percent of those polled answered: “Ha, Ha, Ha”. Seventeen percent responded: “Don’t be ridiculous”.
Forty two percent of the returned cards carried the penned notations: “No”, “No, No”, or “No, No, No.” Sometimes those words were underlined and most of
