The End

It was at the Quail Championship Invitational, at the West Kentucky Wildlife Management Area, that lonely expanse of gently rolling neglected agricultural land surrounding a scary nuclear energy gaseous diffusion refinery and a coal-powered TVA electric energy generating plant on the bank of the Tennessee River, on the outskirts of Paducah, Kentucky. In America’s heartland, but far from a garden spot.

It was the scene each Thanksgiving weekend since 1963 of an epic and ingenious pointing dog field trial. One for the twelve top ranking all-age (biggest going)

dogs handled by pros (mostly).They were drawn to go in hour heats Saturday, and a second hour Sunday, after which the three judges (one a pro handler) invited those they liked best (number up to the judges) to go in two-hour heats Monday. As Champion, they chose the one they liked best considering the four hours down as one heat. They could, but did not have to, select a Runner-Up.

The format was widely popular and imitated for other classifications of pointing dogs. Partly because three days were enough to be close-up in any group.

It was known among aficionados for epic performances and bad weather, the latter due to its date and location, at a frequent conversion point of major violent weather systems. Cold, rain, sleet, snow and strong winds frequently prevailed.

This year was no exception. Saturday and Sunday had been pleasant, but Sunday night fronts coming up from the Gulf of Mexico and down from the Great Lakes were set to converge. Weather fireworks were distinctly possible for Monday.

Reporting this year was Ben Reach, aging lawyer from Albany, Georgia called on at the last minute by John Russell, long-time Chairman and workhorse of the Invitational, to cover for the scheduled Reporter who bowed out because of a family emergency. Ben had always loved the Invitational, and made only one request of Russell, “ Please, John, arrange for me to have two safe horses.” John had so pledged. And after the first two days of running, Ben was satisfied with his mounts.

Participants were gathered around the fireplace in the clubhouse Sunday afternoon after the running, waiting for the announcement of Monday’s call-back dogs. Finally, Russell came into the clubhouse with a paper given him by the judges with four dog’s names written on it. The first two would go down for two hours at 8am Monday, the other two to follow right after. No one was surprised by their choices. Everyone departed the clubhouse to take care of stock and dogs.

Monday morning dawned gray and cold (38 F) but dry. The first two dogs scored one find each in their two hours down and ran adequate if uninspired races. The judges and gallery of twelve riders gathered for the second brace’s release. Sleet and snow began to fall with the judges’ nod to let ‘em go.

A pointer dog and a setter bitch made up the brace. The bitch lit out with a burst of speed on a cast that took her a half-mile to the front where she stood, intent on a find. Her handler arrived on a heaving mount (he had handled on it in the earlier brace and incomprehensibly did not have a fresh mount). He dismounted and flushed and finally after a lengthy relocation caused birds to fly. The bitch was still high and tight. Snow was now heavy; a half inch covered the ground. The gallery and marshals had disappeared. Only handlers, scouts and judges were visible to Ben. Oh, Hell, he said to himself.

The bitch’s scout watered and released her; her waiting handler heeled her toward the front. Ben fell in behind the judges, slow-loaping to the front. They caught the other dog. The bitch lit out on an edge for the front, her handler singing confidently behind her. Then the bitch’s handler’s mount stopped and heaved and her handler dismounted. Instinctively Ben stopped, dismounted, and tendered his reins to the bitch’s handler, who swung up on her with, “Thanks.”

Before he realized what had happened, Ben was standing alone with the bitch’s handler’s mount’s reins in his hand. The others had ridden on, following the bitch to the front. Ben looked around for a marshal, but there was not one in sight. The snowfall increased to a blizzard. Suddenly Ben was cold, then shivering, then on his knees, then lying on the ground in the snow, hearing only the heaving of the bitch’s handler’s exhausted mount above him…So this is how life will end, Ben thought.

* * * * *

Ben sat up suddenly, shivering. The bed covers had slid off him to the floor. His bedroom was dimly lit by a nite-light plugged in a socket near the door to his bathroom. He woke slowly from his dream, sat up on the mattress, slowly stood on the floor and walked to the bathroom and relieved himself.

* * * * *

At four that afternoon Sam Nixon MD joined Ben in his library-conference room for a dram of The Macallan.

“You won’t believe the dream I had last night, “Ben began.