- Joined
- Jan 30, 2002
- Messages
- 7,269
Young Bert, the not-right dog, and I went
pheasant hunting this afternoon (the season started at
noon.)
I'd gone out at 7:30 this morning to attempt to murder
some perfectly innocent wood ducks that occasionally
hang around on the neighbor's trees on the crik. No
joy. Bert was not invited, in that he had been limping
earlier in the week from insane running, and I wanted
him intact for pheasants.
So, with him bounding around like a terrier, I put the
bell on his collar, hefted the sxs 20 ga., and
meandered down the hill to the recently harvested corn
field below the house. I had heard pheasants there in
the previous weeks.
We walked. Well, I walked. Young Bert bounded. We went
through the areas in which pheasants are occasionally
found, then angled down a drainage ditch towards the
crik.
Bert disappeared. Some time later, a rooster flushed,
cackling in disdain.
I was poetry. I was beautiful. I looked like a cover
shot of FIELD AND STREAM. In one fluid motion, I
lifted, sighted, led the pheasant and pulled the
trigger. The bird dropped like a rock.
Apparently, a living rock. Sigh.
Bert disappeared. The weeds and junk trees are so
dense that I could not see him, and, since he lost the
loud bell last year, I could not hear him with the
diminuitive bell he was wearing.
The bird had dropped on the other side of the crik. I
did not know if Young Bert had seen it. I yelled for
him to fetch, encouraging his enthusiasm and directing
his attention. (In fact, I know I have nothing to do
with his enthusiasm, but yelling gives me something to
do while he is working.)
I still couldn't see him.
I heard splashing. I plunged into the brush, still
unable to see anything. Movement! I saw movement! It
was the pheasant!
Behind him was Young Bert, hot in pursuit, but unable
to see the bird.
A splash! The dog? The bird? Pheasants don't swim.
Bert pursued and the two of them fought a biblical
battle in the water.
You know how beautiful a rooster pheasant is? How,
even in death, there is a marvel of color and form,
noble in stillness, as in flight?
Well, a wet, dead pheasant looks like something you
should put in a haz-mat bag.
I was very pleased with the idiot. Young Bert was
(generously) pleased with HIS idiot. The pheasant did
not vote in this election.
I dressed out the bird, giving Young Bert the heart
and liver from the bird as his due. The rest went in
an empty bread bag and in the game pouch. I'd only hit
the wing of a first-year rooster.
I put a leash on Young Bert, and he pulled me and my
old legs home.
It was a good hunt.
Some days are good days.
10-15-05
pheasant hunting this afternoon (the season started at
noon.)
I'd gone out at 7:30 this morning to attempt to murder
some perfectly innocent wood ducks that occasionally
hang around on the neighbor's trees on the crik. No
joy. Bert was not invited, in that he had been limping
earlier in the week from insane running, and I wanted
him intact for pheasants.
So, with him bounding around like a terrier, I put the
bell on his collar, hefted the sxs 20 ga., and
meandered down the hill to the recently harvested corn
field below the house. I had heard pheasants there in
the previous weeks.
We walked. Well, I walked. Young Bert bounded. We went
through the areas in which pheasants are occasionally
found, then angled down a drainage ditch towards the
crik.
Bert disappeared. Some time later, a rooster flushed,
cackling in disdain.
I was poetry. I was beautiful. I looked like a cover
shot of FIELD AND STREAM. In one fluid motion, I
lifted, sighted, led the pheasant and pulled the
trigger. The bird dropped like a rock.
Apparently, a living rock. Sigh.
Bert disappeared. The weeds and junk trees are so
dense that I could not see him, and, since he lost the
loud bell last year, I could not hear him with the
diminuitive bell he was wearing.
The bird had dropped on the other side of the crik. I
did not know if Young Bert had seen it. I yelled for
him to fetch, encouraging his enthusiasm and directing
his attention. (In fact, I know I have nothing to do
with his enthusiasm, but yelling gives me something to
do while he is working.)
I still couldn't see him.
I heard splashing. I plunged into the brush, still
unable to see anything. Movement! I saw movement! It
was the pheasant!
Behind him was Young Bert, hot in pursuit, but unable
to see the bird.
A splash! The dog? The bird? Pheasants don't swim.
Bert pursued and the two of them fought a biblical
battle in the water.
You know how beautiful a rooster pheasant is? How,
even in death, there is a marvel of color and form,
noble in stillness, as in flight?
Well, a wet, dead pheasant looks like something you
should put in a haz-mat bag.
I was very pleased with the idiot. Young Bert was
(generously) pleased with HIS idiot. The pheasant did
not vote in this election.
I dressed out the bird, giving Young Bert the heart
and liver from the bird as his due. The rest went in
an empty bread bag and in the game pouch. I'd only hit
the wing of a first-year rooster.
I put a leash on Young Bert, and he pulled me and my
old legs home.
It was a good hunt.
Some days are good days.
10-15-05
I sure miss the woods and fields and wouldn't even mind having a not quite right dog along.
