Hank

Caught up in the moment, I broke my rule. I took the going away shot and the wounded bird sailed to that familiar place 250 yards away. I call it familiar because most of us who’ve hunted this particular spot on the marsh have, at one time or another, watched a bird splash at the distant edge of the smartweed, along the east levee. A place where the offended bird has too much time and advantage to hide or sneak away. A place where most retrieves, dog assisted or otherwise, seem to present us with a set of unique and often memorable challenges.

Ken’s command to hold was ignored. As Hank launched himself from the dog box, we could see the bird already looking for cover and I felt a sinking feeling. I’ve seen him do this retrieve on a few occasions over the years and it’s never been easy. One way or another, the duck usually loses, but it’s a long hard retrieve for a young dog and Hank was no longer young.

Old hunters remember. Deep in a sunrise or sunset or the flickering flame of the wood stove at the end of the day, they think and remember when. Spread out on the floor, the sleeping dog, with a twitch and whimper remembers too. Separate yet together the dog dreams, the hunter remembers, and moments are relived.

Several years ago Hank showed us why he was more than a portly black lab with a loving personality. Our layout boats were tucked neatly into the cordgrass at Rowdy, a high spot in the corner of the marsh named after a dog buried there many years prior. My wife DeeCee to my right, Ken and Hank to my left, on this day, Hank would remind us about the benefits of a good retriever and that we are not the only predators in the marsh.

A mid-morning flurry of ducks kept our eyes on the sky giving us hope and some shooting. During one particular volley, I hit a mallard drake and watched as it sailed a bit then dropped with a hard splash about 100 yards in the millet. Hank marked the drake, Ken released the dog, and the race was on.

In the corner of our marsh not far away is a nest with a grand view of our hunting spot and other adjoining wetlands. Two long-time resident bald eagles live in that spacious penthouse of sticks and limbs, and with complete disregard to the etiquette of claim, these stunning locavores have developed a reputation for dining al fresco on hunter harvested waterfowl. The still lively drake was immediately spotted by one of the pair and within seconds was circling low, talons down attempting to make an easy retrieve. After a few misses, it finally looked as if the contest had ended, but after some extended commotion in the millet the eagle came up empty once again. As Hank closed the gap, the eagle circled a few more times and finally surrendered its entitlement returning to a nearby perch to watch as its canine competitor secured the wounded duck.

With a hero’s welcome, Hank returned to the boats. The hunters cheered and offered an abundance of praise. Dropping the bird with Ken, he enjoyed his moment of tail wagging glory. You have to wonder if Hank was aware of the competition we watched. The eagle certainly was.

During the shooting, DeeCee had also pulled the trigger. Her target flared hard to the right as she craned her neck to watch it fly a couple hundred yards away off the marsh toward some thick brushy vegetation. On the off chance it was hit, she counted it as part of her bag and we decided to devote time for a search at the end of the hunt.

Midday we picked up decoys and poled our boats back to the UTV, loaded our gear and drove the levee to the area where the duck may have fallen. The reed canary grass was dense and nearly impenetrable. Hunters stepped high into the thicket as the dog burrowed into the tall grass and after a few minutes Hank got birdy. Minutes later he emerged, a duck in his gentle grip.

“You gotta see this.” Ken called out.

Hank proudly greeted us as we gathered and Ken handed a headless hen mallard to DeeCee. We examined the bird and fresh meaty stub where a head was once attached, feathers pulled clean. We hypothesized her fate. In a nearby tree, two eagles remained perched together looking down at us. Our theory on the fate of the headless? While one bird circled, the other dined. But Hank was the victor once again.

Dogs dream and old hunters remember. Separate yet together they never forget. The 250-yard retrieve was not successful. At the end of the day, we looked again hoping Hank would pick up a scent of the fallen bird, but no luck. Eagles gotta eat too. This was the last retrieve I would watch him attempt during the 2023 duck season. Later that year he got sick and his old body gradually started to submit. On June 11, 2025, an email arrived simply titled Hank. “Earlier today,” the message began. “He enjoyed more than a decade of hunting at The Flats. I wanted you guys to be aware.”

Thanks for everything, Hank. See you on the other side.