Writer Thomas McGuane’s work simply gives me the chills; he places words end-to-end with the precision of a master machinist – but one graced with a poet’s perception.
In a rare newspaper article (is the Wall Street Journal now courting the outdoor crowd?), he talks bird hunting and bird dogs – poleaxing the gun craziness, anti-hunting effluent, and political posturing that burdens so many conversations about the sport.
As is typical, McGuane reels off one head-nodding passage after another, and fair use only allows me to whet your appetites with a couple short passages, incenting (nay, forcing) you to read the whole thing from start to finish on the WSJ site.
McGuane’s lead accurately describes a scene every dog owner knows by heart:
On a bright and cold October morning in Montana, my dogs Abby and Daisy, The Pointer Sisters, are in my closet helping me select my clothes. On the left end of the rack are everyday clothes; on the far right are coats and ties for the occasional urban jaunt; and in the middle, clothes for sport, especially hunting. Here sit the two girls, tails whisking the floor between the shoes. They moan, grumble and pant wishfully while my hand hovers over the coat hangers. I shouldn’t do this as dogs don’t enjoy being trifled with.
They know where the thorn-proof pants hang, since the red suspenders dangle to eye level for them, but they watch my hand. I don’t move; Abby turns to stare at my boots with such longing she must think they can scoop me up and take me into the hills. Finally, Daisy can’t stand it and barks at me: I pull the hunting pants from their hanger and with a cry of triumph they scramble out of the closet to watch me dress.
After beautifully describing the hunting experience (which is not too far removed from the fishing experience), McGuane eviscerates a couple sacred cows:
There is so much in the air suggesting that hunting is an anachronism that it’s easy for a hunter to feel he is an anachronism too. An old fishing friend of mine said, as we headed home from an agreeable outing, “I thank God I’m not a day under 80.” I’m a meat eater and have the teeth to prove it, but greatly pity the creatures in the domestic meat businesses. An industrial chicken factory gives me heartburn and Thanksgiving is a tragedy for turkeys. I don’t wear camo, don’t belong to the NRA and haven’t been to a gun show since the jovial grandmother sitting behind the pile of machine guns said to me, “Goblins get in your house you’ll love having one of these.”
Then he once again perfectly sums up the dog experience:
The dogs are everything, and they want to hunt, too. Bird dogs plead with you to imagine the great things you could be doing together. Their delight is a lesson in the bliss of living. As Bob Dylan says, “You’ve got to serve somebody.” I serve my dogs and in return, they glom the sofa.
Go. Read. Enjoy.
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