THREE CAPES: Thanksgiving

O.C. perked up, his attention caught by the scent of the farm. Rob turned slowly off the highway onto a winding dirt path which started by the old deteriorated wood sign - easy to miss without good directions. Mr. Johnson had guided Rob and James before, and his bird dogs were incredible to watch.

O.C., Rob’s black lab, knew this place, and he was fervently sniffing the edges of the back vent, leaving slimy dog residue on the truck glass, his jowls inflating quickly as he drew in the scent with his nose at the crack of the window. The truck bounced and rocked as Rob slowly drove across the slight hills and bumps, snaking through the brown woods. James winced as a low-hanging branch loudly scratched it's way down his side of the pickup. Rob didn't say anything, just chewed his jerky pretending like he didn't just hear the paint on his brand-new Silverado being abused with a long, obscene swipe.

Yella

Half the leaves were off the trees now, the rest hanging brown and tan from the now spindly branches. Piles of those leaves rested on the ground, giving the quail a carpet in which to hide. The sound of the barking bird dogs became louder as the truck made its way down the path to Mr Johnson's place. The day had gotten almost warm in the early afternoon sun, and the open windows let in a smell that meant fall; a faint smoke still hung in the air from the wood stove in Mr Johnson's house. Rounding the corner, James saw a little light-colored puppy follow Mr. Johnson as he disappeared around the corner of the house, back towards the line of chain-linked fence kennels where the other dogs stayed. "Uffff! Hruffff!!" whispered O.C. with quiet excitement in the back as Rob brought the silver truck to a stop next to Mr Johnson's red old Ford pickup. The hunting dogs became more and more loud as the two trucks made their way deeper and deeper into the North Carolina woods.

Pleasantries were complete. Rob and James had paid Mr Johnson, he had loaded his talented dogs into the aluminum carrier in the bed of his pickup, and both trucks slowly traveled back even farther towards the fields where the quail were. Mr. Johnson owned all this land, and he loved walking it. He loved his dogs, and he loved the business. He was a farmer during the summer, and a hunting guide during the season. His quail helped him pay the bills, balancing the harvest; but more importantly, he was outside, on the land his family had owned for four generations, and he loved the people this business brought him. Quail couldn't be found in much abundance anymore, and land on which to hunt was becoming scarce as well. The arrangement suited both him and those who came to see him. It was his perfect business.

"They're ready to HUNT!" laughed Rob as the old man let the dogs out. One at a time, spotted brown, black and white, they immediately began marking, and then noticed O.C.. With a flash, the biggest one froze, then traded sniffs as O.C. established his dominance. O.C was not a big lab, but he acted that way. He had been one of the smallest in his litter, but his spirit was bigger than his size. Of the four dogs from the truckbed, only the oldest, a strong-looking German Shorthaired Pointer seemed to gain deference from O.C. Quickly, all the dogs knew their place in the order and proceeded to circle the trucks with increasing, enthusiastic impatience.

Satisfied O.C. and the dogs would not fight, Mr. Johnson, Rob and James gathered up their gear. They each transferred the shells into the pockets of their game vests, along with the beef jerky to keep them going later. While James loved his Remington pump shotgun, he truly coveted Rob's Beretta, and every time they went hunting, he admired the craftsmanship and beauty of the magnificent firearm. Although there was an intangible satisfaction about shooting the Remington, it just didn't compare to the over & under's finish and engraved beauty. On the other hand, Rob took the business of hunting and shooting far more seriously than James did, justifying the expense, a luxury in which James likely wouldn't indulge as an occasional hunter. At any rate, here they both were, on a beautiful crisp day, about to sweep the grass fields between the woods for some great shooting with Mr. Johnson's fine dogs. O.C. was ready to go.

