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Old Habits Die Hard
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Old Habits Die Hard …
© 2001 by Ed Presnall
He was old; his dog was young, yet both were the same age. He knew he was too old to assist in combat, but he had to do something. They had been kicked in the teeth. Sucker punched, some might say. Down but a long way from out.
Old habits died hard. Over the years he had developed routines, which helped guide him through life. Whether daily functions or in the world of dog training, there were routines to be followed. Today was no different, yet it was. Today he could lend a hand and do something. His bags were packed; the car was loaded; yet he stopped to look around one more time. Another routine.
Settling into the driver’s seat, he selected a CD from the package, mashed down on the accelerator and headed north. With Willie crooning through the speakers about being … on the road again … he began his journey.
It was a journey, which had started seven years, almost 2,000 miles and seemingly, a lifetime ago. A dream, which he’d, had but had never really considered. It was not routine. The miles flew by and fifteen or so hours later he was sitting in a dark bar having a conversation with an old friend. She told him what was coming. They had sent advisors and troops into the fields earlier in the day to draw maps and plot the best places to advance. In a few short hours, it would begin.
They assembled in the dark, at a diner on the edge of town. This was their routine. To meet here, converse, review the plans for the battle, cast lots for the order in which the warriors would face their challenge and them silently move off in the darkness to the battleground.
He stood out. He had a funny accent and it was obvious that he was the only American there. He knew many of the warriors and was almost overcome with emotion as one after another poured out their feelings for what had happened to his country. One presented him with a paper American flag for his window; another pressed a small memento into his palm. It was time, they checked their equipment and moved off to the fields.
He stood on a small knoll and watched the first two make their attempt. The first falling oh so close to her goal, the second stumbling along the way. Suddenly they pointed to him. A light rain started to fall as he started his routine and headed into the field. Soft whispers could be heard floating on the wind. Watch the yank! Go boy go! Give it a good go … and with a silent prayer, he completed his routine and started off on another journey.
 He followed his practiced routines steadily though the field. A change into higher cover, several turns in the trail and in a few minutes, he stood triumphant. His dog had led him past obstacles and across the varied terrain. Soaking wet, he and his dog accepted the congratulations of his comrades while standing in the lee of an old oak and watching the next competitor achieve her goal!
Sadly, they stood in the drizzle and watched the next two competitors fall in battle. Much too soon, they again pointed to him. With his dog at his side and a set routine and picture perfect plan embedded into his mind he gathered his things and marched into the field.
 Again the almost whispered comments began. This yank is good … watch this one work, and kick some butt, yank. They crested the hill, stopped and stared into the battleground. Again, routines took over. Everything was planned and nothing was done without a backup plan. Rousting up a nest of mice, they gave everyone a little heartburn, yet worked though it and stood on the top of the hill alone a few minutes later. As an omen, the sun came out as they marched off the field.
They stood in a group and watched in awe, as the next two competitors quickly made their job look simple. Strong, flashy and outrageous were the comments from the crowd. Laughing and joking with the victors and softly consoling those who had not achieved their goal they adjourned for a cold brew and a bite of warm food. Half of their battles had been successful today. He knew that with training, the others would succeed soon.
Too soon it was time to leave. He adjusted the collar of his coat and his fingers grasped the tiny memento, which had been pressed into his palm earlier. Smiling he felt the small lapel pin. Two tiny flags; one American and one Canadian; representing a symbol of friendship, a routine to be repeated.
With Jerry Jeff belting … going home to the Armadillo, he pushed the accelerator towards the floor and headed south for the border. Taking his happy dogs to his small farm in Wisconsin while mentally going through the routine of planning his next trip northbound.
Thanks to everyone at the Thunder Bay Kennel and Training Club for a wonderful weekend. My compliments to our judge, Mike Wood and his able team of tracklayers and support people which made the weekend such a success. My routine is set. I will be back!
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