Licking Our Wounds

 

We returned late Monday from five days in South Dakota. That dog with the scuffed schnoz really delivered the goods. At barely 2.5 years old she’s maturing into a terrific upland bird hunter. Excellent family member too. 

 

Halfway into Saturday I was not having a good day.  The hunting was fine yet my phone had gone missing from my jacket.  I was convinced I lost it somewhere in the cattails or some other nonsense.  A first rate inconvenience. 

 

Later, working a slough someone took a couple of pokes at a rooster that glided out of sight over the rise of a picked bean field. Nobody figured it was hit. Nevertheless, in hot pursuit Ruby disappeared over the rise and wasn’t responding to my hollering or her electronic pipper. All I could think of is I started my day losing my phone; and now I lost the dog. 

 

After several long stressful minutes the dog materialized over the hill from out of nowhere with a dead rooster in her mouth.  She dropped it at my feet.

 

She owns the record retrieve of the trip.

 

There is no photo as it turns out I left my phone in the car.

 

We're both a wee bit limpy and gimpy from all the fun we had.  Metaphorically and in reality licking our wounds....