As they made the short walk from Rob's truck up to where Mr. Johnson waited, they both were surprised to see, from behind the right front wheel of the Ford, the little yellow puppy they had seen before. It appeared without a sound and stood silently next to the old man. For some reason, the contrast in their size made James laugh out loud. This little yellow-retriever mix barely stood as high as the old man's knee. Johnson was a big man. In his mid-sixties, he had seen his share of bacon; barbecue, and biscuits, and long hours on the tractor hadn't done much for his health. His heavy features were jolly, but sensible, and he had a pink face with white hair. His loose tin-cloth briar pants were held up over his belly with big red suspenders and his Filson bird vest looked like he had owned it for 20 years; the fabric was so formed with wear that it could nearly stand on it's own. The thick tan canvas was dirty with use, and the sandwich pocket on his back was crumpled and pressed with age. The vest had a sheen which can only come with daily use, taking on an almost armor-like quality. It looked so much a part of him that you couldn't picture him not wearing it. His baseball hat with the "Planter's Tobacco Warehouse" logo identified his crop, although scattered around his land were plenty of small cornfields, which he had left unharvested, falling brown and decaying in the season. Parked next to one of these fields, the men watched the dogs zipping back and forth down the nearby rows.

The little yellow retriever mix presented herself differently. Mr Johnson identified the little girl dog as 'Yella," one of those typical color-type dog names, but somehow the name seemed to fit the disposition of this quiet puppy. "Mr. Johnson, I believe that's the most unusual-looking lab I've ever seen." James was intrigued by the dog's features. The front half looked like a light-colored retriever puppy. Floppy, thick ears. Big, deep soulful eyes, and a rounded snout on a relatively square head. The fur was still soft and fluffy, and if you looked at the front half, it seemed like any other light colored retriever. But the back half had the unique squat shape of a Spaniel, with a short, nervous, cropped, wiggling tail. Short light yellow fur, normal Lab-ish front half, spaniel-shaped rear end. It seemed to have the calm confidence of a Labrador or Golden, and probably a Lab's overall appearance, just fluffier, and her short, quick tail belied a certain hidden, nervous energy.

"Just a pup. She never barks. Good yard dog, though." noted the old man. "I've never seen her in the field, but she's not gunshy. We'll see how she does." O.C. trotted up and quickly inspected Yella, then went about the business of checking out every tree within a few yards.

"O.C ... HUUPI!!" called Rob. It was time. Mr Johnson Jed the group as they began their deliberate walk into the first open field.

Whoa!!... LIVER!!..WHOA!!! commanded Mr. Johnson. One of the dogs had found the first bird. Eager for the quail, Rob and James both quickly checked their safety switches on the shotguns. There stood Liver, the old German Shorthaired Pointer, stone-frozen with his left front paw raised, focused with complete intensity on the hidden quail beneath the tall grass in the middle of the big field in which they stood. The cold November breeze cut past James' face as he stood there quietly in silent anticipation of what was to follow. Next to his heel stood Yella, seemingly aware of Liver's find.

O.C. was quick to pick up on Liver's lead, bounding towards the old dog to find the bird for himself. As Rob called him back, the two other kennel dogs, both of them brown and white English Pointers, discovered the scent and joined the formation, posing in a perimeter of immediate, disciplined identification of the unseen quail. Around the bird, each dog rippled with frustration at its own need to flush, held back only by years of discipline and training. The pointers' tails became rigid, shooting immediately up into the air as they each assumed in turn the muscular, crouched pose after the initial smelling. James looked down at Yella as she sniffed, raising her nose, stepping forward slowly.

'WHOAlll!ll.. ... you boys ready?" asked Mr. Johnson, monitoring the dogs, glancing at Rob and James as they moved quickly, further to either side of the scene in the middle of the field. Without speaking, both nodded, tensing for the shot that was to follow.

..."FLUSH!!" hollered the old man, the dogs all at once pouncing eagerly at the smell under the grass. From the ground lurched the first quail - first, it darted straight up about eight feet as it cleared the brush, then it speeded away at Rob as it moved like a flash towards the tall pine trees on the left side of the field. Low from his hip, Rob pulled the balanced shotgun towards his cheek as he leaned forward on his front foot, sweeping the bead across the blue sky and leading the quail Less than an inch as he squeezed the trigger twice, watching the wads from the shells fall behind the track. One of his shots found the bird, blasting a cloud of small feathers behind it as the quail fell to the grass.

