Good Friends, Fine Dogs........................Lost in Memory.

“Good morning. You a dog trainer?” came the inquiry from the silver-haired gentleman in the white Land Rover parked next to my truck just off the country road. “Oh, just about as much as anybody else, I guess. Sometimes, a person can do certain things with a dog and sometimes they can’t,” came my reply. He had been waiting there patiently for the last thirty minutes, watching me battle wits with Dolly, a precocious pointer pup of 18 months. This particular bird-crazed, suppose-to-be-friend of man hadn’t had much formal training but was beginning to come around and follow my lead after doing about a zillion flip-flops at the end of the thirty-foot checkcord.

“Good morning. You a dog trainer?” Little did I know those six words would bond me and this 81-year-old bird dog enthusiast, who later introduced himself as S. Orlando Somers, into a caring and sharing friendship over the next nine years.

I had heard of Doc Somers and his wide-ranging pointers from my bird dog brethren and was told he had seen all the great dogs of the past while atop a horse, riding in the galleries at the Ames Plantation during the running of several national championships. Red Water Rex, Paladin, Fast Delivery, Riggin’s White Knight-- Doc had seen them all. I had always wanted to meet the man and talk dogs, but our paths had never crossed--not in the same year anyway! I later found out we pursued upland game birds in the same areas, only in different eras.

“Know anything about fighting dogs?” he asked. It seems Doc had just brought a new dog in from Arkansas to replace one that had died of Nocardia and was having problems getting the new arrival and “Ole Dobie” adjusted to each other. I told Doc the best way to stop two dogs from fighting was easy, just get rid of one of them. Get rid of one or let them fight--they will work it out. I made this statement while all the time rubbing the scars on my right leg (mementos from the last fighting dog melee I had foolishly jumped in the middle of). “It shouldn’t take long until the toughest dog gets the bluff on the other,” I declared. We also discussed the alpha wolf theory and the possibility of a fight to the death. Doc said Dobie was a very complacent, well-mannered pointer (an oxymoron if there ever was one) and the new dog must be a misfit. I suggested we make these dogs understand that Doc was the top dog in their clan and the minute he barked and growled (said no) they had to stop their misbehaving. Doc had also mentioned the kennel owner in Arkansas suggested using an electric collar on both dogs, but we both thought that would only intensify the fight.

I agreed to follow Doc over to his house and we set up a controlled situation (so we thought) involving the two rowdies. The plan was to lead them close to each other and, the instant one showed any sign of aggression and wanting to fight, he (the dog) was to be jerked down and severely scolded.

“Close canine encounters of the tooth kind” can be very bloody and brutal experiences. But we would try to control the duel and teach the dogs fighting would not be tolerated.

It all happened so quick. The two combatants flew together like giant electromagnets. There was no growl, snarl, raised hair, stiff- legged walk or curled up lip to expose fangs. We knew we had a fight on our hands and barely managed to get them apart without the dogs suffering any apparent damage. There was no way we could tell who was the aggressor and needed the reprimand.

I half heartedly asked the good Doctor if he wanted to try it again and he said we might as well since we had not learned anything from the first round. The dogs already had their minds made up and jumped the bell starting round two. This time, the snapping teeth found their mark and no amount of pulling could get them apart. I dropped my leash, waded in, grabbed the dogs by their mouths and tried to pry them apart. Doc had also dropped his lead and furiously began lashing into the ruckus with memento of his field trial days, his flushing whip. I began to have serious doubts about this dog training business when about every third lick of the whip fell across my head and shoulders!

We joked about it later, especially when I told Doc I wished he had gotten a gun and shot into the carnage, relating the story about an ole coonhunter who had shinnied up a tree and encountered a bobcat. “Kick um out, John,” came the cries from the ground while John was in the fight of his life up in that big oak. He seriously wanted someone to shoot either him or the bobcat. “Shoot on up in here, please! One of us needs the relief.”

Like I said, “The easiest way to stop two dogs from fighting is to get rid of one of them.” And Doc did. By the end of the week he had driven it back to Arkansas and returned with a new dog.

We bred Dobie and a female of mine not too long after that and, with the arrival of these pups, we were back in the dog training business!

Doc’s failing eyesight made him feel unsafe with the gun and he quit shooting just a couple of years ago. But he stayed constantly in touch with a young man who lived in the country in the Waverly area that he had taken under his wing and entrusted his dogs to. Doc would even accompany him to the fields even though he knew he couldn’t carry a gun.

He made a comment many times that his passion for bird dogs and a love for the Great Outdoors were things that kept him going when the pressures of life became too unbearable. Doc was my hero. Any octogenarian wanting to handle three wide ranging pointers and keep active with their development and wildlife conservation should be admired. Too many younger people have already given it up-- not enough time, no place to go, assorted aches, pains and other complaints.

Dr. John Dinkler and I both thought someone might have confused Orlando with a Reverend Busby who passed away earlier this year, when the paper mentioned that Doc had raised and sold Brittanys. Doc did purchase a Brittany from the good Reverend when he got out of the service in the early forties, but his passion lay with the big running pointers. I bet Doc and Dink had quite a time on the Kansas prairies pursuing the Prince of Gamebirds, the Bobwhite quail!

Doc stayed very active working around his yard and it was always a pleasure to drive by and chat with him about how pretty the flowers were. He never let his age or the multiple heart bypasses slow him down. Once while working dogs I asked Doc what I should do if he had an attack out in the training fields. He said not to worry, just help him get a couple of nitro pills down and then seek help. If and when the good Lord decided it was time for him to depart this world, he couldn’t think of a better place to be than out in the wilds with a bunch of bird dogs. He got quite a kick out of one other suggestion I made. With his permission I would use his new Tri-Tronics training collar to administer a few jolts of Number 5 and try to bring him around.

Anyone who knew S. Orlando Somers and his beloved wife, Harriet, admired their unselfish devotion to each other and their many contributions to the field of dentistry. Doc might have given up his practice but he never did truly retire and separate himself from that profession. I can only marvel at the ambitions and energies he displayed so late in life.

As I sat with Dink at Dr. Somers’ funeral I took consolation in the fact that he was once again reunited with his sweet wife Harriet at a new ranch, riding horseback, cresting a hill and following those big white pointers into the sunset. S. Orlando Somers was 90 years young.