One cold February, husband Willard, sons Bob and Bill Boggan, and two of their friends, Al Crisler, David Fondren, our retriever dog, Dutchmoor's Moody Duchess, and I went to Blissdale for several days of hunting. We usually had to hunt and then drive back home, but somebody in our duck club had rented a pop-up camper and had set it up in the middle of a Mr. Black's pasture, close to our duck blind in the swamp. We had hunted earlier in the day and were now in the camper.
For our evening meal we snacked on sardines and crackers, and warmed our food, Vienna sausage, Beanie Weenies and something I had concocted for us to eat called "Happy Camper's Stew,"on a butane cookstove.
Our eyes smarted and burned from the gas as we sat huddled around our cooker. Instead of gloves, worn out athletic socks with five finger holes cut into them covered our cold hands and we ate sloppily off cardboard plates. (Needless to say, this was long before Texting Gloves came into being).
The alarm clock was set for 5:30 for the next day’s early morning outing, so after supper, everybody climbed into a sleeping bag, tried to find enough room in the cramped camper to stretch their legs out, and slowly get a few hours of sleep.
Yours truly had an unrecognized, uncelebrated talent. Earlier in the day I had done some mallard quacking with the mouth that probably went back to our golden days on Eagle Avenue, when brother Alvin, friends Ann Hand Dunbar, Frank and Jimmy Collette and Coleman (Colie) Lowery and I used to roar like lions, chirp like crickets, or roll our tongues making the brrr of roaring motorcycles.
And now, my head pounding, mouth scratchy, and my throat slightly dry, I had finally drifted off to nether-nether land when I faintly heard Bill say, "I'm gonna be sick." I hiked my flannel gown up and leaped over Willard, grabbing a small metal bucket just before Bill messed up the floor of the trailer. What didn't quite make the bucket, I cleaned and mopped with paper towels. Everybody else was still asleep as I scrubbed my hands, took a long, high step over my husband, got quietly back in my canvas spot, and slid back into a sleeping bag.
A short while later, I thought I was about to faint. Then I felt as if my stomach was on a fast, elevator ride, and knew that I too was going to get sick. I didn't know whether I would make it outside in time. The camper shook and rattled as, stiff-legged, my dog Dutchy right on my heels, she and I leapt over Bill and Willard. Pushing open the flimsy screen door, I flopped down, and crawled on my hands and knees out in the pasture. After relieving myself, I lay down with a sigh.
Gazing upward, the moon and stars had never looked so near and bright, "Starlight, starbright," I whispered, as some of the shooting stars streaked across the sky like flaming angels, while thousands of others were tiny flashing lanterns.
A cow groaned off in the distance, I heard a slight tail thump, and as I turned my aching head a little toward my companion, Dutchy who now lay beside me, our breaths touched and blended.
I had never felt other-creature warmth so deeply and with such gratitude as I did there on that cold, star-shine night.
I finally felt purged enough to wobble back to the camper, and when 5:30 came and the alarm went off, we were soon out for the duck hunt.
Later that day we were all in the boat, guns across our laps, Dutchy standing in front.
As son Bob later described our Dutchy dog,
"She loved the hunt. She loved being in that flatbottom jon boat in the swamp; going over the wet, ice-creaking beaver dams, through the cypress trees, duckweed, bogs of reeds and rushes. She loved the men with shotguns, leaking waders, prod poles, duck calls and decoys. That shivering black dog was in heaven itself.
Let us shoot a duck and that oily, blue-coated Labrador ceased to shiver and stood poised like she wanted to jump off the end of the world, ready and willing to give her life and soul just for the chance to jump in the icy liquid and swim for that duck and bring it back. She was poised, ears cupped, her body rigid, muscles gnarled like a live oak. Such anticipation. Such shivering desire. Such joy.
She ached to be given the command and I ached to give the command, but held it for just a moment, that temporary anticipatory holding back during which time ceased to be altogether.
Then it came, 'Fetch!'
Like a black panther leaping agilely for its prey, her body crouched, coiled and elongated itself as she lunged into the frigid water, buoyant and arousing. She swam off in the direction of that downed duck, her breath snorting, and she paddling gloriously through the water."
***
Many years have passed since I made our last duck gumbo, but the taste still lingers; some treasured moments and memories are always with us.
I do so miss Rex, June Cleaver, Petey Poo and Roo Roo; I just have to believe our canine companions are not separated from us forever.
Someday Dutchy, you'll run to greet me.
And my first word will be, "Fetch"!
