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S P O R T I N G C L A S S I C S 1 9 i r s t L i g h t F H ard . . . the condition . . . but I've reached a grave milestone in the price of living. One not unanticipated, I suppose, as I have ventured into the deepening autumn of my life. Just all so soon, it seems. For after all the dogs, and all the years, it has come upon me almost suddenly. I feel now, where I couldn't before, the mountain-high and valley-low mix of emotions that many other dog men across the ages must have felt, who have stood on this bittersweet plateau before me. Who have looked across the vast steppes of the horizon, have searched the long edges, and abruptly sensed that soon there can no longer be—in the matter of being—the great dogs to carry them. At least, no longer for my eyes to behold. You see, I've a new pair of setter pups. "A happy thing," you observe. Yes, as always. Some days, even euphoric. The hopes and eras of my years have been christened and buoyed by a renewal of puppies. Thing is, this time, they arrive also with a heavy bill of sadness. For they will be my last. "But you're a young man yet," I'm told. Again, some days, I am. On others, well, my heart and aging bones know better. If you wonder, I'm 72. No, not ancient. But there's moss on the tree, and not just on the north. When it comes to dogs–and God help us . . . little puppies–I've listened far more often to my heart than to arguments of warranty and logic. It's led me down a largely happy road, and even though it has borne the too many occasions of infinite pain that were the cost, it's difficult to do less now. Except that to all things comes an end. These pups must be my last. L et me tell you about them. They're English and their names are Jube and Rafe. Their daddy's famous and their mama's good-lookin', and their blood—up and down the line—is a whole lot fancier than mine. They're seven months now, tall and lanky, grow about two inches a day. Strapping young fellows full of piss, rambunction, and vinegar. A pretty striking pair, should I say so. Lightly ticked, masked, and tri-colored as I have always deemed my last brace would be. I've started them earlier than I ever did the 28 we kept before them. I suppose, again, that's after I glanced at the clock on the wall. I've wanted to enjoy them, every moment and minute of them, I will give these pups my all, and as we grow old together, be there to gather the joy from every moment of their lives. Mike Gaddis T he author, now in his 70s, believes Rafe (left) and Jube will be his last setters.