Decided to throw caution to the wind yesterday and sneak out for a couple hours, with only marginal approval from the Mrs.... but it was a risk I had to take! There was fresh snow and black dog wanted to get out just as badly as I did.
Worked some semi-popular land south of the cities so my expectations were low (land surrounded by a well known trout stream who's name implies a certain color of red). I had about an hour until dark, and captain insanity went to full on propeller tail action within 200 yards of the truck. Normally I'd chalk it up to getting the yips out after being cooped up all day, but the propwash was undeniable. A hen popped up within seconds, and he gave me the stink eye for not shooting.
I just shrugged and tried to explain to black dog if he'd only flush the roosters he'd at least hear the gun go bang. However, he wasn't interested in my excuses, as there were more smells to be had.
We spent half an hour working down the field along a small grove of shrubby trees with nothing, and then turned to work the other side back toward the truck. The prop started working again in the trees dividing two fields, and I decided to take a chance and hop to the other side of the treeline as the wind was blowing across, coming out the far side. I hoped if anything flushed it would pop out that direction. Couldn't see the dog as well from over there, so I just continued to whistle-check him every 30 seconds or so in hopes of keeping him close. It was a pipe dream at best without much visual confirmation through the thick underbrush (not to mention giving plenty of warning to any birds that happened to actually be there).
We made it through the treeline without seeing anything, though it seemed certain something would pop off the end as the dog exited - however, it it wasn't to be. At this point there about 100 yards of field to go to the truck and about 15 minutes of light left. Dog wasn't indicating, and within 50 yards out, I literally had my fingers on the slide-lock release to unload my shotgun when black dog started doing the nose-up dance. Followed by the propeller. And a rooster that blew up not 15 yards from us, cackling away. Black dog looked at me. I looked at him. He seemed to be saying "Wellllll......."
I looked at the bird. "Hmmm, I thought. Rooster, check. High enough to shoot, check. Safety, check." I watched him get straight up and start to catch the wind, drifting off to the right as I pulled the ol' 16 gauge against my cheek. My brain ticked off the yardage. "15....20...25...." My mind flipped back to the advice given in these very pages, as if Obi-Wan was telling me to use the force.
"Hell, f*ck the force," I thought! "I've got a game load with 5-shot!" Obi-Wan conceded that the force was ridiculous, and instead reminded me to just shoot the damn head, echoing the advice here over the past days. Black dog barked, bringing me back to reality and I slapped the trigger, wondering a half-a-second too late if I should've lead the bird instead of just putting the bead on it's beak as I was doing.
The shotgun was a muted thud in my ears, and I instinctively pumped for the second hail-mary shot as I've become used to within the last few dry weeks of this season. As the second shell chambered, I realized it wasn't going to be necessary. This particular rooster had developed a bad case of engine failure and was suffering from loss of altitude. His ground-detection warning system was certainly beeping loudly, as he plummeted toward the earth. Black dog was in hot pursuit, nearly beating the falling bird and promptly doing what retrievers do best.
He handed it to me and looked up as if to say "See? It's not that difficult, you idiot." I told him that if he thinks it's so easy he should try it sometime. He argued that he doesn't have opposable thumbs.
Either way, the yips of the past three weeks are done. And the Mrs. almost forgave me when she learned we brought dinner home.
