They say you only get one great dog in your lifetime, and in my case, that is true. I’ve owned over a dozen hunting dogs in my life, and none could hold a dog biscuit to my ol’ yellow Lab, Cove. He is our once-in-a-lifetime dog, named after my cardiologist, Doctor Christopher Cove, who, along with some amazing EMTs, saved my life one hot July 4th. It was 12 years ago that the doctor placed a stent in my left anterior descending artery after I’d gone into full cardiac arrest while washing my truck on a rare 4th at home. It only took five minutes for the Henrietta Ambulance EMTs to arrive. One week earlier, I had been fishing in the Thousand Islands. Had it hit me then, I would have ended up deader than a bloated skunk on the side of 490. There is no doubt in my mind my fishing buddies would have waited until the bass stopped biting before taking me to shore and then emptying my tackle box of all my good lures before calling 911.
My sister Betsy drove to Wildrose Kennels in Mississippi to pick up Cove only a few weeks after my “widow maker.” For some reason, my wife would not let me leave home to make the 14-hour drive.
Cove showed up at our doorstep at eight weeks of age, full of curiosity and zero fear. He was cuter than a baby panda sneezing, as only a yellow Lab pup can be.
From that minute on, Cove and I have been closer than two coats of paint. He is co-founder of my business T&C Goose Wrangler (the C standing for Cove, of course), where we worked together for ten years chasing geese off golf courses and school sports fields before dysplasia of both front elbows kept him from climbing in and out of the backseat of my truck. Against his wishes, he had to retire.
Cove’s love of chasing geese was almost too strong as, on one occasion, he swam out of sight on Chaumont Bay chasing a wounded goose. My son Joel and I had been goose hunting on the bay and shot a goose that appeared lifeless, floating on the water. When Cove swam up to the goose, his head popped up, and he started swimming away with Cove so close that we could not make a safe finishing shot. We yelled and shot the guns in the air, hoping to turn Cove around, but he was just too close to that bird to care about anything else but catching that goose. All we had was a canoe, and by the time Joel dragged it out of the cattails where we had hidden it, Cove was already out of sight. You talk about panic; it was as if one of my grandkids was swimming out of sight. It was by a minor miracle that I had some friends up there fishing, and I was able to call them. They responded quickly and soon found Cove swimming out in the middle of the large bay, the goose nowhere to be seen. They hoisted him into the boat and brought him back. He was no worse for wear, but I was a nervous wreck. I’m sure he would not have drowned – dogs rarely do, especially Labs – but where he would have made it to shore is anybody’s guess.
On our many long drives to Saskatchewan on hunting trips, my buddies riding with me would often ask, “Is Cove still alive back there?” as he lay in the backseat, not making a peep for hours. That was until the guns came out, then he knew it was game time!
He is by far the smartest dog I have ever owned, needing little training to do what he did naturally. I could count on two hands how many times I have had to raise my voice at my ol’ buddy, and after I did, I always felt worse for it. I could go on for hours talking about the hundreds of great waterfowl retrieves he has made over the years, some of his best in Lake Ontario in four-foot waves in late November.
Cove is now twelve years old and shuffles around like the old gentleman he is. His front elbows are in such bad shape that even a visit to Cornell University couldn’t help. Still, you never hear a groan out of him. His stoic nature is constantly commented on by the various veterinarians who have analyzed him over the years.
Although getting around is now a struggle, his eyes are clear, and his appetite is still as ferocious as a grizzly. When the grandkids are here and eating anything, he shadows their every step, knowing something tasty will drop at any minute. Because of his rusty joints, he plops down in the worst spots possible such as the middle of the kitchen or dining room, creating this large yellow fur-shedding roadblock. We all step around him or, in the case of the grandkids, literally crawl right over him, knowing it would take him five minutes to get to his feet and move. He just wags his tail, glad that his family is so close.
As much as I hate to think about it, I know his days are numbered. I wanted to write this now while Cove is still with us for a couple of reasons. The first one being that I know once he goes, I will be emotionally unable to even spell his name for a long time. The second is to let him know while he’s here how much we love him and to thank him for bringing his unconditional love into our lives, and I believe possibly saving mine.
I hope when Cove reads this online or possibly in print over his morning scoop of Blue Buffalo, he will know how much we love the one-and-only greatest dog of our lives.
Have I mentioned how smart he is?
