A Boy, a Lab, and a Model 97

By: Rod Luke

I heard the coffee cup “clink” as Pop laid it in the sink. He kissed momma, then his heavy footsteps headed down the stairs next to my bedroom. The front door hinges screeched like a red-tailed hawk at Pop’s exit. I listened as he walked down the snow covered sidewalk to “The Animal”, (the name he had given his pickup truck). The driver’s door groaned open and the unmistakable whine of the old Dodge starter screamed for a minute before the cold engine fired. While Pop began scraping the ice from his windshield, I lay in bed; fully dressed, praying he would hurry to work. Day light was burning and I had a plan for that Saturday morning. Finally his truck left the drive way and I sprung from my bed like a cat bit on the butt by a cattle-prod. Up the stairs I went, looked in on momma to be sure her routine hadn’t changed, and to my delight, she was doing the morning dishes, just like every morning of my 14 year life. I eased into dad’s gun closet and grabbed the faded red and black gun case. Quietly I headed down the stairs and into my bedroom. I unzipped the nearly worn out zipper of that weathered case, reached in and removed the most beautiful steel and wood I had ever seen. I could feel my young eyes light up at the thought of all the adventures that old Winchester model 97 must have been part of. “If only you could tell me your stories ole’ girl… Well, today it’s my turn to make an adventure with you. I saw a Rooster over by Mr. Heron’s old place from the school bus window yesterday, and I think he’ll be holding tight to the slough on this bitter morning”.

While I am confident Pop would have let me use his old 97 had I asked him, I couldn’t risk his rejection. I knew that old gun gripped a special place in his heart, as it was once his dad’s gun. Grandpa Luke was taken from us when I was but three years old. While I have but a few memories of him, Pop and everyone that knew him speaks of him as though he were a Saint. He was a soft spoken man, a bit shy, would do anything for a neighbor in need, and his love for the outdoors transcends his future generations. It was the thought of my grandpa’s, and my Pop’s adventures, that led me to the idea of sharing yet another generation with that old 97. I knew walking the pheasant fields carrying that gun, would somehow make me a part of its history, and I’d be in very good company.

I headed into the utility room and grabbed Pop’s hunting vest. I checked the elastic shell holders to find them full of Remington 12 gauge #6 shot. Perfect! As I headed for the back door, I passed by my own Winchester Model 12 sweet sixteen leaning in the usual corner. “Sorry ole’ buddy, but today I’m hunting with history”. Out the back door, the cold morning air nipped at my cheeks and nose. A violent shiver, a deep inhale then exhale forced steam from my lips and nose. A smile came as I thought to my self, “it is definitely going be a good day”. I looked over to the kennel to see the most beautiful picture a young boy could ever imagine. Sitting in the prone position was our handsome black Lab, “Teke”. Ears cocked, tail brooming the snow like he was making a dogs version of a snow angel, and those eyes, oh, those amazing eyes. Anyone who has dared gaze into the eyes of a Lab knows they can effortlessly peek into your soul.

I shuddered with excitement. “Ready boy”? He sees the gun as I pull it from behind the door. Teke barks as if to say “Hell Yeah”! I loose him from his chain and he greets me with a big wet lick to the face. “Easy boy, you’re going to get momma’s attention. She’ll surely have chores for me and then we can’t go”! It was like he understood me; he settled and sat looking up at me pitching his head from side to side like Lab’s do. Suddenly, I realize like most of my plans back then, I hadn’t quite thought the plan through. I stared down the road which was lined with homes on both sides and realized, if I head straight to Mr. Heron’s old place, I’d have to walk through the subdivision carrying a shot gun. Someone would surely get their undies in a bunch and I’d be in deep… snow. Hmmm, I look at Teke for inspiration… Teke turns, looks south at the railroad tracks next to our house. “That’s it! We’ll hunt the railroad tracks, go east down to the Lindberg Farm, head north up the creek bottom to the Con-rail tracks and hunt back west to Mr. Heron’s place. That’ll work, good idea Teke, lets go”!

As we hit the rails, I chambered a round and eased the hammer back to safe. The ease of the action sent goose bumps up my adolescent neck. The bleached barrel and receiver, the scarred stock, the worn serial number, all echoed the adventures of its past. I awed for a moment at the thought of grandpa and Pop taking bead under a pheasant, or a quail, or the occasional cotton-tail. My strides quickened as Teke and I headed east up the rails until we hit the creek bottom that bordered the Lindberg farm. Upon entry into the marshy bottom, ole’ Teke got birdie. My heart rate soared instantly and I startled at the “cackle” and the sound of wings, tail-feathers and grass exploding from just inches in front of me. Apparently, the ole gun was so well trained that it punched that old roosters’ time clock without any help from me. To this day I don’t ever remember jerking the hammer, shouldering, aiming or pulling the trigger. Some how, that old cock bird just exploded in mid-air, and fell to the earth with that unmistakable “thud” that Pheasants make. Teke pounced on the fallen bird and feverishly ran my direction. What a picture that would have made. The colors of gold, copper, green, red and brown tickled my eye as that slick black beast of a dog galloped to my side. “Release” I barked. Instantly Teke dropped the bird at my feet. “Good boy Teker - You’re a good boy”. I picked up the pheasant and admired his stunning beauty before placing him gently into the game pouch of my Pops hunting vest. The weight of the bird pulled the shoulder straps of the vest over and off my arms. Apparently, feeling as tall as my Pop wasn’t the same as actually being as tall.

