Ben Reach and Sam Nixon MD again found themselves at a funeral, this time a graveside service on Bentover Pine Plantation outside Thomasville. The ashes being buried were those of Bentover’s owner Hiram Prichard of Cleveland, an old-money heir to a coal baron fortune.
The curmudgeons found themselves standing by Ralph Eanes, a bird dog trainer their age from Camilla. In his day Ralph had campaigned some good ones, but he’d figured out the economics of the road didn’t work for him, and thereafter stayed on the farm his father had left him, raised a few pups and broke them for plantation wagon dogs or personal gun dogs for shoe-leather bird hunters, a shrinking constituency.
Ben knew that Hiram Prichard had been a patron of Ralph’s, and in fact Ralph was recipient of a twenty thousand dollar cash bequest in Prichard’s will. Ben doubted Ralph knew that and smiled briefly at the thought of the pleasure the news of it would bring Ralph.
When the priest finished reading the brief words of the Episcopal service from the Prayer Book called The Burial of the Dead (there was no eulogy or mention of Hiram by name save the Prayer Book reference in prayer to “Thy servant Hiram,”) he announced that Hiram’s family would greet all those assembled at the Big House, standing fifty yards south of the live oak shaded burial ground.
As Ben, Sam and Ralph strolled behind the rest of the crowd (Sam, ever the counter, estimated their number at about two hundred fifty) Ben said quietly so no one else would hear, “ Ralph, you will be pleased to learn your friend Hiram left you twenty grand in his will as a token of thanks for the good dogs you sold him.”
Ralph smiled, and Ben knew Ralph already knew about the bequest.
“Dog, not dogs. I’ll show you a paintings of her when we get to the Gun Room,” Ralph said.
After meeting and shaking hands with a dozen children and grand children of Hiram Prichard in the receiving line, the three old men made their way through the crowd to the back of the handsome old house to its Gun Room. There on a plastered white wall above walnut wainscoting hung an oil painting of a white-with-gold-ears Setter bitch on a high-headed and high-tailed point in typical Lake States grouse cover.
“That is Pat, named for my wife who died a year after she was whelped back in 1975. My Pat cared for the litter in her laundry room, same as she did forty other litters. She picked the pup for me to break for Mr. Hiram.”
“What was special about her?” Ben asked.
Again Ralph Eanes smiled.
“Mr. Hiram loved to grouse hunt. But he had a problem. He was a crack shot—on quail, dove, grouse, ducks—but he could not handle a dog. Here on Bentover Pine that did not matter, his trainer handled for him. But in the grouse woods he had to be able to handle his own dog.
“My wife Pat knew Mr. Hiram needed a dog he could just turn loose and follow, one that needed no handling. This Pat (Ralph nodded at the painting) was that kind. You could hunt her all day without a shout or a whistle. She watched Mr. Hiram and hunted in front of him, sweeping through the likely cover like a windshield wiper, never getting behind. She was not an ankle warmer, she would reach for birds, but she would not leave him. With a beep-on-point collar she was deadly.
“My wife walked her alone every day, several times a day, as soon as she was weaned. She was a natural after that. She had the nose and my wife taught her the pattern and that’s all it took.
“The hard part was teaching Mr. Hiram not to hack her. I’d sold him others and he messed them all up hollering and whistling.
“When I sold him Pat I made it a condition that I go with him on the first grouse hunt — I drove to Minnesota with Pat on the seat beside me, I won’t fly. Man, that’s a long way. Mr. Hiram flew up in his private jet.
“First morning I say to Mr. Hiram, ‘You got to promise me you will not open your mouth no matter what happens. Just follow her and be ready to shoot.’ He had not bought her yet and I made it clear if he talked the deal was off.
“He had his limit by lunch time, all shot over her points. I left for home next morning, a check in my pocket. When I got home there was another in my mail for the same amount, and a note from Mr. Hiram, said, ‘This is for your expenses and the lesson.’ “
“What did you sell her for?” Sam asked.
Ralph smiled, but did not answer.
Sam took a photo of the painting of Pat with his smart phone, and the three slipped out the Gun Room door and walked to Ben’s and Ralph’s pickups.
A week later Sam mailed Ralph a framed 9” x 12” print of the photo of the painting of Pat.