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Jake's River

CHAPTER 25 PAGE 253

Jake was a rottweiler, and no, he wasn't a hunting dog. You might wonder what business he has in a hunting book. Well, he picked hunting season to die, so I think that qualifies him. He was with me 11 years, and he could sense the love of the hunt in me. He had learned to anticipate the shortening days, the crisp mornings, and the smell of fall in the air that would soon be associated with the joyous celebration, and electricity in the air that goes along with bringing home a deer.

Jake was bought by my dad for the amount of $50. The story goes that he was a pure bred that was the result of two neighbors breeding their dogs. He was just a tiny little thing that would curl up in the crook of my arm when dad first brought him home. The large paws on the little puppy hinted at how large he might grow. Dad gave him his "handle," and over the course of the following weeks the dog seemed to take a liking to me. I was getting ready to move out of my dad's house, and considering Jake's favor toward me, dad let me have him. I didn't realize at the time what a friend that dog would become, and how strong the bond between a dog and a man could be. They truly are man's best friend. They are completely loyal. They don't hold a grudge if you do them wrong, they forgive you immediately. We used to keep Jake in a crate at night when he was a growing puppy to help potty train him. Now, most dogs hate the crate, but Jake would readily run into it. I remember one time I climbed into his crate to see how he would react. I just barely fit in with my head and shoulders poking out. He got mad, and pouted, and I knew then he was a different kind of dog.

So Jake and I moved out together into our first apartment. It wasn't anything special, as a matter of fact most people might consider it to be somewhat of a rough lifestyle. We had no furniture when we first moved out, and it was the beginning of January. The apartment was lacking in many respects including insulation. The floor consisted of a rug laid over a concrete slab, and being that I didn't have any furniture, I slept on the floor in a sleeping bag with Jake curled up beside me. It was so cold that his water bowl would have a thin layer of ice in the morning, and the plumbing constantly froze. Tap water came from a brook out back, which meant that drinking water had to be bought. You might say all of this toughened us up a little bit, but Jake made a long cold winter tolerable.

I was in the beginning stages of becoming a chainsaw woodcarver during this time. I was self employed, which meant that Jake got to go to work with me every day. Basically, everywhere I went, Jake went. The second winter in the apartment, I bought a used snow machine to go ice fishing with, but my usual fishing buddy, Jake, would have no part of getting on that snow machine. I

decided one day that Jake was going to get on that snow machine, but he was still pretty well dead set against the idea. Somewhat of a commotion ensued, and if I was honest, I'd have to say I got the worst of it.

We eventually developed a mutual respect for one another. I never tried to get him on that snow machine again, but he would run behind it following me for miles. It was because of exercise like this that Jake eventually became a thickly muscled 130-pound dog. I used to lie down on the floor, and he would flop all 130 pounds down smack on top of me, and just lay there while I patted him, until I decided that I needed to breathe again.

I remember once I had him tied out back next to the little river that runs behind the woodshop that I now own. At the time, the guy that owned the shop previously to me was out back teasing Jake. He was calling him to come even though he was tied up. Jake came running, but instead of hitting the end of his chain and snapping back like the guy thought he would, he hit the end of his chain, and snapped the linkage connecting it to his collar. The next thing I knew, the guy comes around the corner saying, "my God that's a rugged dog." Jake seemed to be somewhat of a knucklehead and I didn't realize it at the time, but looking back, so was I. He was going to have to be hard headed to ride shotgun with me for 11 years while I was going through my twenties. We grew up together, Jake and I.

Jake was still a young dog when I first purchased my woodcarving shop, and at just 24, I still had a lot of puppy in me. Jake would tear through that shop and knock over woodcarvings, and whatever else was in his way. Being that Jake was black, one of his favorite tricks was to lie somewhere amongst the black bear woodcarvings, and when a customer would come close by he would move, and in so doing startle the unsuspecting customer. The response was always the same, "I thought he was a wood carving." That's how he came to acquire the nick name "Bear Dog." One of Jake's favorite things was little girls with ice cream cones. It took some doing, but I finally broke him of that one.

Some people were intimidated, or afraid of him. Occasionally some city girl would run screaming for her car, and Jake would just sit there with a baffled look on his face. He didn't know he was a big scary dog. Truth is, he was just a big baby in a gorilla suit. Most people had a positive response, and wanted to pat him. Almost everybody was amazed at the size of him, especially the city people coming through who had never had a dog, or if they did a very small one. He liked to lean on or up against people, and when he did they could feel the weight of his heavy muscle, and many people would be thrown off balance. I guess it was fitting, country boys are supposed to have big dogs. Just like country boys are supposed to have four-wheel drive pick-up trucks. There's lots of good memories of tearing down dirt country roads with my dog sitting next to me in the cab of my truck, and I've got to tell you I miss him. We were always together, if it wasn't at work, then, we would be out in the woods during the off season hiking and scouting for deer sign.

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Cold Souls - A Guide to Good Hunting • By Joshua W. Sargent
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