CAMP IS GONE FROM MY LIFE

Odyssey’s Hunter’s Companion, better known as Camp, died yesterday, March 12, 2001.

Whelped August 3, 1996, he was just 4 ½ years old. Most eulogies are reserved for Champions, great hunters, or at least beloved pets, but Camp never achieved any of those exalted roles, he was just one of my dogs. He was never competitive in the few trials in which entered, did not excel in any aspect of hunting, and spent too little time in the house to truly be a part of the family. There was nothing remarkable about Camp or his passing.

Although out of the great Brittany line, Hall of Fame Bean’s Blaze, he was left over from a hunting preserve litter as a free, auction dog for a Quail Unlimited banquet. From the beginning he never showed promise; he would not sight point a wing, had no desire to retrieve, never showed much independence or drive. Perhaps I subconsciously realized when I first saw him that he needed me, for no other knowledgeable hunter was likely to want him. He was just not the showy puppy that evokes dreams of future accomplishments. In fact, he was a rather homely pup; long, lean, and bony, built more like an underfed English setter, than the close coupled Britts I prefer, without the beauty of either breed. And in truth, he was just not very smart. He was not dealt a full hand.

At 4 months of age, he ignored his first planted bird, but pointed and retrieved the second I shot for him. Not because of instinct, but because, even with his diminished mental powers, he was able to figure out what I wanted him to do. And so it went for the next 5 hunting seasons with over 600 birds killed over his points. He never was bright enough to learn to handle the wind or hunt productive looking cover, didn’t have much of a nose; he seemed to just stumble on birds, and always looked somewhat shocked that he found them.

Because of his desire to stay with me (hence his name), he became my released bird/hunting preserve specialist, excelling in an activity that is more like an Easter Egg hunt than true hunting. Yet he could and did find wild birds, often those missed by his hard charging kennel mates. As he remained clumsy and seemed to spend too much time in the wrong places going in the wrong direction, I could only explain his successes as blind luck. Or maybe, just maybe, it was Nature’s way of evening things up.

My son, Noel, often called him an over-achiever, having hunted, handled and scouted some of our better ones, he knew what a bird dog should do. Camp never did measure up.

But he did more with less than any dog I have ever seen.

Camp and I were a lot alike, I was never much to look at and am often perplexed by the events I witness, most people thought me a little slow as a youth. So I think we were kindred spirits, that he became a part of my life to teach me that you do not have to be blessed with considerable skill to become useful. Camp was like so many that will never experience greatness, never be envied for unique abilities, an "Everyman" of the dog world. Someone or something has to make up the bottom tier of the bell curve to balance out those at the pinnacle, thus we have an average. Camp was ordinary in every way, except for his love of me.

Few ever saw him hunt, you see, my ego made me a bit ashamed of him. He was not the type dog that I wanted to be used as a measure of my dog training skill. How shallow that made me. I now understand how a parent feels toward a mentally retarded child, they really are special.

I will miss Camp, not for what he was, but for what he tried to be. His whole reason for being was to please me. Once I learned to communicate what I wanted him to do, he would always try his best, just to see me smile. He never asked or expected anything in return for giving me his all.

Thank you, Camp.

Neil