Dorm manager hunts with masterful dog

The hunter lost sight of his dog. “You see him?” Troy asked his hunting partner, Tom. Emmett is Troy Wood’s hunting dog. Troy trained him as a puppy.

Emmett has proved to be a master hunter, the highest honor for a hunting dog, and is one of the best hunters in Indiana. “No,” Tom said. “Can’t hear him neither.”

Emmett’s collar has a bell attached. When the dog moves, the bell sounds.

“Maybe he’s pointing,” Troy said softly. He scratched his thick red beard peppered with gray hair. The midday sun was bright, reflecting off Troy’s sunglasses.

When a dog finds a bird covey, or group of birds, it points.

When pointing, the dog becomes still. All its muscles tense. It becomes like a statue.
Troy’s eyes scanned the hunting grounds for Emmett. The two men walked along with

Troy’s other hunting dog, Sally, following along.

“Got him,” Troy could see Emmett pointing.

“Sally, whoa,” Troy commanded his other dog to stay as he and Tom investigated Emmett’s target.

“You stay there,” Troy said to Tom. “I’ll go in.” Troy went into the brush, while Tom waited.

“Ready?” Troy asked. For the first time since they found Emmett pointing, Troy and Tom made eye contact.

Ever since Troy was young, this is what he dreamed of. Hunting with his dogs, tracking birds and shooting them.

He started his dream with Mack, his previous hunting dog. Now he’s continuing the dream with Emmett.

His relationship with Emmett is everything. Troy has spent hundreds of hours training Emmett and strengthening their bond.

That day was like so many others. Hunt. Aim. Kill.

“Ready,” Tom said, putting his shotgun to his shoulder.

***

There are only 20 to 30 master hunter dogs in the state of Indiana, Troy said. Emmett is one of them.

When Emmett points, he stands with his body perfectly tense. He’s always had a confident stance, Troy said.

“He looks real good.”

Emmett came from breeder Tim Conley, who runs Montgomery Creek Farm in Knightstown, Ind. The German Shorthair’s full name is Emmett Von Montgomery Creek.

When Troy decided he wanted a dog, he trusted Tim to find the best pup in the litter.
“He didn’t care what color it was, or whether it was a boy or a girl,” Tim said. “He wanted the best.”

So Tim studied the pups. To test the newborns, Tim would throw out a frozen quail and see which dog would emerge and be “king of the hill.”

“Emmett would always end up with that bird,” Tim said. “All the puppies would chase him around and try to get that from him.”

They never got the bird from Emmett. Troy purchased him for $750, the best hunting dog he’d ever owned.

But Emmett has faults. When he hunts, Emmett struggles with retrieving. When a bird is shot down, the dog is supposed to find the carcass.

Troy sternly pressured his dog. Emmett used to be better at retrieving, but Troy said now the dog thinks too much and gets nervous.

Tom said to Troy, “I don’t think he likes being away from you.”

***

On the hunting grounds, Troy crept through the brush, gun in hand. His aim was to flush out the hiding quail. Tom was ready nearby with a gun of his own.

The birds flew out of the brush. Troy and Tom raised their guns and shot at the fleeing flock.

The 30 or so birds flew straight, hugging the tree line. Troy shot one, but trees blocked Tom’s shot.

“I’m sorry, dude,” Troy said. Tom couldn’t get a shot off.
“No other way you coulda done it,” Tom said. “I saw them land up there.” He pointed to the left. “Behind those trees.”

“Alright,” Troy yelled to his dogs. The command released them from their frozen stances. Emmett and Sally sprinted forward, noses glued the ground, looking for the quail.

A few minutes later, they lost Emmett again.

“I bet he’s sittin’ on a covey,” Tom said, thinking the dog was pointing. The brush was high, seven feet in some places, so it was easy to lose track of a brown dog barely more than two feet tall.

“Got him,” Troy said. He found Emmett pointing again.

A group of quail flew up before the men were set. One flew close to Tom.

He shot, but the birds escaped. It had been an easy shot, Tom just whiffed.

“How the fuck did I miss that one?” he asked himself.

“Can’t believe you missed that one, dude,” Troy said.

***
Both hunters and their dogs suffer cuts, nicks and bruises while hunting. It’s a rough sport.

“It’s like jacking off a wildcat in a phone booth,” Tom said.

Their hunting grounds, at Goose Pond Fish & Wildlife Area, an hour southwest of Bloomington, were no exception.

Troy rolled his ankle stepping into a hidden hole. Emmett’s snout was bright red from cuts from the sharp brush. Scars from previous hunts are under the fresh wounds.

Later in the day Troy pulled his groin.

But he and Emmett kept hunting.

Dogs and their owners have a special bond, obvious only when they hunt together.

Emmett and his hunting companion Sally are both German Shorthaired Pointers. It’s a breed that has hunted for thousands of years, but they aren’t just hunters to Troy and his wife, Angela Wood.

They’re an integral part of home life, too.

“Most people who have hunting dogs don’t consider them pets,” Angela said. “But we do.”

Every night, Emmett climbs up in bed with Troy and Angela, as their former dog Mack once did.

When Troy, 42, isn’t hunting, he runs Wright Quad at IU. He’s residence manager, the boss.

