Where's the Dog? Bells, Beepers, and the GPS

To train a pointing dog is to enter into a contract with frustration and beauty; if you’ve spent any real time on upland birds, you’ve lived every word of this story. I did a lot of yelling back in the day. I mimicked what I saw more experienced trainers do, applied what I read in books, and tried to be independent with my approaches. Looking back, I think I believed that by simply raising my voice, the puppy would finally understand I was serious.

I was limited to the backyard for my drills. We had no pigeons then; I never really knew why they worked or how they became a staple. To me, a novice, trapping a bird that lives under bridges to train a sophisticated pointing dog seemed almost taboo. But the history of the homing pigeon is the secret backbone of upland tradition. In the early days, my backyard drills were a testament to discipline—or at least my attempt at it. We focused on the yard work: the steady whoa, the heel, and then fetch. We used a pheasant wing from the previous season tied to the end of a fly rod and canvas bumpers scented with Cabela's game oils, trying to convince a wound-up pup that a piece of plastic was just as exciting as a wild woodcock.

Long before we had remote-controlled launchers or easy access to game birds, pigeons were the poor man’s substitute. The hobby began as an organized sport in Belgium during the early 1800s, and by the time it reached the United States, trainers realized they had found the perfect tool. They needed a bird durable enough for frequent handling, yet reliable enough to hold a point. Culls from racing lofts were ideal; their homing instinct allowed them to be reused indefinitely. Eventually, pointing dog clubs established their own lofts, transforming the lowly pigeon into an essential partner.

I eventually gained access to these birds, cutting my teeth by netting them from the pens and loading them into wood-and-wire crates. We transported them to an abandoned, overgrown airstrip—an old regional airport with a single runway just long enough for small two-seaters. I never saw it as a functional operation, but I spent years shooting clay targets and training dogs along the edges of its decaying asphalt.

One or two of these birds went into the bag around my neck, while others were dizzied and tucked under clumps of crabgrass. Between adding live scent to a game of hide-and-seek, startling the pup with an unexpected toss of a pigeon from my bag, and offering praise when they stayed steady, it was first-class training. If the dog messed up, the pigeon simply flew back to the coop, ready to teach the lesson again tomorrow. Those pigeons provided the one thing a backyard drill never could: the raw scent and the frantic wingbeat of a semi-wild bird.

It is amazing when a well-bred dog, even one trained only in a backyard, locks down and holds point on its first wild bird. Around here, we had woodcock, pheasant, grouse, and small coveys of quail. Whether it was a drive toward the Cape or up into the New England hills, the "real thing" was always waiting. Being a bird hunter back then was special because everything was “in play.” My hunting vest held a row of #6 shot for pheasant, #7 1/2 for grouse, and #9s for woodcock. Looking at old photos confirms we achieved a true cornucopia of bag limits.

However, pride, ego, and limited hunting time often led to mistakes once wild birds were introduced. Chaos ensued when I introduced my hunting partners, who were often more interested in the kill than the dog’s continued education. Looking back, I realize I did a disservice to my dogs by failing to instill strict rules for the woods. We committed what felt like upland heresy: shooting at non-pointed, bumped birds and yelling conflicting commands. Sometimes partners would even drift off to hunt alone because they thought they knew where the birds were better than the dog did. My God, I didn’t just need a backyard regime for the dogs; I needed one for my partners. Eventually, everyone at camp would buy their own version of an upland dog—some suited more for the couch than the field—but they did their best and finally began to understand the “wingman’s” role in a dog’s success.

While many trainers use whistles, I never did. I prefer a bell and the constant awareness of where the dog is in relation to the hunting line. The issue with a bell is that it can only be heard when the dog is moving, typically within a 30-yard range. Once they are out of range, the bell fails, and the yelling begins. I’d find myself hollering for the dog to “come around” back to the line—a command, I realize now, that was never actually part of our initial training. When the bell stopped, you knew you had to get ready—it meant the dog was on point.

But where the hell was the dog?

In our thicker cover, the beeper collar eventually made a lot of sense. The cadence could be set as a locator, shifting to a steady, rhythmic beat the moment the dog locked on point. But many in the community dislike beepers, questioning whether the noise alerts the birds. It wasn't until later in life that I hunted with a GPS collar. For someone who needs strong reading glasses, it is sometimes difficult for me to see the screen, but it assured the hunting line that we were under control. It gave me peace of mind, having lost a few dogs in my day, sometimes for multiple days. Running quieter made intuitive sense, but it is so hard to relinquish control to technology. The dogs seem to roam more, and without a bell or beeper, it is hard to really know what they are doing. It is the ultimate test of whether you believe you trained your dog well enough to respond to your softened voice commands.

Most of our dogs today are raised as part of the family, socialized and taught to behave reasonably around the dinner table. We often let them out into the backyard to investigate the things they barked at while inside, and it is remarkable how well they listen in that familiar setting. This communication bond is exactly what we desire out in the field, miles away from the home turf, yet there is always that lingering frustration. I know they understand what I want, but for some reason, in the heat of the hunt, it doesn't always happen. Perhaps the final lesson isn't for the dog, but for me; maybe I need to trust more and display the same patience in the alders that I do at the kitchen door.