After playing with the vest in an effort to keep it firmly gripping my shoulders, Teke and I headed up the creek-bottom. The big black Lab worked like any hard working, blue collared man I knew; and I knew plenty. His nose sifted the air like a panning screen meant to trap small slivers of gold. Back and forth he went, never farther off than I could shoot. His heavy tail swung like a pendulum as he picked up the scent of yet another game bird. Suddenly he froze with his head turned slightly to the left, his tail raced now as I proceeded in his direction. The half hearted “point” made me chuckle, “You’re supposed to be a flush dog, not a pointer”, I exclaimed. Teke suddenly inched forward and all hell broke loose from the fallen tree tops. FIVE, TEN, TWELVE, bob-white quail erupted from the tangle. BOOM, BOOM, went the old 97. Feathers floated softly on the light breeze as two broken “bobs” fell to the ground. Teke retrieved both birds and was instantly back to work. “Easy boy, we got all day”. I shoved three more shells into the gun and wished Pop had been there. Pop used to call me “two-shot” because I always missed my first shot with the ole sweet sixteen, but would decapitate the bird with the second round. “Three shots, three birds… it must be the gun”, I tell myself.

We finish our push to the Con-rail tracks without additional action. Going west down the rails, we finally make it to Mr. Herons place. A look over the slough seemed to beckon me with a welcome of amazing colors and sounds from the creek running down the middle of a cattail choked perimeter. Briar bush and marsh grass lined both banks of the creek. The far north end and the west side were cut corn fields at a slightly higher elevation. With a blanket of fresh snow, it looked like pheasant paradise in that little valley. With these bitter temperatures, that ole rooster had to be holed up in that slough. “Hunt Teke” I commanded, even though he was already working in front of me. It didn’t matter, that is what Pop always says before the push, and after all, I was wearing his vest, hunting his dog and working his gun. Using his jargon just seemed fitting.

After pushing north about ninety yards, Teke’s tail starts wagging uncontrollably. A burst of adrenalin punched my heart into overdrive as the Pheasant rose from beneath the snow covered briars. “HEN“, I yell as if I was hunting with someone besides Teke. Well taught lessons become habits that don’t retreat peacefully, even when they aren’t needed. I think I mumbled “knuckle-head”, punishing myself for my call-out of that hen as Teke and I continued our push up the slough. The bruise to my delicate ego was short lived though, Teke was getting birdie again, this time it had to be that old rooster I saw from the school bus window yesterday. Again the “cackle” startles me to reaction, but this time I remember jerking the hammer, shouldering the gun and watching the bird rise just above the front bead. BOOM, the 97 barks and a plume of feathers explodes in the air above me. Just as the birds “thud” reported, another “cackle”, a rush of feathers and a green and red head jetted upward from the snow next to the fallen rooster. The pump handle glides toward, then away from me in one fluid motion as the bead came to a rest just below the bird as he pitched heading straight way from me. Oh you didn’t! BOOM! Huh??? The long tailed rooster didn’t fall at the report; No way had I missed a bird going dead away from me! But I had in fact missed. Stunned, I pumped another shell into the chamber but it was too late. The big rooster had made it out of range and all I could do was watch him glide out of sight.

Ashamed, I looked over at Teke. By the look in his eyes and his casual posture, his head low, his slow walk back my direction, he too was ashamed of me. Then he walked over to the first bird and picked it up slowly and trotted back to my position. This time he didn’t drop the bird at my feet, he nudged my hand with it as if to say, “Take it and hold on tight, I don’t want this one to get away too”. I tucked the bird into the game pouch and tried to cheer Teke up. “Come on boy, I know where that old rooster landed, the day isn’t over yet”. That’s another thing I like about Labs, it doesn’t take much of a pep-talk to put them back in a good mood and ready to hunt. When we reached the far end of the slough, I was excited to see the cattails were bent in half and covered with snow. Perfect winter day cover for that old rooster to take shelter in. We hedge forward through the tangled stalks at a snails pace, due to the fact I couldn’t keep my balance in the tangled mess at my feet. Suddenly, I hear Teke’s tail beating the daylights out of the cattails just to the right of me. He makes a sharp left turn directly at me; the pheasant runs just 5 feet in front of me doing 100 mph. I run at the bird only to trip and fall face first into a drift. I jump back to my feet just as Teke flushed the cock-bird. Again the 97 jumps to my shoulder, hammer back, bead below the chest of Mr. Colorful and BOOM! Feathers once again drift on the breeze and the glorious “thud” muffled slightly by the snow and cattails rings out.

Teke again dropped the bird at my feet showing his restored confidence in me. I put the bird in the game bag with the others and scratch Teke behind the ears. “That’s our limit boy, time to go home”. I looked over the slough and admired its beauty; it was solace for a boy that was saddened to be calling it a day. I perked up though when I looked at the 97 in my hands, the Lab at my side and the weight of a full game bag on my back. Sometimes a half thought-out plan just comes together.

Thirty years later, I have never let-on to pop about using his old 97 that morning. While I did tell him of my adventure that day, I allowed him to assume I had used my ole sweet-sixteen. Some day Pop will place that old 97 in my care, but I hope it is many years from now; for the day he hands-off the 97, will be the day I know our days together in the pheasant fields will be over, and it will be my son’s turn to add his adventures to the history of that old Winchester model 97.

As always, if you would like to comment on this or any of Rods articles, or just talk hunting, feel free to contact Rod at,