Bob Peters
Well-known member
Past midnight and here I sit. Christmas Eve and Day slipped by. Lots of friends and family visited with and company enjoyed. Cheesy potatoes and macaroni and Christmas double smoked ham down the gullet. Glass of wine, egg nog, a frosty beer or two. Santa brought an old book on Pheasants in North America I've wanted for a while. I gave nice binos to a young buck I hope develops a love for hunting and takes to the field with me someday. It was a nice Christmas I really enjoyed.
Tomorrow mid morning I'll hit the road leaving behind suburban sprawl. It's tradition for me. For Skye. For Roxy. After Christmas we travel to southern MN for a few blessed days in isolation from the modern world. Not complete, not perfect, only the best we can do. Days filled with less pavement, more gravel and mud. In the company of bluestem, indian grass, cattails, plum thickets, public land. Long days. Mile upon mile walked, sometimes with a bird flushed in range and often enough not. Soggy boots, wet fur, tired paws, sore feet. But there's something that unites dog and man in effort towards a common goal. Many times in my failings finding birds or worse, pointing a shotgun I expect to see Skye or Roxy turn tail, give up on the whole damn thing. I wouldn't blame them one whit if they did. Hell, sometimes I'm surprised I don't give up myself. To mine own everlasting amazement at height of failure by the one carrying shotgun, easy shot missed after hours plodding prairie, there stands a gundog, turning in excitement, hope springing eternal, a look on her face saying, "We almost had him! Come on, we'll find another just 'round the corner!" Rare if ever has been the person that's treated me so beneficent and big-hearted as a hunting dog.
So trudge on we will. My soul lifted by that buoyant spirit of everlastingly optimistic dog that walks besides and in front of me. It's for her I continue. I give my all. Sometimes we come home with quarry in the game bag, sometimes not. And that night next to a weary dog, chest rising and falling, paws twitching while remembering birds chased in fitful sleep, I'm content just to have been there and to be here now. It doesn't take much to make me happy.
Tomorrow mid morning I'll hit the road leaving behind suburban sprawl. It's tradition for me. For Skye. For Roxy. After Christmas we travel to southern MN for a few blessed days in isolation from the modern world. Not complete, not perfect, only the best we can do. Days filled with less pavement, more gravel and mud. In the company of bluestem, indian grass, cattails, plum thickets, public land. Long days. Mile upon mile walked, sometimes with a bird flushed in range and often enough not. Soggy boots, wet fur, tired paws, sore feet. But there's something that unites dog and man in effort towards a common goal. Many times in my failings finding birds or worse, pointing a shotgun I expect to see Skye or Roxy turn tail, give up on the whole damn thing. I wouldn't blame them one whit if they did. Hell, sometimes I'm surprised I don't give up myself. To mine own everlasting amazement at height of failure by the one carrying shotgun, easy shot missed after hours plodding prairie, there stands a gundog, turning in excitement, hope springing eternal, a look on her face saying, "We almost had him! Come on, we'll find another just 'round the corner!" Rare if ever has been the person that's treated me so beneficent and big-hearted as a hunting dog.
So trudge on we will. My soul lifted by that buoyant spirit of everlastingly optimistic dog that walks besides and in front of me. It's for her I continue. I give my all. Sometimes we come home with quarry in the game bag, sometimes not. And that night next to a weary dog, chest rising and falling, paws twitching while remembering birds chased in fitful sleep, I'm content just to have been there and to be here now. It doesn't take much to make me happy.
