Pablo

The dog box door flew open with an energy that made the truck shake. That was Pablo. He wasn't just a dog; he was a physical force looking for a place to collide with a scent.

If you've been around pointing dogs long enough, you have likely experienced a Pablo. He is the living embodiment of the debate that keeps experienced handlers and newbie hunters in constant argument: natural ability versus training.

The Genetic Lottery

Everyone has an opinion on the matter, and most of us feel pretty strongly about it. On one side of the fence, some believe great dogs are simply born—biological masterpieces—and the rest are just machines: functional but nondescript. On the other side are those who believe that with enough time, pressure, and the right program, you can forge greatness out of almost any dog.

But let's be honest: most of us don't have the time, the financial resources, the knowledge, or the stamina to play the time game. We can't afford to cycle through dozens of prospects hoping to win the genetic lottery. Instead, we put our faith in a handful of quality breeding programs that have proven genetics, disposition, and style.

I recently asked a veteran handler what he looks for in a young dog. Without hesitation, he cited drive as the top characteristic. But as he spoke, it was style that brought that unmistakable twinkle to his smile. When I pressed him on conformation and other key attributes, he simply shrugged and said, "You can't have it all."

After a lifetime of hunting behind pointing dogs, I've realized he's right. I don't need perfection in every metric; I want drive that ends up in a photo moment.

The Pablo Experience

Pablo has 10x drive. When you saddle him up and watch him devour a field or a woodlot, you understand his purpose in life. "Damn" is the only comment or compliment you hear from anyone seeing him for the first time.

But these high-drive, stylish dogs are not for everyone. They force you to ask the hard questions: Is he hunting for you, or is he hunting for himself?

You stand in the silence of the woods, staring at your handheld. Where the hell is he, and what do those electronics say? "Damn."

Frustration and disbelief at modern tech quickly turn into the old-school reality of whistles and yelling. Your ego is on display. "Damn."

Then, a flash of white and liver through alders allows you to correct your course. Suddenly, you see it: a neck-breaking pivot on a pair of birds, executed with breathtaking style. "Damn."

The Middle Ground

The truth about God-given talent or fine-tuning the perfect dog lives somewhere in the middle. We want the wild heart of the predator tempered by the acknowledgment that he is part of the hunting party.

You can't train the photo moment into a dog that doesn't have the soul for it, but you can't harvest the birds without the handle. In the end, we keep looking for the Pablos of the world—the ones who make us yell, make us sweat, and ultimately, make us marvel.

Damn!