Now it can be told

On Sunday, I hit each and every bird until the last pesky quail shot out at ground level and did not attain altitude until nearly (or rather, actually) out of reach. I felt much vindicated for my miserable performance the week before, in which I barely nicked enough birds to bring to the water.

 Cathy V. was nothing if not gracious, insisting that practicing fly-off birds is ever more important than an actual fetch.  True or not, it was nice to give poor Humphrey, who felt the brunt of my poor shooting, some nice invigorating retrieves.

I went a few rounds of skeet at Wolf Creek on Saturday. I shot with some guys who were better than me, which improved my concentration. I also thought about shooting when the gun touched my cheek, and not riding the target into the sunset.

On Sunday, with Cathy, I had some challenging shots, and I moved my feet with the birds as they arced toward the treeline or across the field. I consciously maintained a large margin of safety and only shot when I knew the field of vision was completely clear.

Later, Humphrey wriggled between my legs a few times, just as Larsen will do. This seems to be a big compliment from a spaniel.