I assured Jim that I knew exactly what
he meant, then reminded him that I had been talking up his owning
a gun dog for some years.
"I know you have," he admitted, "and now I'm
going to do something about it. But I'm going with an English
pointer. Flushing dogs, like yours, don't do much for me."
Jim started obliterating a wet spot on the bar, rubbing it mindlessly
with his forefinger, making a rhythmic, aggravating squeak before
he outlined his thoughts-such as they were.
Once he had the spot dry and, thankfully, squeakless, he said,
"I plan to get a finished dog, a mature dog, with all of
its training in place. I don't have the time or know-how to work
a pup or even a well-started youngster. And I'm not afraid of
putting some bucks into a good dog. So, how about laying out
for me your best guess of the price tag?"
I told him that he was looking at at least $4,000, and more likely
as high as $6,000 or $7,000, for a well-bred, professionally
finished English pointer from a big-name trainer.
"I can do that," Jim pushed in quickly. "Actually,
I thought I'd have a bit more than that in up-front cost."
I assured him that he would, indeed, have "a bit more than
that in up-front cost." I reminded him that because he had
hunted with me for so many years, he had absolutely no equipment
beyond his hunting clothes and a shotgun-no dog gear at all,
not even a basic lead. He would have to buy everything.
"How bad could it be?" Jim asked, raising his eyebrows,
with the merest hint of a question mark in his tone. "All
we're talking about is some simple stuff, like a collar and a
box of biscuits. Right?"
|
Then he said, "grab that napkin and make
up a list, including the dog, of what I'll need to get started.
Better yet, break it down into itemized costs-and a total-for
the first year." If he was nothing else, Jim was a banker,
methodical about money.
He called the bartender and asked for a pen, then ordered another
round. I got the feeling that the new-dog idea wasn't developing
to his taste.
When my list reached the bottom of the napkin, Jim leaned over
for a glance at it, then lurched back on his stool and took a
deep, half-choking swallow of beer.
My divorce didn't cost me that much.
"What
the hell are you doing?" he asked in a low, beer-strangled
voice. "My divorce didn't cost me that much. Well, that's
not true, but you're already up in five figures-over $11,000,
if I read that right and we're talking about a dog here."
Jim grabbed the napkin for a closer look.
"Travel crates, outdoor kennel-oh, my God-necessary equipment,
vet bills"- at health care, he let out another long groan"and
food. Dog food?" Customers turned and stared at him when
he yelled, "Over a year, I don't spend that much on my own
meals."
Jim moved rapidly down the list, eyes following finger through
each item. When he reached $1,800 for three months of tune-up
with the pro trainer, his face turned red as revenge, his entire
body tightened, and he stress-farted violently - at once attracting
customer attention. Given the pressure of the moment, it was
a forgivable social error.
"Why do I have to take the dog back to the trainer?"
he asked, in a |
near-whimper. "If I follow my schedule,
I'll have had him just six or seven months! Where's the need
if he's already trained?"
I explained to Jim that because I knew him so well, I was confident
a few months was more than enough time for him to completely
screw up even a nicely finished pointer. I knew, for a fact,
that if he hoped to hunt the dog with any success during the
next bird season, it would have to return to the trainer for
a major overhaul. And it would have to return every year.
Jim's elbows were back on the bar, his head was back in his hands,
and his eyes were again looking for answers in the now very empty
beer mug.
There was one more thing that he needed, I told him. Something
that he could not do without.
"Go ahead," he muttered, "one more piece of gear
can't make much of a difference."
Don't be too sure about that, I said, then wrote in particularly
large letters, Sport Utility Vehicle-$30,000. Jim had forgotten
that the only vehicle he owned was a snazzy, two-seater, a ground-hugging
sports car that couldn't make it over a curb, let alone cut it
in the field or serve as transport for a high-powered pointer.
At least a minute passed before Jim let go of his head, dropped
his arms to the bar, turned to me, and - with considerable gravity
in his voice-said, "You know, the more I think about it,
the more I realize just how much I've enjoyed hunting with you
and your flushers for all of these seasons. How long has it been?
Must be at least fifteen years."
Then he wadded up the cost-list napkin; flashed a wide, toothy
smile; and put his arm around my shoulder before going on. "It
seems criminal to break up a fine bird- |
