Alan Liere: Gallinaceous Gallopings

For reasons known only to lexicographers and possibly grandmothers, many words in the English language mean the same thing. These are called synonyms. Some people think synonyms are unnecessary, but they abound in dictionaries and Thesauruses, and for that I’m thankful. Unlike most teenagers who can recycle a single utterance as a noun, verb, adjective or adverb, I like the plethora of different choices our language offers for saying what I mean. And as an outdoor writer, I use them all.

With a Thesaurus, I can choose from clamber, scramble, scale and shin to relate my ascent during a chukar hunt. I can use fall, buckle, bounce, tipple, plunge and roll to describe my descent. If I find my quarry somewhere between, they may erupt, explode, detonate or burst from cover and then fly, skim, sail, soar, zip, zoom or wing to safety. When I have emptied my shotgun without cutting a feather, I can curse, cuss, swear or scream unless I am in the presence of a genteel individual (highly unlikely) whereupon I will merely mutter, mumble or grouse.

I appreciate words. I like to roll around in them, take big bites and see how they feel and taste. Many famous people have said notable things about words, but I best like Mark Twain’s observation that “The difference between the right word and the almost right word is the difference between lightning and the lightning bug.”

Big words or unusual words are not necessarily better words, but they are fun to play with and sometimes allow us to let off steam without offending anyone. Normally, one would not tell his boss that his recalcitrant quail dog is portentous or insipid, but these words don’t sound too bad, and if the boss isn’t paying close attention, you’ll probably get away with it.

During his courting days, a friend of mine – a college lit professor – frequently hunted pheasants with his future father-in-law and the man’s fat, lazy pointer. One day when he could hold his tongue no longer, my friend told “Dad” his dog was “obtusely vapid.” Rather than be offended at the implication his dog was lacking spirit, the fellow puffed up like a drumming ruffed grouse and said, “Well thanks … but I gotta admit he seems a little faster than usual.”

Speaking of grouse, I become perplexed with words used to describe certain gallinaceous (resembling domestic fowl) birds. Pick up a dictionary and look up “grouse.” Now look up “partridge.” Synonyms, right? I have hunted ruffed, dusky, spruce, sharp-tailed and sage grouse. How many of these are also called “partridge?” That’s right – only the ruffed.

The ruffed grouse is also called a fool hen, but technically, only the spruce grouse belongs in this category. Most hunters in these parts feel a grouse that is so confiding it can be easily approached is a fool hen, and that includes the big dusky grouse of the mountain ridges. But it never includes the big sage grouse of the plains, which is also called a sage hen or chicken but is never called a partridge.

The chukar and the Hungarian (gray) complicate the picture further because while both are called partridge, neither is called a grouse. People called Hungarians live in central Europe and are of neither the grouse nor the partridge family. The Partridge Family, in fact, was not part of the partridge family. The last I heard, Danny Partridge was working for a radio station in Seattle. I doubt they’ll name a grouse after him. Then again, maybe they already have.