Storm: The Dog Who Walked Beside Me – Part Two

The Working Years with Storm: A Journey of Loyalty and Partnership

Storm: The Dog Who Walked Beside Me

When I look back now, I realise that the real journey with Storm began once the training dust settled. The first year was about boundaries, patience, and learning to read each other. The years that followed were about understanding — not just what he could do, but who he was.

The Essence of Storm

Storm was never a dog who needed shouting at. He didn’t respond to force or fuss. What he respected was quiet leadership. A firm tone. A clear expectation. Once he understood what you wanted, he would give it his all — not because he had to, but because he wanted to. That was his way of showing loyalty.

We worked the rough ground of Salisbury Plain, often as part of the Infantry shoot. It was a vast and varied landscape of open grassland, tangled gorse, bramble, blackthorn, and patches of dense woodland. It was hard, unforgiving country, the sort of ground that would stop a half-hearted dog in his tracks. But not Storm. He thrived there. The more challenging the cover, the more alive he became. He’d crash through gorse thickets without hesitation, weave through the scrub with purpose, and emerge scratched, panting, and ready to go again. That was his world, and I was just lucky to walk it beside him.

The Transformation at the Shoot

What I loved most was watching him switch on the moment we arrived at a shoot. That quiet, calm dog who’d sleep soundly in the car would transform the second his paws hit the ground. His head went up, his tail — what was left of it — gave a steady wag, and his eyes scanned the horizon. He was in his element. This was what he was born for.

He worked with purpose, not perfection. There were days he drove me mad — slipping a recall, ignoring a whistle, making his own decisions when the scent was too strong to resist. But that was Storm. He wasn’t a machine, and I never wanted him to be. He was a partner — one with opinions, instincts, and more intelligence than most people gave him credit for.

A Memorable Day on Salisbury Plain

The moment that still stands out, even now, was a walked-up day on Salisbury Plain. We’d been working the right-hand edge of a long wood — the trees on our left, and on our right a thick bank of gorse and blackthorn. We pushed up that edge, flushing woodcock and the odd pheasant as we went. At the top, one of the standing guns told me he’d shot a woodcock and seen it drop into the gorse. I asked him to pinpoint it, but he couldn’t — only that it was “in there somewhere.”

I sent Storm in. All I could see was the cover thrashing — blackthorn and gorse flying — as he hunted for the dead woodcock. After about ten minutes, he pushed his head out, empty-mouthed, blood running from his nose, the skin around his eyes, and his lips. I just said, “Go and find it.” He turned, drove straight back in, and five minutes later came out with the woodcock. I took it from him and handed it to the gun, who said, “I’ve never seen a dog work with so much passion and drive.” That, in a paragraph, was Storm.

The Rings: A Test of Grit

Another moment that stands out was on an area of Salisbury Plain known as The Rings. It had been a long, gruelling day — one of those drives where you go up one side, reach the top, turn around, and work your way back down the other. By the time we got back to the trucks, Storm was finished. He dropped to the ground beside the car, utterly spent. I put his coat on him, and he was so tired he couldn’t even jump into the back. I had to lift him in myself. He was exhausted — every muscle done, every ounce of energy gone. But I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that if I’d taken that coat off and said, “Let’s go again,” he would have gone again. That was Storm — heart first, always.

The Perfect Timing

There was another day, again at The Rings, that showed his grit and his sense of timing in equal measure. We’d just finished a drive when one of the guns told me he’d shot a pheasant somewhere out on the plain. None of us could see it, but we had a rough direction. I lined Storm up and sent him out — it must have been close to a hundred metres, a long way for a Spaniel. I stopped him on the whistle, gave him the hunt command, and let him work.

He quartered the area carefully, nose down, covering every bit of ground but coming up empty. After five minutes, I called on the radio to a friend of mine, Biff, who was out in the line with his black Labrador, Ash. I asked him to bring Ash up, figuring a Lab might pick up the scent.

As Biff arrived, he grinned and said, “What’s the matter, Dave — need a Labrador to do the retrieve for you?” And at that exact moment, Storm found the bird. He came straight back with it, proud as ever. I just turned to Biff and said, “No, mate — I just wanted to show you how it’s done.” I still tease him about it to this day. That was Storm all over — determined, driven, and with perfect timing.

A True Working Gundog

Storm wasn’t a pet, and he wasn’t a house dog. He was a working gundog, plain and simple. He lived to be in the field — that was where he belonged and where he was happiest. He didn’t care for fuss or comfort; he wanted work, direction, and purpose. When the shooting season ended, he’d pace restlessly, waiting for the next one to begin. That drive, that need to do the job, was what defined him more than anything else. He wasn’t a companion in the traditional sense — he was a partner in the truest sense.

The Passage of Time

As the seasons rolled on, so did our years together. The miles under our boots grew longer, and the retrieves shorter. His muzzle began to grey, his stride slowed, but that spark in his eyes never left. Even when work became memory, and the guns were silent, Storm’s spirit never dimmed.

Those were the working years — not defined by what we achieved, but by what we shared. He was, as always, the dog who walked beside me.

The End of an Era

Storm was ten when his journey ended. It wasn’t age that stopped him, but a tragic accident — sudden, unexpected, and cruel. That day marked the end of our working years, and the beginning of the hardest story I’ve ever had to tell.

In memory of Storm, I often reflect on the bond we shared. His loyalty and spirit will always be a part of me. The lessons he taught me about partnership and dedication remain invaluable. Storm was more than just a dog; he was a true companion in every sense of the word.

For those who understand the bond between a working dog and their handler, the memories we create are treasures that last a lifetime.