If it was relatively late in the afternoon, the birds would most likely be feeding in a field of wild lespedeza or perhaps in a patch of soybeans. If I was lucky, I’d come around a bend in a footpath and see Ben pointed in a field, as still as a statue. I’d walk up behind him, talking to him softly: “Whoa, boy. Easy.” I’d walk past him, kicking my feet in the grass and weeds. My heart would be pounding. A covey of eight to fifteen quail would explode from the ground in front of me. I’d pick one with my eyes, pull the gun to my shoulder and shoot, swing to another and shoot, and by then the birds would be out of range. I’d watch where they scattered to, as best I could. If one of the two (or in rare cases, both) quail had dropped, I’d call to Ben, “Dead bird, Ben. Dead bird.” He’d crisscross in front of me, nose to the ground, find and pick up the dead bird, and bring it to me.

Next, I’d walk toward where the singles scattered into the woods. They would often go for thick cover. “Hunt close, Ben.” He’d stay close, and we’d hope to come upon a single or two, or maybe three, with him freezing within a few feet of the bird or birds, so that I could, heart thumping wildly again, kick it up, and shoot. Approaching Ben on a point was intensely satisfying. We’d probably be alone and he would hold perfectly, waiting for me. We worked together with unspoken expectations. After an episode like this, I’d realize anew that I needed no human being with me on a bird hunt.

Ben loved his job. One day I was changing the oil in my car in the backyard. When he saw the open hood, thinking it was hunting time, he jumped up on the engine, realized his mistake, and hopped down.

Around home were neighboring farms with chickens roaming free. When Ben and I crossed a yard or a field near a farm, he’d show an inclination to go for a chicken. After all, what’s a chicken but a giant quail that you can catch? The first few times he chased a chicken I beat his ass with a switch, and he learned not to chase chickens. Same with rabbits. After a few training sessions, he’d walk through a yard of chickens and know to stick close to me.

Don’t chase those chickens, they ain’t what you’re looking for.

I have many Ben hunting stories. Once I shot a bird that, only wounded, ran into a large hole near a big oak tree root. Ben ran to the hole, sniffed, and then disappeared into the opening. I looked in and couldn’t see him. I called his name. Silence. Suddenly he emerged with the bird in his mouth. Another time, late in his life, on a Florida hunt with several seasoned dogs of Uncle Bob’s, he found eight of the day’s twelve coveys. Given the strong talents of the other dogs, this was the equivalent of a couple of grand slams. I was proud of him, often talked about him to friends, girlfriends, anybody with whom I discussed home. Where I was known, Ben was known. I loved to show him off. Uncle Bob would ask, “Where’s that barrel-chested handsome bastard?”

When I left home for the Air Force in 1966, my parents and six-year-old Ben moved to a house without a dog pen. My father, because of the onslaught of emphysema, was unable to hunt much, and Ben became an almost full-fledged family member. Overseas, in the mail, I’d get photo after photo of Ben.
My song, “Bird Dog Ben,” ends like this (slow and lazy tempo, still):
I had to go away and stay for several years.
When I got back, this is what they told me, I couldn’t believe my ears.
(The tempo picks up.)
Bird Dog Ben got lonesome andstarted to chase them chickens.
Farmer John got mad, I’ll shoot that dog, he said.
Bird Dog Ben got too close to Farmer John’s back porch.
Farmer John shot him dead.

Then a slower ending with this tag:
A difficult question I’d liketo ask you if I can,
Which is worse—a chicken-chasing dog, or a bird-dog-shooting man?

I was stationed in Thailand when, in a letter from my parents, I got the news of Ben’s death. They didn’t tell me who’d shot him, but they let me know there was no argument against the shooting—he’d been shot in somebody’s chicken pen. I sort of wanted to know who’d done it, but I never asked. Having recently, in 2009, lost a chicken to a neighbor’s dog, I kind of understand. Back then, everybody in the community kind of understood. I’m sure Mama did.