Bob Peters
Well-known member
I realize I've made posts longer 'then the Old Testament. It's one reason only. I really miss Pheasant Season. Sometimes so much, I wonder if I'm one brick shy of a load. Out there in the middle of God's Creation with a good bird dog I feel like I'm riding a gravy train with biscuit wheels.
It could be hotter than blue blazes, or colder than a frosted frog, either way I love it. Some days my shooting is slick as a whistle, followed up with a day when I couldn't knock a hole in the wind with a sackful of hammers. Sometimes Skye works a bird faster than a prairie fire with a tail wind. Sometimes she farts and looks at me and smiles. And sometimes she seems like she just fell off the turnip truck. We've had huddles out afield before, and it was like arguing with a wooden Indian.
Inevitably my game plan turned into buzzard bait and I ended up following that beautiful retriever running hell-bent for roosters across the wild prairie. Slowly I've learned that my plans lead to birds, and by that I mean birds scarce as hen's teeth. But when I finally gave up and gave in, I realized that the right dog, when it comes to bird scent and birds, could find a whisper in a whirlwind.
What's more magical than when you and a dog can read each other like a book, communicate with a look, outsmart a wild rooster, put him in the air, make the shot and bring him home for the pot? Anyhow, I've gone on too long already as I am wont to do. If I continue on I'll be as welcome as an outhouse breeze
Please allow me a small breach of etiquette to brag. Not about my ability to stone a bird at 50 yards, pick cover other hunters miss, or cook a gamebird that would make Julia Childs green with envy. I can't do any of those things but once a blue moon. A lot of times out hunting I'm as confused as a goat on AstroTurf.
But Skye, she's always made it look easy as pie. She's the one I want to butter up. She's the one who was there when I shot my first pheasant, and my last. She's ran hard in the heat, and in 10 below zero. She fell through ice in the slough up to her shoulders, I pulled her out, and she never once thought about quitting. She hunted an entire season where I never connected on a bird and didn't bat an eye. We learned together, only thing she learned about 10 times faster. When it comes to following a 3 year old rooster into a gnarled hell-hole she's tougher'n stewed skunk meat. Bloodied on barb-wire, cut up in cattails, pads in pieces, she don't quit. I've learned that no training could ever instill the natural desire she has to get that bird in her grasp. I'll forgive 1,000 times over occasional failures to the fact she wants that rooster more than anything in life. In the field she's a no-account who'd steal the nickels off a dead man's eyes in order to get a rooster in her chops. But back home she's happy as a clam at high tide, softly putting her muzzle on my lap, sweeter than baby's breath.
Thank you Skye, I could never put into words what you mean to me. Sage, Ace, Cosmo, Remi, Dude, Bella, Reba, Raven, Goose, and all the great dogs on here, you mean so much to your hunting buddies and owners. You are the straw that stirs the drink and brings everything together.
P.S. I'll try to keep from posting any more long-winded soliloquys on pheasant hunting until October. But that doesn't mean a day will go by where I don't daydream of chasing wild roosters with Skye out in the hinterlands.
It could be hotter than blue blazes, or colder than a frosted frog, either way I love it. Some days my shooting is slick as a whistle, followed up with a day when I couldn't knock a hole in the wind with a sackful of hammers. Sometimes Skye works a bird faster than a prairie fire with a tail wind. Sometimes she farts and looks at me and smiles. And sometimes she seems like she just fell off the turnip truck. We've had huddles out afield before, and it was like arguing with a wooden Indian.
Inevitably my game plan turned into buzzard bait and I ended up following that beautiful retriever running hell-bent for roosters across the wild prairie. Slowly I've learned that my plans lead to birds, and by that I mean birds scarce as hen's teeth. But when I finally gave up and gave in, I realized that the right dog, when it comes to bird scent and birds, could find a whisper in a whirlwind.
What's more magical than when you and a dog can read each other like a book, communicate with a look, outsmart a wild rooster, put him in the air, make the shot and bring him home for the pot? Anyhow, I've gone on too long already as I am wont to do. If I continue on I'll be as welcome as an outhouse breeze
Please allow me a small breach of etiquette to brag. Not about my ability to stone a bird at 50 yards, pick cover other hunters miss, or cook a gamebird that would make Julia Childs green with envy. I can't do any of those things but once a blue moon. A lot of times out hunting I'm as confused as a goat on AstroTurf.
But Skye, she's always made it look easy as pie. She's the one I want to butter up. She's the one who was there when I shot my first pheasant, and my last. She's ran hard in the heat, and in 10 below zero. She fell through ice in the slough up to her shoulders, I pulled her out, and she never once thought about quitting. She hunted an entire season where I never connected on a bird and didn't bat an eye. We learned together, only thing she learned about 10 times faster. When it comes to following a 3 year old rooster into a gnarled hell-hole she's tougher'n stewed skunk meat. Bloodied on barb-wire, cut up in cattails, pads in pieces, she don't quit. I've learned that no training could ever instill the natural desire she has to get that bird in her grasp. I'll forgive 1,000 times over occasional failures to the fact she wants that rooster more than anything in life. In the field she's a no-account who'd steal the nickels off a dead man's eyes in order to get a rooster in her chops. But back home she's happy as a clam at high tide, softly putting her muzzle on my lap, sweeter than baby's breath.
Thank you Skye, I could never put into words what you mean to me. Sage, Ace, Cosmo, Remi, Dude, Bella, Reba, Raven, Goose, and all the great dogs on here, you mean so much to your hunting buddies and owners. You are the straw that stirs the drink and brings everything together.
P.S. I'll try to keep from posting any more long-winded soliloquys on pheasant hunting until October. But that doesn't mean a day will go by where I don't daydream of chasing wild roosters with Skye out in the hinterlands.
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