Bill Marchel: Good dog doesn't mean perfect dog

BRAINERD - Last week my dog Axel, a male Deutsch Drahthaar, turned 11 years -old.

Axel is my fourth dog, and his birthday reminded me about times I've shared, good and bad, with him and his past "brothers."

My first dog was a German shorthaired pointer named Jake. He was followed by Ace, a German wirehaired pointer. Then came Viking, also a German wirehaired pointer, and finally Axel.

All were good dogs (have you ever heard of a hunting dog owner with a lousy dog?), but each had his quirks. If the four dogs could have talked, they probably would have said the same about me.

Of the four dogs, most of the horror stories that come to mind involved Viking.

Viking was a bit of a misfit from the beginning since he had not a wirehair on his body. In fact, his solid brown coat was so short he was always mistaken for a German short-haired pointer.

But beneath that brown hair was a body built to run. Viking bound through the woods and fields with the speed and grace of a deer. He was 80 pounds of solid muscle. A Manitoba farmer on whose land we often hunted said "now that's a barrel-chested son of a gun" when he first met Viking.

Viking was a nervous sort, and idle time was not to his liking.

I'll always remember a stunt Viking pulled while a friend and I were on a hunting trip in Manitoba. It was the last day of our hunt, and since we had a long drive home ahead of us, we had slept in until about 8 a.m. Upon rising, we packed our gear.

At that time I had two dogs, Viking and Ace. "I'll leave the dogs here and we will pick them up after breakfast," I had said.

When we left the motel, Viking was lying on one bed, and Ace was on the other. Both animals were, well, dog tired following our five-day hunt, and as we drove past our motel room window I noted they seemed content as they watched us leave.

A short time later, we returned to motel, and as we pulled up to park I could see the pair of dogs through the window. "Uh oh," I said. "Look at Viking."

During our absence, Viking had chewed the bedspread, ultimately leaving a gaping hole about 2 feet in diameter. He had then hopped over to the other bed, hoping maybe the maneuver would somehow shift the blame to Ace.

I gathered the tattered bedspread under one arm and walked to the motel checkout counter. "Add this to my bill," I said to the clerk as I flopped the chewed blanket onto the desk. The clerk replied, "Don't you feed your dog?"

Another of Viking's famous blunders occurred in front of a crowd at Game Fair, the outdoor hunting show held each summer at Armstrong Ranch in Anoka. I was talking with Ron Schara, the well-known television host of Minnesota Bound and former outdoors columnist for this newspaper. Viking was pulling on his leash, trying to sniff what I assume was the aroma left by a female dog. Schara suddenly looked down and said, "Your dog is lifting his leg." At that instant I felt a warm sensation on my ankle. Later, only a few people asked why I wore one yellow sock.

Viking has been gone for 10 years. Even though he was annoying at times, I always admired his tenacity.

He, like my other three dogs, was very special in his own way.