Until he was 30 years old, Troy couldn’t have dogs because he lived on IU’s campus. He always wanted his own hunting dogs. So when he moved to his current home in Martinsville, he bought Mack, his first hunting dog.

Mack was the first dog Troy ever trained. Now he implements what he learned from Mack when training Emmett, his prize-winning dog.

Emmett is well-trained but makes mistakes. He might think there’s a covey and point to a location with no birds. Sometimes he accidentally eats a bird.

“There are no guarantees in hunting,” Tom said. “You want guarantees, go to the grocery store.”

Emmett is Troy’s most talented and patient dog.

Patience is a key attribute. Dogs can go hours without pointing.

But they won’t stop hunting.

At the end of one long day of hunting, Troy had to pick up and lift Mack into the truck.

He just wouldn’t stop hunting. But when Troy got home, he had to carry his dog into the house. Mack was too exhausted to move.

“Once they smell a bird, nothing else matters,” Tom said. “It’s their life.”

***

These hunting grounds were a gold mine for quail. They hadn’t seen quail for the first few hours, but now they were shooting every couple of minutes.

This time, Sally was pointing.

Troy told Emmett to whoa, and Tom flushed the quail out.

The covey dispersed. The birds flew up in the air. Tom aimed left, Troy aimed right.

Troy shot one. “You get one?” he asked Tom.

“Nicked one,” Tom said. The wounded bird flew into the brush 20 feet to the men’s left, near a creek. It was thick, hard to traverse.

“I’m going in,” Troy said, with Emmett following.

Bird wings fluttered and the shots from Troy’s gun echoed through the grounds.
Tom waited a second before asking, “Get him?”

“Got him.”

“Nice.”

The bird landed across the creek, but it was too deep for Troy to cross.

Troy was afraid to take his eyes off the spot where the bird landed. It’s easy to lose birds in the brush.

Emmett waded through the water to find the dead bird.

“Find your bird,” Troy told Emmett in a voice higher than normal. It sounded like he was talking to a child.

Emmett found the bird, put it in his mouth and went back across the creek to Troy. But when Emmett came back, there was no bird.

“Did he eat that?” Troy was upset with his dog.

“No no no!” Troy yelled at his dog. With every sharp “no” came a smack on the snout.
“I can’t believe he ate that,” Troy said, still in disbelief.

Troy and Emmett came out of the brush. Troy was mad.

He grabbed Emmett by the snout, and put his face right up against his dog’s, making Emmett look him in the eye.

“You do that again I’ll beat your ass,” he said. He let go of Emmett, and turned to Tom.

“I can’t believe he ate that.”

***

Mack was starting to get old and had been into the doctor before. The vets discovered a tumor on his leg.

“They said it was no big deal,” Troy said. “Then it got bigger. Then it was a big deal.”

It became clear something was wrong one night when Troy and Angela were watching Monday Night Football.

Mack had wet the bed, and the dog didn’t even know it.

“It was a puddle about this big,” Troy made a circle two feet in diameter with his arms.
The cancer had spread to his bladder, he couldn’t control it anymore.

“We knew he was declining,” Angela said.

It was time. Mack had to be put down.

The following Friday, Troy took Mack to Glenn’s Valley, the place he trained Mack.

Their veterinarian appointment was one of the last that day.

Mack went for one last run through the valley.

Troy had already dug the grave, across the road. He was ready. He was giving Mack one last chance to be a dog. One last chance to do what he was bred for: running and jumping and hunting.

After 30 or 45 minutes, Troy loaded up Mack and drove to the clinic.

He remembers a lady in the waiting room saying Mack looked handsome.

“I almost lost it at that point,” Troy said.

Troy and Mack were called into the room. Troy put Mack’s head on his shoulder, so their faces were next to one another.

Behind Troy’s back, the technician inserted the needle.

Mack’s eyelids fell. After two breaths, with his head still on Troy’s shoulder, Mack died.

***

The sun was low over the hunting grounds. Emmett had stopped hunting altogether, too tired to continue. His snout was red and he had cuts all over his genitals.

“His little balls must be killing,” Tom said, pointing to the dog’s backside. “Look, they’re all bloody.”

Six hours passed since the hunt started. Troy and Tom shot eight quail. They’ll take only seven home, because of Emmett’s snack.

“I’ll put these in the crock pot,” Tom said.

The group neared Troy’s sliver GMC truck. Troy reached in his blue cooler and pulled out a McDonald’s breakfast burrito he bought that morning.

“For the dogs,” he said. He loaded them into the dog box, latched the door and threw each a piece.

“Well,” Troy said, looking at the remainder of the cold snack in his hand. “Can’t let this go to waste.”

He ate the rest of the nine-hour old burrito and uploaded his hunting pictures to Facebook. He and Tom would be back out at 9 a.m. the next day.

None of this would have happened if Troy hadn’t bought Emmett from Tim. Because of Emmett, Troy is able to live his dream.

Tim remembers the scene of Troy taking Emmett. Tim knew he found a good home for the pooch.

“When they drove away, I remember Emmett was curled up on top of Troy’s shoulder,” he said. “You knew they was gonna connect with one another.”

Emmett is only four years old. He’ll keep hunting with Troy for years to come.
And at the end of every hunting day, he’ll sleep by Troy’s side.

Follow reporter Evan Hoopfer on Twitter @EvanHoopfer.