"DEAD BIRD O.C.!!!, DEAD BIRDl!!! yelled Rob with genuine, gleeful excitement, lowering the shotgun as his firm hand gestured towards the grass, O.C. intently watching. ·O.C. lept obediently, springing at full speed through the pine saplings and grass to where he thought Rob had directed. "HUP!" yelled Rob, with an exaggerated palm gesture right, commanding the strong lab towards the downed bird. Within a few seconds, back he trotted, head high with pride as he returned the fist-sized brown speckled quail. It had taken Rob a long time to get O.C. to develop his soft mouth, teaching him to cradle the quail gently in his powerful jaws. Rob rewarded him as he reached back and put their first quail in the rear pocket of his green hunting vest. The pointers were now on the new hunt, jumping and leaping over the grass in a disciplined search pattern in front of the men as they walked anew through the broad field, spread in a three-man wall with the dogs sweeping out in front. Looking down, James again noted Yella moving along silently, close by his left foot, squinting repeatedly as the tall grass hit her eyes.

He immediately loved this dog-Yella seemed more a friend, a companion maybe, than a dog.

The group moved deliberately down the field, the dogs yelping as they leaped energetically in a pattern left and right a few yards in front of the line of men in a side-to-side search for the distinctive quail smell they craved. Mr. Johnson had complete command of his animals. and it was quickly evident how much time and love he had given them. They played and hunted with thorough discipline, finding and flushing birds on either side of him as he halted them, checked with the hunters, and flushed. Yella gradually worked farther forward of James, staying within the general area but taking O.C.'s lead and learning from the others too as they bounded left and right in search of the birds. The old man was right, she was quiet, never barking when the other dogs did. Yella had an uncanny awareness of the birds, though; a calm excitement during each flush, unaffected by the blast of James' Remington at the flying targets.

For a long time, they slowly stalked the brush. As they neared the end of the tree-surrounded field and down a slight hill, James realized Yella had frozen there in front of him, her thick yellow front paw raised, head down in an intense Labrador stare at the clump of grass before her. "Hey you guys, hold upl" called James. In the distance, James saw the blaze orange hats stop as he stepped closer to Yella. ''whoa" he called, almost as a formality to the puppy, her head frozen with focus, her inch-long tail wiggling nervously with bizarre contradiction, sensing the quail only a few feet to the right of James, outside of the formation of hunters.

Quickly, the other dogs came, again circling the invisible smell with rigid, disciplined points.

"Go ahead' mentioned Mr Johnson. "The puppy found the bird for you, you go ahead and call it."

"FLUSH !!" James yelled and whirled as the dogs sprung forward and the startled bird flew directly at him, its hidden location much closer than he realized. Now behind him and zipping away, the bird left feathers as both he and Rob fired at the quail, both of them missing as it disappeared back into the woods by the edge, escaping the four shots which pierced the fall afternoon.

Between them, Rob and James noticed old man Johnson standing back up from his crouch, laughing to himself. He had hunted and guided long enough to get low when a bird made its way between like that. His dogs were back at work now, nearing the end of the grass. Yella had flushed the bird, and was now happily back beside James' foot, her ears pulled back and floppy, stub tail wagging happily, eyes half-shut braving the brush she couldn't see over as they moved along. It was like they were supposed to hunt together. She didn't do the things the kennel dogs did, but what a nose! And this puppy, still fluffy with new fur, clearly loved to hunt. ''Whatcha say we take a look there in those woods along the path?" shouted the old man, gesturing as he headed left towards Rob's side of the field. 'Well, we know there's at least one in there!" replied Rob, joking at the miss. "Jerky?"

Chewing on the brown dried meat, Mr Johnson directed back, 'We'll follow along the marsh by the creek there and make our way back towards the cornfield on the other side of that tree stand. I have a feeling we'll find a few more over in that section towards the house."

Out of the lowering sun now, the men appreciated the shade as they found a gully leading down the bank towards the receded water of the creek. The afternoon became cooler, a welcome feeling for the men who had warmed up considerably in the layers from walking the field. They made their way now along the edge of the branch, a narrow, marshy creek which fed into the bigger Neuse river a few miles down. The Vines were thick here , dense and dark - causing the men to trip, stepping high, as the dogs slowly forced their way through them along the wet ground, ignoring the stinging briars in search of the birds. In the near distance, James could hear the distinctive "bob white" call of the quail as they whistled along the edge of the creek. The trees were thick here too, obscuring most of the now-dimming light except that which fed from the open creek to their right. Yella followed James here too, with blind confidence, occasionally sniffing in front, but usually staying just behind his left heel, heaving her way through the vines in the path he made. Mr, Johnson remained up on the higher ground a few yards away left, silhouetted up in the broken light behind the trees.

