Written by Glen Webb, for Lone Star Outdoor News
There is a season for all things. A beginning and an end.
At the end of the 2025 season, I awoke early to that sweet sound “flap, flap, flap.” That long tail whipping the cement floor to pronounce, I am ready to walk, I am ready to hunt, and I am ready to go. My loyal and sweet best dog friend. Unfortunately, today would be the end of a season.
A time to be born. Creation made beautiful in its time is something to admire. An English Pointer covered in vibrant white and liver spots, with eyes painted like a bandit. Bred in excellence since the 17th century.
A time to dance. A white dog searching the little bluestem, pink meadow and green winter grass for the Exodus covey. A great light among the Texas yellow star, purple aster and red morning glory. Picasso never created something so beautiful. Ask Hemingway.
A time to heal. If I could not see it then, I do now. This dog’s life provided me a great gift. The point held more substance than simply the rhythm between a dog and a quail. Rather, peace among the thorns and thistles of Throckmorton County, Texas.
A time to mourn. The tumors were small at first, then metastasized…fast. I suffered denial. I thought maybe an allergy to the wild flowers of West Texas. Then the terminal diagnosis, malignant neoplasia. The once smooth belly twisted with tumors.
I made the call at 7 a.m. “Dr. Gober?” this is Glen Webb. I choked the words down like a bitter medicine. Can you uh.. uh…put a dog down for me? “I bet I can.” “Thank you, I will see you in in one hour.” Little time left.
For the first time since birth, Jo Jo could not stand. I helped her to her feet. Together, we walked to my truck for the last time. I opened the door. She jumped to the front seat and settled in her well-worn spot on the right side, looking for birds through the windshield.
My pretty wife held back tears as I pulled through the circle drive on Range Road. I thought, I am a 53 year old man, and this is not one of my children. But it was a life. A beautiful life, that did beautiful things. The end of beauty is always tragic.
I turned on Highway 183 at 7:30 a.m. The sun rising over West Texas in pastels of blue and white and pink. Throckmorton 30 miles. I wanted 3,000 miles. I needed more time. At 7:45 a.m., we crossed the Brazos and Jo Jo fell face down on the console. The pain too heavy. Throckmorton 15 miles. No, No, too quick for me. My mind went racing to all the prior times we celebrated the seasons. Tender memories on my mind. Highway 183 merged with Highway 283. Throckmorton 3 miles. 8 a.m. Out of time.
The vet clinic came into view on the East side of town. The truck stopped in a cloud of caliche dust. My final command, “Jo Jo, I love you, thank you for being a Good Dog.”
Dr. Kirby Gober, Texas A&M D.V.M. 1977, slowly stood from his well-worn chair, crimson snap back, olive green vet shirt – worn with a pocket, and starched wrangler jeans. He said in a soft quiver, “Yeahhhhh…the cancer got her pretty good. Let’s go to Exam Room 1.”
The metal table cold, the room dark, and emotion coming down like a sad Sunday service. The first needle sedated. The next needle entered the cephalic vein on the right front paw. The blood stream pushed the pentobarbital to the heart. A scarlet drip appeared among white and liver spots. The breathing slowed, the head bowed, and the eyes rolled…a time to die.
A time to weep. Dr. Kirby Gober, was a professional and a gentleman. I asked if he ever got tired of seeing grown men cry about bird dogs. I am satisfied I was not the first and I know I will not be last because every season always ends.
Glen Webb is an attorney, rancher, and teacher…and he loves Good Dogs.
