Rich Landers: Hunters must pass farm dogs’ sniff test

Getting out of town to meet farmers and ranchers is one of the responsibilities and pleasures of being a sportsman. But before knocking on the door of a house or shop to ask permission to hunt or fish, you often must pass inspection of a dog.

From purebreds to mangy curs, farm dogs are among the most memorable characters you’ll meet in sparsely populated rural areas where high schools from as many as four small towns join ranks to field a six-man football team.

It is never immediately clear whether these furry gatekeepers are going to walk up and chomp on your hand or cozy up to your leg for a scratch. They range from fiercely territorial to being starved for affection.

My booklong list of interesting farm dog encounters includes a teeth-baring schnauzer, a butt-nipping border collie, an intimidating German shepherd that dares visitors to step out of their vehicles, and a lonesome Lab that cannot resist humping visiting bird dogs (especially fuzzy wirehairs).

Years ago, two dachshunds took a shine to me when I stopped at a Montana farmhouse seeking permission to hunt antelope. The wiener dogs followed as I hiked and even sneaked with me as I crawled over a ridge for a shot at a buck.

Being a pedigreed bird dog living on a farm can be bittersweet, as it was for Buddy, an Eastern Washington farmer’s French Brittany – a breed similar to my Brittany. Buddy, who was obsessed with pursuing game birds, could not cope with being held back, his freedom curtailed, as the farmer let Ranger and me park at his shop and walk into his farmland from there.

Within five minutes, Buddy found a way to break out of his pen and tracked Ranger and me into a field of tall grass. He did his own thing, finding and flushing a few pheasants until Ranger finally cornered one of the running birds and stuck a point. When I flushed and shot the rooster, Buddy saw his moment in the spotlight. He showed us who owned the place by sprinting and beating Ranger to the dead bird. Buddy took charge, proudly retrieving the pheasant directly to my hand.

And then he took off to hunt on his own for the rest of the morning.

I have a tense friendship that seems to be on a perpetual trial basis with a Dobermann-Rottweiler on an Eastern Oregon farm I get to hunt once a year. He does not bark. He doesn’t need to. He asserts his authority by emerging from nowhere at a trot before stopping 10 feet away with eyes riveted on the visitor. He says everything that needs to be said with his powerful jaws and 100 pounds of sculpted, rock-hard muscles accentuated by a glistening two-tone brown coat. I’d be more relaxed in a room with Hannibal Lecter.

In contrast, a Palouse farm I visit has an affable 60-pound dog of questionable lineage and matted hair that has never been washed. She is famous for distracting hunters with hand licking and tail wagging. But the uninitiated soon find out that she will dash into a vehicle through any open door and refuse to come out of the rig without a fight.

“My best farm dog story is the border collie along the Snake River that loved to swim after fly lines,” said retired Spokane fly -fishing guide G.L. Britton. “He guarded his run with the same zeal as an Olympic swimmer. When he came over the bank – fishing was over at that location!”

“Love those farm dogs,” said Mike Sanders, a Spokane hunter with a Labrador retriever. “Most haven’t had a bath for a while and leave a film on you if you touch them. Quirky personalities and obsessive traits. Very territorial and like to test you. But once they decide you’re OK, they won’t leave you alone.”

Sanders and I were having a short chat about dogs when we realized we share some similar experiences growing up in small towns, working part time at farms during high school, dealing with farm dogs – and dating the farmers’ daughters.

I said, “Bringing those farm girls home from a dance an hour after curfew was fraught with risk, as I recall.”

Said Sanders, “Of course the farm dogs would rat you out and sound the alarm as soon as you pulled into the driveway, leaving you torn between trying to get a good-night kiss or just doing a drive -by and getting the heck outta there.”

His scariest encounter occurred when he stopped at a farm to ask permission to hunt. He was out of his rig and vulnerable when he was confronted by a huge wolf dog that was chained to a cable run out of a doghouse the size of an equipment shed.

“The apparent dinosaur bones scattered about had my attention,” he said. “I tried to sneak around it to get to the front door, but that chain and cable had more reach that expected. Fortunately, the huge wolf that came trotting out of the shed was super friendly and gave me and my friend an affectionate mauling.”

Recently while hunting in Montana, I was invited to camp in the back of my pickup next to a shop near a farmer’s house. Surrounded by fields of alfalfa and wheat and a pasture holding six testy Angus bulls, the grounds are patrolled by a perky pint-size Yorkshire terrier named Cooper, who keeps an eye on EVERYTHING.

Four times larger but definitely second-in-charge is Cooper’s aging buddy, Sparky, a 40-pound black mutt. Sparky is nearly deaf. His spine is crooked, and he moves stiffly like an old bull rider having survived coyote attacks, badger charges, cow stomps and being run over by farm vehicles. He is a classic.

Within one hour, the resident dogs had anointed the four tires on my pickup and run off with a dead Hungarian partridge I had set on the tailgate to clean.

Within a day, they had set the program for their visitors. Cooper and Sparky would paw at my mudflaps before sunrise each morning until Ranger and I crawled out of our sleeping bag. They loved to join us in the darkness for that first walk of the day, protecting us by barking and bluff charging at whatever might be lurking in the shadows beyond the yard light. They made a game of immediately marking and establishing ownership of any place Ranger peed or pooped.

The Yorkie sometimes followed us out hunting. Although he was more interested in mice and grasshoppers, Cooper occasionally backed Ranger when he stuck a point on Huns during exercise romps around the farmhouse shelterbelt.

Cooper and I got along very well after I learned that I could not put anything on the ground outside my pickup. Water jugs, coolers, guns, boots – all will be anointed and claimed by the assertive little Yorkie with the megabladder.

On the farm, the farm dogs make the rules.