 
My attention was directed toward this particular hunter because I had seen him down fifteen birds, three more than the legal limit, and he had just shot another. Belle, then my sidekick for almost six years, had been in the bottom of that ditch with me whining and squirming with excitement at the sound of each shot. She was raring to go forth and find something. Her official name was Southern Belle, and she was a Boykin spaniel. Of course, I thought Belle was the prettiest and smartest Boykin spaniel alive. The first of the breed materialized around 1900 in Spartanburg, South Carolina. Legend has it that the first small brown dog was found wandering near a Methodist or a Presbyterian church—though some have said that given how much Boykins love the water, the dog had to be Baptist. Regardless of the possibilities of its quest for spiritual nourishment, that little brown pup was passed to L. Whitaker “Whit” Boykin, who lived near Camden, South Carolina. Boykin spent years developing the eponymous breed by introducing similarly colored spaniels as well as a Chesapeake Bay retriever into the line. In acknowledgment of its South Carolina origins, the Boykin spaniel was proclaimed the state dog by a legislative act in 1985. In my job as a South Carolina game warden, Belle was my constant companion on land and water, in all states of weather, and at all hours. If you saw me, you saw her. After that much time together, we were on the same wavelength—she could anticipate what I wanted and I knew when she wanted to play, needed a pat, required a pit stop, or simply wanted to be left alone. Belle had played the “find the bird” game before and quickly got busy sniffing around the corn rows. After introducing myself to the hunter, I asked to see his gun, his hunting license, and his birds. As I was checking his gun for the plug, I noticed that he was keeping a vigilant eye on Belle, who with nose to the ground was working an ever-tightening circle. She located and picked up that last dove I had seen the hunter shoot and brought it over, still fluttering, and dropped it at my feet. The hunter became increasingly agitated as I counted out the birds from his hunting vest: twelve in all. As I was about to explain to him that he might have a slight problem with that last bird, Belle again began her circular sniffing pattern around the nearby cornstalks. When I saw the man actually begin sweating, I knew that I had a live one on hand. Seconds later, Belle scratched out of the earth three thinly covered and freshly killed doves, all of which she proudly brought over for my examination. This wasn’t the first time Belle had helped me do my job. I once stopped a crabber in Santee Pass behind Capers Island. I was busy checking the baskets of crabs stacked high in his boat to insure they were of legal size when Belle suddenly went on full alert mode, her nose high in the air. With no prompting from me, she leaped into the crabber’s boat and with studied determination muscled her way through a tangle of crab baskets until she was out of sight under the bow. She reappeared only moments later with a freshly shot, still-bleeding “out-of-season” raccoon firmly clenched in her jaw. Belle was also a good swimmer with a keen sense of direction in swift tidal waters. One night I was working surveillance on the Ashley River opposite the Charleston City Marina. Belle and I were tied up beside one of the darkened craft in the anchorage waiting for a boat suspected of illegal shrimp trawling. We waited, and waited, until finally Belle snorted next to my knee indicating a need for her to tend to some business onshore. I really didn’t want to move the boat for fear of being detected. I ignored several more snorts until she punched me in the side with her nose and snorted twice: her “can’t wait” signal. I reluctantly eased the boat up on the bank, and Belle disappeared over the bow into the darkness. At that very moment, the darkened silhouette of the suspect boat appeared from behind the marina seawall heading upriver. I didn’t want the culprits to get too far ahead of me. As long as they were heading to their destination, their concentration was forward, but as soon as they put the net over, they would begin looking over their shoulders. I had to act quickly. I called for Belle a few times and when she didn’t reappear, I had no choice but to leave without her, stranding her on the island. I followed the boat unseen some distance up the river and caught them in the act of trawling for shrimp at night in a restricted area. The ticket writing and the seizure of the violator’s boat and rigging took hours to complete, and when I came back to get Belle she was nowhere to be found. With a sinking feeling, I returned to the marina, figuring I would go back and find her in the morning. An old gentleman who frequented the docks was standing by the ramp. He reported that almost an hour before my return he had seen my dog swim up to the bottom of the ramp, shake off, and walk up into the parking lot. In the darkness of night Belle had crossed the entire width of the Ashley River against the tide and had swum around the seawall and through the busy marina. I walked to the far end of the parking lot where I had left my unmarked truck, and she nonchalantly came trotting out from underneath it, wanting a comforting pat. I’ve had other Boykins since that old girl’s demise, but it’s hard to forget her. She rode in my boat perched right up on the bow like the hood ornament on a Jaguar. She exemplified everything I ever expected in a dog. She retrieved everything I ever shot, slept at the foot of the bed with my bride and me, and helped to raise and protect my two girls. On those long patrols she was damned good company. |
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