Some days, it just goes well.
I had Tinker out at the State hunting grounds. I'd pulled into the parking lot where a guy was looking to the hunting grounds, with a congenial yellow lab pacing around him, looking like she wanted to get going on a hunt. He and I chatted.
Turns out he was waiting for his black lab to get finished hunting and come back to his truck.
. The yellow lab was 10 years old, had just come in from walking the property with him, and wanted to go back out. The missing dog was younger, and had slipped into the woods when the guy wasn't looking. He was about ready to go back out to find the wandering pup.
I fitted out Tink with collar and blaze orange strap, took the Win 370 single 12 ga mod. out, and strolled down the road into the property, telling the guy I'd keep an eye out for the adventurer.
Tink has been showing maturity and experience on each outing. Earlier in the week, I'd taken my Springer, Mick, out. He popped a rooster at the edge of some woods, I hit it lightly, and he went on what turned out to be a frustrating search. Not like Mick to come back empty-handed. He's around 12, and the years are weighing on him. The day's temp had reached 60 degrees and Mick was wearing thin, so we took the long walk back, with Mick resting from time-to-time, then catching up with me.
The next day I took Tink out, and we happened to go back to where the bird disappeared. I sent her in to fetch and shortly after she disappeared from sight, I heard cackling and flapping, some branches breaking, and a squawk. Out came Tinker, with a quite indignant rooster pheasant in her mouth. I dispatched it, and noted one wing had a few broken feathers and some clotted blood.
It was great that she found the bird--both because I hate to lose one, and because that day I could not hit a pheasant to save my life. I'd put the boats and motors up for the Winter, and my body was punishing me for the effort. I was behind, below, and above each of the birds she pointed.
This day, though I'd considered bring one of the doubles to have a second shot, I was looser and went through the drill of practicing bringing the single shot gun up as I cocked the hammer, and swinging right or left to reawaken the muscle memory.
Tinker started working the cover to the left quite soon after we left the parking area. There was a light wind blowing from that direction and she was using it. About 15 minutes in, she got birdy and started tracking. She moved slowly in the direction we'd come from, then wheeled around and sped up in the other direction, wheeled around again and returned to the original direction. She slowed, painstakingly moving forward and then locked up. I moved toward her, and about five yards away, took a few quick steps, flushing the rooster. This day, I did it right, and the bird dropped. Tink charged with the flush and swooped down to grab, then re-position the pheasant in her mouth and trotted back up the slope to me. As is my habit, I was loudly praising her, and knelt down to take the bird, and then describe in enthusiastic detail how magnificent she was. She seemed gratified, but not over-whelmed by the praise.
After field dressing the bird, I headed back to the farm road on the crest of the property. Within ten minutes, Tink was back, working into the wind, and trailing down the slope to high grasses, then back up slightly behind me. She went into her total freeze point--the one I think she would hold, even if I pushed her body over-- as I hustled over. I flushed the bird high, and taking my time, tracked and dropped it. Once again, Tink pounced on the bird and brought to hand.
Well now...limited out within a quarter mile of the car, with a dog that conducted itself like it was a South Dakota's Guide dog, when I'd started the day wondering if I was going to be able to hit a bird!
I was grinning and calling Tink to heel as she wanted to keep hunting when the other guy came up the other slope and down the field road, looking for his missing dog. He said, "I saw that shot. Looks like that old single works ok."
I acted cool, like an old experienced hunter would, and said, "I just have to do my part." Inside, I was really pleased with the dog, the pheasants, and making the shots. Some times I revert to the delight of early days' hunting when all the pieces come together, more than 50 years ago.
I walked with him a bit, looking for his dog, then he went down to the woods calling for it. I saw him a bit later, with a black and a yellow lab, getting into his truck.
I dropped one of the birds off at a friend's house.
And we all lived happily ever after.
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