There’s a bond between a hunter and his dog that’s different than anything else. Unspoken but unbreakable, it’s not built in a summer morning walk or on the soft cushion of a couch watching football. It’s born in the muck and mire, in the cold breath of a November dawn, and in the quiet moments when the sounds of the world are drowned out by the rhythm of two heartbeats. Yet, as I sit here now, a coffee gone cold in my hand and my old Boykin Spaniel, Traveller, snoring gently at my feet, I wonder if I’ve been deserving of such devotion.
Traveller doesn’t care about my failings. And God knows, I’ve had plenty. There have been days when my shooting was so bad even the ducks laughed at me. Days when work bled into everything else, and I stumbled home too tired to do more than pat his head and collapse on the couch. Days when my selfishness got the better of me, and I chose my own comfort over his joy. He doesn’t care about any of that. He greets me the same way every time, nub whipping and amber eyes sparkling, as if to say, “It’s okay. I’m just glad you’re here.”
I don’t deserve that kind of love. None of us do. But maybe that’s the point.
Dogs don’t see us for what we’ve done wrong. They don’t measure our worth in missed shots or botched projects. They see us for who we are—their person. The one who fills their bowl, scratches behind their ears, and throws the dummy just one more time, even when the arm is weary. It’s a kind of grace, I suppose, to be loved so wholly and unconditionally. And it’s a grace that comes with a crushing responsibility.
He didn’t choose this life. I chose it for him. I chose the early mornings and the long days in the field. I chose the cold, the rain, and the ice. I chose the life of a hunter, and in doing so, I chose it for him too. And now it’s my duty to make sure he lives it fully. Because while I might get seventy-five years to chase the things I love, he gets maybe twelve.
Twelve years to smell the earth after a rain. Twelve years to chase the scent of a bird through the grouse woods. Twelve years to feel the icy water against his chest as he retrieves a downed duck. It’s not enough. It will never be enough. But it’s what he has, and it’s my job to make every one of those years count.
That means getting up when I’d rather sleep in. It means braving the rain when I’d rather stay dry. It means bundling up against the cold when every fiber of my being screams to stay by the fire. Because this isn’t just about me.
It never was.
There’s a kind of selfishness in hunting, I think. It’s easy to get caught up in the gear and the trophies, in the idea that success is measured by limits and full straps. But when you have a dog, that changes. Or at least, it should. Because he doesn’t care about the gear. He doesn’t care about the limits. He cares about the hunt; about the chance to do what he was born to do. And if I’m not willing to give him that, then I have no business calling myself his person.
There was a day last fall when I almost stayed home. It had been a long week, the kind that leaves you bone-weary and worn out. The alarm went off, and I stared at the ceiling, contemplating all the reasons why I didn’t need to get up. It was raining. Not a gentle drizzle, but the kind of rain that soaks you to the bone and makes the world feel smaller and meaner. I rolled over, pulled the covers up, and tried to go back to sleep. But then I made eye contact with Traveller.
He was sitting by the door, his toy in his mouth, his whole body shaking with excitement. When I rolled over, he tilted his head and let out a soft whine. It wasn’t insistent, just a gentle reminder that there was work to be done. And in that moment, I knew I didn’t have a choice. Not really. So I got up, pulled on my rain gear, and we headed out.
The woods were quiet that day, save for the sound of rain hitting the leaves. I don’t remember if we flushed any birds that day. But that doesn’t matter. What mattered was the way he bounded through the underbrush, his nose to the ground and his nub wagging furiously. What mattered was the joy in his eyes when he looked back at me, as if to say, “This is what it’s all about.”
It’s easy to forget, sometimes, what hunting is really about. It’s not about the kill or the bragging rights. It’s about the connection—to the land, to the game, and to the dog at your side. It’s about the moments that don’t make it into the stories, the quiet ones where it’s just you and him and the world around you. It’s about the look in his eyes when you finally make a good shot, and he gets to do what he’s been waiting for all morning. It’s about the way he curls up next to you at the end of the day, exhausted but content.
I’ll never be able to repay Traveller for what he gives me. But I can try. I can try by showing up, even when it’s hard. By putting his needs before my own, even when it’s inconvenient. By making the most of the time we have, even when it feels like it’s slipping through my fingers faster than I can hold on.
Someday, far too soon, there will be an empty spot by the door. There will be a leash that no longer gets used, a bowl that no longer gets filled. The house will be quieter, and the mornings will be lonelier. There will be a silence that feels heavier than the noise ever did. But until that day comes, I’ll do everything I can to make sure he knows he’s loved. To make sure he knows he’s not just my dog—he’s my partner, my teacher, and, in so many ways when it comes to hunting, my better half.
I owe him that. Because when he’s gone, I’ll carry the weight of knowing whether I gave him the life he deserved. I’ll carry the memory of his wiggly butt, his eager eyes, and the way he made every hunt feel like the greatest adventure. And when I look at his collar hanging by the door, I’ll know that I did everything I could to honor the gift he gave me—the gift of his trust, his loyalty, and his love
Because at the end of the day, that’s what he deserves. And maybe, just maybe, it’s what I deserve too. Not because I’m worthy of it, but because he’s shown me how to be. In his quiet, steadfast way, he’s taught me what it means to love without conditions, to give without expecting anything in return, and to live fully in the moment.
I’ll never be as good as he is at any of those things. But I can try. For him, and for all the others who will come after him. Because that’s my duty. My responsibility. My privilege. To be the person he already thinks I am. To be the hunter, the buddy, the friend he deserves.
And maybe, just maybe, in doing so, I’ll become a little more like him. A little less selfish. A little more patient. A little more present. Because that’s the thing about dogs—they don’t just make us better hunters. They make us better people.
About the Author
Chris is a lifelong hunter, traveling across the country with his Boykin spaniels chasing waterfowl, upland birds, and the occasional story. Connoisseur of good bourbon, gas station pork rinds, and the worst duck caller east of the Mississippi. You can follow his adventures on Instagram at @thehuntingtraveller
