Using Dogs to "Toll" Ducks

By George L. Hopper

Of all the Chesapeake Bay retrievers, or any other kind of retrievers, it has been my pleasure to shoot over. Old Bob of Spesutia Island stands out, in my personal recollections, the peer of them all. He was a most perfect specimen of the rough or curly-coated dog. His outer coat was curled and twisted as close and as tight as the wool on a Guinea native’s head. It felt to the hand like the wool of a Merino sheep; in color like the sands on the shore. And he weighed about 80 pounds.

At tolling Old Bob was unexcelled. We would saunter along the shore of the island until we located a raft of ducks within a half mile of shore. If conditions were favorable we would hide behind an old log or a pile of driftwood, as nearly opposite the ducks as possible. Bob was then coaxed into the hiding place and a red bandana, borrowed from old Aunt Melissa for the occasion, was made fast about midship of Bob’s tail. 

When the bandana was made fast and secure, out would bound Old Bob, delighted to begin tolling. He would begin about 50 yards above or below us, running- belly deep in the surf, barking at the top of his voice, then turn at about 50 yards, keeping up the performance until the ducks’ attention was attracted. As the ducks swam in towards the shore Bob worked back upon the shore until he was to our rear some 10 or 15 yards, always on the bounce and barking as loud as he could. I have seen the ducks come in to the very edge of the surf, then, with a steady rest and an aim that never failed, we would knock over five or six at a shot, sometimes more. At the crack of the gun Old Bob would rush into the water and grab the cripples. It mattered not how many you knocked over, the cripples received his first attention. We would gather up the ducks as Bob brought them to us and then move on until we located another raft of ducks at a favorable distance from shore. Thus we would continue until we became so tired and hungry we would have tried to eat a duck fried in coal tar. With the gun stock strained almost to the breaking point by the weight of the ducks, we would homeward plod our weary way, hungry and tired, but oh! how proud and happy. Would that such happiness could always be continued until we pass over the Great Divide into the Happy Hunting Grounds. 

Old Bob was raised and owned by Colonel Ned Mitchell, one of God’s noblemen, standing six feet seven inches in his stocking feet, a big man in every way the term may be applied; hospitable, kind and indulgent to a fault towards any boy coming to the island for a day’s outing, fishing, crabbing and to shoot ducks and snipe. He could mix a mint julep which would make you virtuous and happy and teach you to speak the truth, especially when describing the largest fish which always gets away. Woodcock and quail could be found in goodly numbers, too, during their respective seasons.

“Can Bob go with us, Mr. Mitchell! “ was always the first demand upon the Colonel’s hospitality.

“Why, certainly, take Bob along with you, boys! You can’t get your ducks without Bob.”

Old Bob would give you a very friendly recognition at the sight of the gun on your shoulder. But you might coax until you were blue in the face, not a step would he go beyond that gate, to which he had accompanied you as gallantly as the Colonel himself always did, upon your departure for home, after a pleasant and successful outing at the Middle Island Farm. Bob would sit by the gate, and if you

attempted to tie a rope about his neck he would let you know by unmistakable signs that he would regard it as a personal insult and treat you accordingly. The only thing you could do was to inform the Colonel that Bob refused to go. What a pleased look would encompass that big, kindly and honest old face when you informed him that Bob refused to go with you. The Colonel would then come out on the porch and laughingly call out:  “Bob, come here a minute ! Why don’t you go along down to the shore with the boys and help them to get some ducks?”

The Colonel’s request was sufficient. Out the gate Old Bob would bound, as much pleased as we were, and would stay with us from daybreak to dark. I have seen him on such occasions follow a crippled duck so far into that bay it became difficult to distinguish which was the dog’s head and which the duck, as they arose and disappeared from the rolling waves. We would become alarmed, fearing he might become exhausted by following the duck such a great distance, then we would fire our gun, a signal he never failed to answer promptly by returning ashore. 

This story originally appeared in American Field Magazine, 1903.