Fate brought Winchester to his personal utopia, but time has started to take its toll

The pain of discipline and the pain of regret are constants, it would seem, of the human experience. Not sure who noted it first, certainly not me, but it struck a chord deep within when Winchester suddenly began to lose control of his hind legs.

Winchester, the English setter who has graced the pages of this newspaper and many magazines across the country, may not need an introduction. Even so, he joined our family in early June of 2010, arriving on a Delta flight from western North Dakota, his 7-week-old legs were short and for the only time in his life, he appeared roly-poly.

Any thoughts that he might be a couch potato vanished as he ignored the strip of bacon offered as a treat and charged across the cargo office parking lot. Must have to go to the bathroom after being stuck in a kennel for five hours, Christine and I thought. Nope.

The breeder in western North Dakota had a fenced in area for their dogs that encompassed 20 acres and held pheasant and partridge habitat. The pups were exposed to wild bird scent right out of the womb. All Winchester wanted to do was get into the grass and find birds.

On the drive home, Christine graciously drove so I could “cuddle” the puppy. Which he allowed for, oh, maybe 21 seconds. Setting the stage for our life with him, he slept during downtime, didn’t want to be fussed over. Call him to eat and his attitude evidenced that he considered it a necessary evil. Call him to hunt and he would have a moment of insanity.

Ever tried to train a hunting dog without using treats? It’s a tough proposition even for a pro, which we were not. Turns out, Winchester’s way would become our way, once we figured out there wasn’t one thing we knew about hunting birds that he didn’t already know.

The breeder had recommended no training beyond coming to call and staying when told for safety reasons, for two years.

“What are we supposed to do with him for two years,” I asked the breeder. “Just take him hunting and see how that works out,” he replied.

What worked out is Roosevelt Winchester, his registered name, for the man who loved the wide-open spaces of the West and whose influence brought the public land that without which, Winchester would have had no chance of living the magnificent life he shared with us.

Fate, not excellence in puppy choosing, brought him to us. I’ve always believed he came to us through our love of the mountains, love of the tucked-away places that he took us, and for he and I, a drive to be out there that has never been matched in another living creature. The soul mate that knows what we think before we give any suggestion.

In our advancing years I think a little differently. He came to us so there would be witness to a champion who would never grace a field trial. Winchester made his home in Alaska, where millions of acres of land managed by the Forest Service, Fish and Wildlife Service, Bureau of Land Management, National Park Service and Alaska Division of Natural Resources has grown up with mountains.

With some isolated exceptions, there is nowhere else in the world that Winchester could have displayed his incredible love of the mountains and the birds he sought. Somewhere out there may be someone who would have shared Winchester’s drive and thus, been up to climbing mountains hundreds of times to watch him do what he does. It never mattered much to either of us if the long season was open, or if we killed birds. Being there on the relentless search for ourselves is all that ever mattered.

Winchester’s story resides in a rather enormous pile of small pieces of shale in our living room. Midway through the third hunting season of Winchester’s career, the three of us were up near the lair of an old mountain goat, amid the jagged pieces of treacherous shale that had consistently solicited blood from one or all of us. Christine reached down, picked up a small chunk of rock and said, “Let’s bring a piece of this down every time we get into the alpine with him, to remind us how much he loves being here.”

One caveat to doing this is that when Winchester must leave early, I will return this shale to the mountains, where he will forever remain a part of the country. We’ve never counted them, and of course there is nothing to show from the times we hunted the mountains on snowshoes and couldn’t get a piece to bring back. But, given my advancing years and varied locations it may take more than a season to haul them back up.

Winchester started having trouble with his hind legs several years ago. We’ve tried the usual things to get him back to normal; some have helped, but time inevitably catches up. He hasn’t been able to climb into the high country like we have always done. A stopgap has been taking him north to places where he can start hunting in the alpine right out of the truck.

This season we chose not to do that, fearing further injury and pain. He hunted a few times for short periods for grouse. He is happy to go, but he never loved hunting the lowlands like he does the mountains.

Gradually his condition has gotten worse, and we’ve adjusted our home conditions to help him get around. He has remained happy despite this.

A few days ago, he got up from his bed to get a drink, and his hind legs gave out. He scrambled and drug them, never complaining, got a drink and made his way back to bed. I won’t hide it, tears ran down my cheeks, the realization of the end of the path we travel is looming.

And so, I have thought about it, and it may be a form of self-punishment because I don’t know what else to do.

In my self-imposed discipline to take Winchester into the high country so much, did I bring about his circumstances? There were times when it was painful for both of us, with snow, rain, jagged climbs, and no sleep, do it all again the next day, for the greater good. For him to ply his bloodline, for me, and most times, Christine, to witness it firsthand.

I don’t know, and I suppose I don’t want to know the answer. What I do know is I wouldn’t trade the life Winchester has given us for anything, I cannot regret that. And in the end, I’ll take comfort in knowing he has no pain from regret, he did what destiny’s hand dealt him in the best possible way he could and together we’ll do what we have always done — the best we can.