They swim in water cold enough to stop the heart of a man to scoop up the drake mallard you hit thirty yards out over the main channel. Overpowering the high winter water, they make the retrieve and bring the soggy bird back with a smile on their face. They fight briars barefoot, they brave thick brush and steep hills, they bark, they point, bloody and battled, but with tail wagging, they will not be beaten. Afterall, they do it for you, for the sporting life we love. So this is a salute to a man's best friend--our faithful hunting dogs, who without we would hardly bring another bird nor bunnie home again.
Our dogs grow close to us, like family, and if they didn't have to leave our side, they wouldn't. When we come home, they're there waiting, hoping that maybe, just maybe you'll go grab the decoy bag or your game jacket or better yet, their own camouflauge vest. You can see in their eyes that they're begging you to bring the truck around back and load it up. 'We can catch the last two hours before dusk,' he's saying. 'You know it will be worth a flush or two.' If not though, sitting next to you on the couch slobbering on your lap is good enough for now, and no doubt good enough forever.
