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How to sell dogs during a recession
There is a lot of debate in the media right now about whether we're headed for a recession or already in one. The Feds talk about making a soft landing with the economy, but I keep seeing the stock market dropping and the interest rates rising. There might be some tough days ahead, or there might not be, but it never hurts to be prepared. Selling dogs is tough, if it were easy, everyone would be doing it, it's even harder in a recession. During a recession, you may face some challenges placing your dogs. This article offers sure-fire tips to stack the deck in your favor should the economy take a turn for the worse.
NOT ALL SINNERS GO TO HELL
Harry was a close and cherished member of the Winterhawk Bird Dog Club. He ran dogs throughout the walking circuit in the 80’s, and was particularly known for running his favorite, Harry’s Gentle Ben. I’m pretty sure he got Ben as a pup from Delmar Smith, and Ben won in the best of competition. Winterhawk Bird Dog Club had some stout competition in those days, accounting for many championships at all levels of the field trial sport. On hunting trips Harry and Ben held their own too, and then some. This may all sound ho-hum until you know Ben was a Brittany Spaniel. Big, stout, and leggy, he’d run and hunt with the best of the pointers and setters back then.
One too many ( Fiction )
Billy Eanes was desperate for money. To pay gambling debts. Without the money he would be dead—and soon.
What Billy Morton Taught me
By the early 70's wild birds were getting harder and harder to come by. Subdivisions and trailer parks grew up right where our old covey haunts were. Ever the optimists, we started a little walking shooting dog club. 'Shoot to kill', it was called back then. We knocked along for a few years, and our dogs were getting better, or worse, according to who you asked, different for sure. We subscribed to the American Field and read, religiously, accounts from all over the states and Canada. A whole new world opened to us. We read about Miller's White Cloud, Red Water Rex, The setter, Johnny Crocket, all the old legends, and their handlers.
A Lost Dog
It was July 15, 2003 and Billy Culp was fixin’ to turn loose for a workout his first green derby of the season. He was training this year on a new place just east of Lignite and south of Route 5. There were twenty pointing dog trainers working within a forty-mile radius of Billy , two hundred or more in the state, some serious pros, some serious amateurs, some just guys with a dog or two and a pickup truck.
And the Birds Whistled Bob-white
Quail hunting in the South has always been as common as sunburn. Due to the fertile soil, flat and rolling coastal plains that are cut by long rivers and dotted with lakes and ponds, made for a perfect farming. Mild winters with hot, humid summers meant crops grew for longer times of the year than just about any other part of the country. Cotton, rice, peanuts, tobacco, peaches, sugar cane, watermelons, and indigo, the blue dye that comes from the plant, were staples. It didn't matter if the farming occurred on plantations several thousand acres big or on 50-acre tenant farms, one thing was for sure. Quail were abundant.
Tips for traveling with your Gun Dog
Whether you're driving a decked-out dog hauling rig or crating Rover in the backseat of your sedan, traveling with dogs is a process. Here are some tips and recommendations from two hunters and trainers who spend a lot of time on the road with their dogs.
The Last Hour Dog
Ben and Sam were alone in Ben's library-conference room on a cold and cloudy year-end Friday afternoon. The week had been brutal for both curmudgeons. Sam had had to tell a favorite patient her cancer had returned. Ben had had to tell a grandfather his favorite grandson had been expelled from prep school.
Trial Dog v Gun Dog
Ben and Sam were gathered in Ben's library-conference room Friday afternoon to celebrate survival of a brutal week of emergencies, Ben's legal, Sam's medical. Law and medicine were the last thing they wanted to talk or hear about; they were weary.
Hi-Tech Climax
It was the end of the season. It promised to be a battle royal between two all-age dog-handler-scout teams. The dogs were Gen-X and Millennial, full-brother pointers, sired in West Kentucky, the latter from a year-earlier litter. The handlers were Mike Eanes and Ike Reams, former team mates in a "helpin' each other" partnership that went sour. The scouts were Archie Bell and Will Smith, twenty-something former Georgia high-school baseball rivals who had pitched opposite one another in consecutive-year state championship finals games, each winning and losing one. There was no love lost between opposing team members. But that was nothing compared to the rivalry between the dogs' owners.
Field Cocker Madness
The brace of pointers was stunning, and they were locked up on the edge of one of the thickest patches of greenbriar I'd ever seen. The tangle was so dense it resembled unfurled rolls of concertina wire. A little cocker named Rip didn't care, for when he was cut loose, he snaked his way through that mess with more moves than a belly dancer. I'd I couldn't see him, but to know where he was I just needed to see which section of greenbriar was shaking. When the dog locked on his target, a covey of wild quail exploded. They believed if they held their ground they'd never have to leave. How wrong they were.
One Who Gave For Us-And Paid A Price
"Ask not what your country can do for you; ask what you can do for your country."
A Conspiracy With a Happy Ending
They had been rivals since 1916, the year of the first Yankee Field Trial, that trial held every Presidents Day by the Georgia-Florida Field Trial Club and called by its members (all quail plantation owners) the Owner's Trial. They were three adjoining quail plantations, owned by cousins now, once by siblings, children of the same Cleveland Robber Baron, a coal and iron ore man, fabulously wealthy, who owned them all and called it Heavenfield. Before that assembly, the ground had been owned by a dozen turpentiners and small-patch cotton farmers. They sold for $6 an acre in 1885 to a straw man for the coal and iron ore man.
Field Trials Matter
Most scouts yawn when linemen run 40's, but not at the 2020 combine. Mekhi Becton, a 6-foot-7-inch, 364 pound offensive lineman out of Louisville ran a blistering 5.1. Heads didn't turn so much as they spun off of heads, for what current lineman of Beckton's size runs what used to be speed of yesteryear's fullback? My, my have times changed.
Midseason corrections
Next year's quail opener was set before the season ended. This year's was good, check that, it was really good, the best in recent history. There seemed to be birds everywhere we went, all of the dogs worked great, and that combination caused us to set the bar for next year very high. Ours was a reasonable goal, mostly because we had several months in which to prepare. And so we did.
