Authors Note: I am inherently curious about people—their motivations, relationships, and ways of being. That interest underlies my exploration of the dynamic between the characters in “Gundog.” My love of and familiarity with dogs made writing this story especially enjoyable and familiar-feeling—though I had to do research and consult a hunter-friend for some details. I was thrilled to have this piece published by Bay to Ocean Journal, especially since I seldom write fiction, my primary genres being memoir and poetry.
Stacey squinted along the shotgun’s sight and squeezed the trigger. There was a loud crack! and the grouse dropped to the earth. It lay in a rumpled heap in an open patch of dried grass tucked among the shrubs and groundcover. Stacey looked over her shoulder. The dog was holding her point, head low and extended, foreleg curled. Good.
Lifting a small silver whistle that hung from her neck, Stacey gave one short, shrill blast. The dog flew forward into the brush. A moment later, she re-emerged with the limp bird in her mouth and trotted to the woman, her cropped tail held high. She released her prize into the outstretched hand.
Stacey examined the grouse. Its fine brown and white feathers were damp and disheveled; a few small ones lifted away in the breeze. The bird’s head lolled, the greyish lids closed over round eyes. She pushed the limp form into the leather bag that hung at her side and pulled the zipper up another inch on her quilted orange jacket, which was just thick enough to ward off the November chill.
The dog stood looking up at her, eyebrows twitching, tongue hanging out the side of her mouth. Stacey ran a hand over the wiry fur on the animal’s head. The sun hung low in the sky, and the light fell at a slant across the Central New Jersey field in which she stood. It was time to go home.
This was her third season hunting with her dogs, but the first with the puppy. Puppy. When would she stop calling her that? The 60-pound animal was nearly two years old. “No more birds,” she told the dog, and she began walking, the dried vegetation crunching under her boots, the sun at her back.
Stacey hated to end the day’s hunt. When she admitted to hunting, she told people she did it because of the dogs. Wirehaired pointing griffons have a strong working drive and need plenty of exercise, and getting the dogs certainly had introduced her to the sport. But they were also her excuse.
She usually kept her hobby to herself, all too aware of the raised eyebrows and surprised tone her admission often engendered. The reactions were laced, she knew, with judgment. People didn’t expect a veterinarian to go out and kill animals—any animals—for sport.
Stacey did love the time in the field with the dogs, training and hunting, her breath and the animals’ rising like steam among the frosty shrubs. But the truth—which she barely admitted to herself, much less anyone else—was that she also reveled in the steely reliability of her Beretta 20-guage shotgun, so simple and compliant. She liked the feeling of power that she got when she brought the stock of the gun to her shoulder. And most of all, she thrilled at the way it felt when she pulled the trigger: the moment of breathless expectation, as if she stood on the edge of something. And finally, there was the sensation of supreme control that came with the sight of her target dropping out of the air. In the field, she was masterful.
The shotgun’s polished walnut stock weighted her hands as she held it across her body and continued her trek. The dog’s paws crashing through leaves and the rattle of the wind through the branches of nearby trees soothed and anchored her.
The warble of a songbird—she didn’t know what kind—made her think of Pam, who called herself a “birder.” Stacey found the term a bit pretentious—certainly more so than the traditional “birdwatcher.” Pam also was a veterinarian. The two had worked together at the same practice for…well, it was nearly 30 years now. Hard to believe.
Pam would have known what type of bird was singing. She went on trips dedicated to birding and subscribed to reports about what species had been spotted where. She knew Stacey hunted, but they did not talk about it. Still, Stacey felt, acutely, Pam’s silent condemnation.
The two women were strikingly different. Pam of the toothpaste-commercial smile and colorful, flowing scarves made Stacey even more aware of her own sharp, bony features and limited fashion sensibility—she stuck with jeans and vests. More than that was how Pam interacted with others. She called other women—including those who worked for her—“girlfriend.” Everyone seemed to love her. Stacey, on the other hand, found managing people—and social situations—to be awkward and tedious. Nonetheless, the two were friends; Pam would not have allowed it to be otherwise. Stacey both appreciated and resented her for it.
Part of her welcomed Pam’s warmth, her acceptance, the natural ease with which she reached to wrap others, including Stacey, in spontaneous hugs. But beneath her gratitude, irritation fueled by envy prickled.
Stacey was about to step further into Pam’s world than she’d ever imagined or intended. Pam had announced just a few days before that she was going to leave the practice for another job—a bigger job, at a national veterinary association. The head of the practice had asked Stacey to take over some of Pam’s responsibilities. It was a more public role, and meant managing more people, than Stacey was used to. She preferred to do her work behind the scenes, without the complication and awkwardness of dealing with others. Without their stiff, polite smiles. Nevertheless, she had assured her boss she could do it.
And she could; she had as much experience as Pam, after all. Being an effective manager wasn’t about people liking you. She would do it her way.
The songbird’s call came again, a chortling whistle that pierced the crisp air. Stacey stopped walking to trace its source: a flicker of red in a tree perhaps 50 feet away. She stepped carefully forward and located the bird among the branches, its color standing out like a bloodstain in the snow. Pine Grosbeak. The name jumped, unbidden, to her mind. The bird had been on a calendar of northeastern songbirds that hung in Pam’s office. She wondered idly if the calendar was still there or if Pam already had packed it. The bird called again and fluffed, then resettled, its feathers, cocking its head inquisitively. Stacey reached forward and eased off the gun’s safety.
Abbey J. Porter writes memoir, poetry, and fiction that explore human connection, personal demons, and what lies between. A closet houseplant hoarder and crime-TV-watcher, she appreciates kindness, good friends, and good pens—preferably in combination. Abbey lives outside Philadelphia with her two dogs, Rudy and Bodhi, who provide endless comfort, entertainment, and inspiration—and never criticize her work. A professional writer and editor (abbeyjportercomms.com), Abbey holds an MFA in creative nonfiction from Queens University of Charlotte.
