Dogs and birds

Not just dogs, spaniels.  And not tweety birds, either.  Quail.

Jeanne, MaryAnne, and I did what might be called hunt training.  It was training in the sense that we got our burlap sacks of quail and a patch of broomgrass on the back 40 at Circle W and got left alone.

We set the birds and took turns with the dogs: Larsen , Chance, Millie.  We did our best to plant the birds for the dogs.  We tried to find that balance between a bird that flies off as soon as he hits the ground and a bird that burrows deep into the grass never to be seen again. 

We trained and had fun at the same time.  If a bird flew to the far end of the field, we treked off to see if we could find it.  We walked to the edge of the field and then into the treeline.  Larsen was happily snuffling in the same brambles that grabbed at me, went through my jeans, wrapped around my wrist.  He stopped and rooted around, and I thought he was about to pull out a big nasty piece of road kill.  But, no, it was not a dead possum.  It was a live quail that had headed south as deep into the brush as a bird could go.  I had my gun open, and probably unloaded, and just watched as bird and dog took off.  Off went the hunting party trailing after that dog and bird.

The dogs had a grand time.  Chance learned that birds were fun.  Millie found her bird and then scented  into the wind as if watching out for a flying bird - - even though she was standing right on it.  Larsen huffed his way around the field and brought his birds almost, but not quite, to hand.  We all learned something about our dogs today.