From the Editor

Last summer I endured one of the most difficult things a sportsman can: the demise of a hunting dog. It's an inevitability that comes with every puppy but something you can never fully prepare for. Making the decision to ultimately say goodbye was probably the toughest thing I've ever done.

My griffon, Auger, was 11 years old-not young for a gundog but not ancient either. He remained in excellent shape, although he lacked the endurance of his formative years and certainly "felt it" after each outing. He had aged from a brash, young go-getter to a debonair older gent, his thick gray eyebrows giving him that look of sophisticated intelligence that comes with years of experience.

He was my first hunting dog, and he and I had learned together about training and the nuances of chasing birds. We must have done something right, as Auger had received perfect scores in the hunt tests run by our breed club as well as many compliments from those who hunted over him through the years. I remember the first grouse he pointed as if it were yesterday, and I cherish the photo, taken by my late friend Tim Leary, of Auger delivering his first woodcock-the image of a young, happy dog full of potential.

He was always very businesslike in the field, and once he got over his youthful enthusiasm there were no more "victory dances" or celebrations. He simply would return with a bird, deliver it and move off to find another.

He was the same way at home. Some would call it aloof. Never big on petting or placing his head in your lap, he was content to lie in the corner and take it all in from a distance. On the rare occasions I was able to sneak in a few pats, he'd soon find a reason to move off, as if embarrassed by the attention. No, he wasn't the most affectionate dog in the world, but he was my special boy and I loved him like a son.

Then last spring his health began to deteriorate. I won't get into the details, but suffice to say that it resulted in me having to clean a lot of floors and carpets. We made frequent trips to the vet and tried various medications and even surgery; still, a month later his condition had only worsened. At the recommendation of my vet, I took Auger to a cancer specialist, and that's when my worst fears were confirmed: He had an intra-pelvic tumor that was malignant but that would be unaffected by chemo. An operation, I was told, would buy him three weeks to six months.

I had a decision to make.

Over the next couple of days I learned what it's like to truly agonize over something. Thankfully, when I finally made my choice, everyone told me I was doing the right thing. It was little comfort just the same.

So almost exactly 11 years from the day I'd brought him home as a wriggling little puppy, I led Auger into the vet's office one last time. He was stoic to the end, wagging his tail even as the doctor placed the IV in his leg and sent the drugs coursing through his veins. Ultimately, he went out the way I'd like to: He simply closed his eyes, sunk his head into my lap and went to sleep forever.

That evening I buried Auger in the backyard beside the grave of my wife's golden retriever, Ziggy. I'm not ashamed to admit that I cried like a baby-body-convulsing sobs that at first I tried to hide but then gave in to. It was indeed the saddest of occasions, but at the same time I was thankful for everything Auger had given me and the confidence I had to move forward and apply what I'd learned to another dog.

It may seem odd to introduce this year's Special Hunting Dogs Section (p. 82) with such a melancholy tale, but I see the story as describing the natural cycle of hunters and birds and bird dogs. Simply the way things are. Hope springs eternal, and as I write this, seven months after Auger's death, I'm being nuzzled by my next-generation German wirehair, Gunnar. This boy's definitely going to be a challenge, but he's full of life and possibilities. And isn't that what every next bird dog's supposed to be . . . ?

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