"CRACK!!" Far ahead of him, James heard the shot of Rob's Beretta pierce the woods. Rob had downed the bird his own foot had flushed out as the quail flew low and right over the narrow creek. Actually, it was a covey of birds. Three struck out over the water across the creek, but with his two shots, Rob got the farthest one, the others disappeared into the shadows. In a black flash, O.C. was immediately splashing in the water, eagerly swimming towards it for the retrieve.

"GOOD BOY O.C.!! THAT’S a GOOD BOY!!" rewarded Rob, receiving the quail; O.C. was again leaping forward on the bank now into the thick briars, shaking water, sniffing with the pointers for quail. Rob's vest was full with birds, and the sun was setting lower, stealing color from the creek woods as the afternoon turned to evening.

Well behind the others, James jumped forward, startled, tripping on the dense green vines as he sensed the weight of the thick tree fall towards him. It was a big, heavy, rotten log, with broken limbs, wet from the now-lowered water, and he had leaned on it hard as a brace to push himself through the waist-high entanglement.

It fell behind, heavily smashing down the vine path he had just made, thankfully missing him with a solid "thud."

James had fallen behind the group now, and hurried through the thick marsh to catch up with the others. The old man. Rob, and the dogs had pushed out of the low bank, now up on the higher ground thirty yards ahead, towards the cornfield. They made their way slowly through another field now, listening to the "bob white" of the birds who were now forming a covey somewhere up ahead in the dusk. O.C. bounded happily over the tall grass as they neared the end of the hunt, the two trucks becoming faintly visible at the edge of the field by the woods ahead.

Back at the truck, and one more quail later, the men rejoined, from a long afternoon of hunting birds. The sun was just pink-purple light now, sweeping the sky but diminishing quickly as the evening felt cooler and the minutes passed. Mr. Johnson rested his forearm on his knee, his foot up on the bent rear bumper, laughing as he told stories about his years with his dogs and all his hunters. They stood around the back of his truck, drinking cans of Pepsi and eating baloney sandwiches from the cooler in his cab, talking and laughing at the circling pointers as Rob and James counted the quail on the open tailgate. Mr. Johnson's Ford had seen countless birds, and years of stories from men like these, and the rust and worn scratched paint on the truck bed here matched the old man's ruddy face. Stiffly, he leaned over the side, opening the gate of the truck kennel in which he carried the dogs, and eyed Liver, the German Shorthaired Pointer, as the senior dog marked his last pine sapling. 'We best get back to the house and get these birds cleaned before it gets much darker," said the old man, almost sadly. It was as if he hated to leave the field as much as the dogs did. He called his dogs to the truck.

''That's funny, exclaimed the old man as he closed the latch on the kennel. Both sides of the aluminum box were full of quiet pointers, exhausted and satisfied with their day's work. Looking around once again, and worried, he quietly walked to the front of the truck, then out towards the field, listening. His big frame quickened as he scratched his head, replacing the old worn cap with his other hand as he took on a more serious look. His unbuttoned tan hunting vest swung back and forth as his deliberate pace quickened, searching around the trucks, looking off into the distance.

"Boys, I think we lost Yella."

Disbelief enveloped him like a cloud.

Stunned, James felt the sting cover his face like a slap, his cheeks burning with heat as he realized he was forgetting to breathe, as though the old man's words had just knocked the wind out of him.

Wasn't the dog with the old Man?

No, of course not! She'd been with me all afternoon!

How could I not notice she was gone?

His overwhelming realization that he alone had lost Yella quickly evolved into a period of debilitating self-reproach. His walking seemed surreal, as the three men left the trucks to begin the new hunt, this time searching for the lost little dog. She had taken to him, James had begun to love the animal like a friend, and now he hadn't even noticed the pup's absence. He had let himself become distracted by the marsh, by Rob's shots, by the old man up high up on the path- and they had walked so far through the field since he remembered seeing Yella by his foot.

