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Our Golden Retriever, Sage, goes by many names: Sage, Good Boy, Bad Dog, Worst Dog, and Red Dog. Over the past fourteen years, he has lived up to all those names. His normal name comes from a fly-fishing company, and he is a great dog to walk with on a mountain stream. He won an award for being a Good Citizen, so he lived up to the Good Boy name. Unfortunately, the award went to his head and he earned the next two names. Red Dog was the only name he didn’t have to do anything to fulfill except exist. His red coat is now being replaced with thick patches of gray. Along with the gray comes a decrease in energy taking him back to being a Good Boy rather than Bad Dog or Worst Dog. 

Sage loves to retrieve ducks in beaver swamps and sloughs, but his tolerance for cold is waning. Duck season and cold temps go hand in hand. But some weekends, like this past Saturday, will give you a rare warm morning to hunt ducks. 

Now, warm weather and duck hunting are not a good combination. Cooler weather causes ducks to need more calories, forcing them to leave their roosts to find food. In warm weather they can sleep in, sip coffee, and skip breakfast for a later brunch. As Red Dog and I waded into the swamp on Saturday, I could hear the ducks 150 yards away already talking.

As daylight breaks through the cloudy morning, the ducks started to fly. A pair of mallards set their wings and landed to the left of the decoys. After two easy shots, I reloaded and quickly folded another Drake mallard that got too close. Three birds down, and one red dog ready to show his old dog skills. 

A few years ago, Sage’s eyesight began to decline. He has become more reliant on his nose than ever. When Sage retrieves a duck, his eyesight gives him the city it’s in, the sound from the splash relays the zip code, and his nose tracks down the street and house number in short order.

Minutes later, Red Dog swims back with the greenhead of the mallard next to his gray muzzle. In the fourteen seasons I’ve watched him retrieve, the feeling never gets old even though the gray on his face shows the passage of time. Picking up the decoys, I look back and see him resting under the strap of ducks hanging on a tree limb. Red Dog is tired out.

The next morning, we let Sage out and expected a slow-moving arthritic dog. Instead, a flash of red flew through the kitchen. Sage quickly grabbed the TV remote, spilled a drink with his tail, and spilled his water bowl. “Worst Dog, get out of here!” shouted an unidentified family member as they shoved Red Dog outside. Sage laid down on the porch smiling back with a youthful energy. “Worst Dog” is back. It only took three ducks for a Red Dog Revival.