It was a girls’ morning out this morning. But there were no pedicures or lattes. No shopping. No gossiping with friends. Just me and the white dog and 3,000 acres of land in which to find a pheasant. Two hours knowing only the heft of my shotgun, the happy grin on the white dog’s face, the pull of tired muscles not used in a while.
As I walked the tree belts looking for birds, I thought of my dad. He used to hunt this area back in his prime, sometimes coming home with birds, always coming home with stories. The only thing I came home with was three unspent shells, one tired, tired Roxy dog and a memories of my dad. Couldn’t ask for a better hunt.