Now the little dog could be anywhere, and it was dark. They walked for almost a quarter mile before James emerged from his quiet self-anger with the determined resolution that he would find that dog, and spend as long as it took to do so. None of the men said a word as they walked down the dirt path at the edge of the cornfield next to the trees that lined the bank of the creek. The old man had brought Liver, and Rob walked with O.C., his black wet fur nearly invisible in the dark woods. Just enough light remained for them to walk without the flashlights as they retraced their steps, calling out to the little dog, James well out front now, intent on finding her. Shock had turned to anger had turned to loss. Now he was determined.

It was like his own child was missing.

Except for a couple of quail off in the distance, not a sound came from the field nor from the woods, the light fading more quickly now.

They came to the gully where Rob and James had previously descended into the muddy ground, and once again, the old man stayed up on the higher bank, left, on the other side of the trees. This time James led through the vines, with O.C. and Liver bounding through the thick briars just ahead. Now completely dark under the trees, James found it impossible to continue without his Maglight. He switched on its beam, the narrow swath catching O.C.'s tail in the distance, wagging side to side as he hopped back and forth through the tangle. Liver was to the right, closer to the water, also fighting the thick vines, occasionally splashing as he leaped too far. A few yards back, Rob felt his feet sink into the ground, soft and muddy as they made their way along the water's edge. In the dark, 20 yards ahead of the dogs, James caught a faint glimpse of something which made him freeze in place.

The log! That big rotten heavy log which had fallen behind!

Torn between rushing forward towards it, and staying there so he wouldn't see, James eventually felt the pull forward as he saw O.C. ahead in the faint beam seize on the spot, his tail high and still, next to the thick tree which was laying horizontally across their path. His breath quickening, not from exertion, James felt the little yellow dog becoming priceless to him as he feared the worst.

Rob now with him, they both high-stepped their way forward, catching up with the dogs who were both sniffing enthusiastically under the log, quiet and intent upon something underneath. Almost an eternity passed as the men heaved their way slowly towards the tree, its broken branches jutting up towards the remaining leaves above, the immense weight of it becoming more and more apparent as they trudged nearer. The dogs were circling around the area just left of the path, sniffing and wagging.

"ufff .... Huffffffl" barked O.C. intense and quiet as he extended his square head down under the tree to something unseen there. Liver was now halted in the same spot. Through the thick trees, the old man called down from up the bank, knowing the find.

Their flashlights piercing the dark around the tree, James and Rob pushed past its weak branches, now sticking out towards them as the tree lay sideways, its rotten hulk flush with the ground, its stump roots rudely exposed on the left with clogs of dirt, mud and vines entwined. The tree extended in broken portions 30 feet to the right towards the water. At the thick part, where the dogs were, James could see the tall thick vines smashed down, laying nearly flat, combed down by the weight of the tree.

There - underneath that tangled mass, he saw what he knew he would: the light tan color of the puppy. Rushing forward towards her, he knelt down and saw how she had been pinned by those vines as they were pulled over like a net by the log as it fell. He quickly groped at them, fearing the worst, hoping by some miracle she wasn't dead. Not a sound from Yella.

Rob quickly pulled at the tight vines which trapped her next to the tree. She was covered by the mass, and lay still as Rob's leatherman knife began to cut through the tough trap. James found himself rubbing her soft fur hopefully and frantically as more and more of the vines came away. And then. with a sudden wave of relief, he was able to feel her ribs breathing through the vines! She was trapped but still alive. James felt the adrenaline as new hope surged through him. He and Rob quickly ripped away the last strands holding Yella next to the log, and limp, quiet, she began to wiggle her cropped tail. Her hind legs dangled down as James gently picked her up to cradle the puppy. She had no strength; she was exhausted from the struggle with the vines. The men and the dogs made their way with newfound enthusiasm up to the old man, James carrying Yella in both arms.

She was found.

--------

In the dark, Rob sipped from his silver thermos. the green glow from the Silverado's dashboard lights gleaming off the metal cylinder. It was late, and they were making their way back home, down the two-lane country road through the now-harvested fields back towards town the quail in the back of the truck.

"Jerky?!" Rob offered, half-smiling, extending the near-empty bag to James in the right seat. James accepted it, and slipped a piece of meat over the seat to O.C., resting, exhausted, but not alone in the dim light in back of the crew cab. Miles back, James would surely have paid any price for the pup, but the old man hadn't wanted much for her - he seemed to understand.

There next to O.C. on the back seat, curled up sleeping, lay Yella.

James Jinnette