Issue link: http://www.e-digitaleditions.com/i/68594
Troutwine shivered in the morning chill and watched two faded robins work the wet soil beneath a fencerow. Already trees stood naked as nature exchanged autumn's wardrobe for the drab grays and browns of November with half a mind to slip into winter whites. Even some oaks awoke stripped, as if the wind had plucked them in the night like pheasants and left their reddish brown and bronze feathers lying on the ground. snow, Jack day before Hunting him was worse. Whereas Blue had trained herself, this one struggled to sit for more than seconds. Undisciplined as a drunk in a liquor store, Rocky was the Jesse Owens of dogs and never found a field he couldn't turn into a gold medal sprint. Most of this first season with the pup had been an ordeal that had taxed Jack both physically and emotionally. What with his aching legs and heart, often-times he hunted memories more than birds and grieved endings at the expense of beginnings. When Rocky finally returned dry-mouthed and panting, Jack was seething and struggled not to strike him. His hunt on the verge of ruin again, he tongue-lashed the dog and leashed him to the trailer. Dancing a mug of hot coffee between cold fingers, Jack shook his head, wondering where the time had gone, before he heard the yelping of distant geese and soon glimpsed the V-shaped skein laboring south as if pulling in winter with each wingbeat. He lamented that fall was going instead of coming. "Time's winged chariot," he murmured, pointing at the geese from habit for the shorthair that used to whine softly on the seat beside him awaiting release. "There was no need to hurry, girl. Hurry came fast enough." Remembering Blue, whose eyebrows went white without notice the season before her death, he gathered his emotions and corralled them again behind resolution. Sixty now, Jack would always wonder how a decade and a dog could pass like quicksilver. Sipping coffee, he ignored the new dog's bellows and tried to savor the sunrise like he used to with Blue. By nature Jack was a solitary hunter, excepting the shorthair, who brought the right camaraderie to his solitude. Hunting beside Blue for pheasants in fields of ripe corn and wheat and high grass had comprised most of the best days of Jack's life. Aloof yet affectionate, she was a princess who knew her high place in his heart and accepted her throne there with little need for reassurance except for an occasional hug. Jack had appreciated her serene confidence and rued the day he'd surrendered to loneliness and agreed to take the chocolate Lab from an old friend with too many pups to sell. "Just a minute, you damn galoot," he muttered in response to the dog's wild caterwauling in the truck bed. Owning Rocky was like plowing through tag alders and wild grapes after grouse or wading a marsh for mallards all day only to repeat the hunt again in the morning. Something Sisyphus would recognize, Jack thought. Underfoot, in his lap, on his bed, pawing his paper, lifting his arm, hiding his boxers – the dog's needs entangled his life like Lilliputian ropes. There was no escape. C chamber, he slipped into the vest, stood back and dropped the tailgate. racking the tailgate to grab his gun and shell vest, he barely closed it before pinching the Lab's nose. Pushing three shells into the autoloader and jacking one into the "One rooster is all I ask," he pleaded, knowing full well what was about to happen. Rocky bolted from the truck and raced through tall weeds adjacent to a wheat field, his bell clanging like the British were coming. Shortly a hen exploded 75 yards out and flew across the rows followed by a brown blur, both out of sight and sound within seconds. Jack heard a faint cackle but never saw the escaping cock emerge from the cattails at the end of the property. Clenching his teeth, he'd vowed not to yell at the young dog anymore, especially one who ignored level 15 stimulations from a shock collar, because it was useless. His half-hearted efforts to train the Lab had failed, and he had only himself to blame. Irritated, Jack hid by squatting beside a fencepost, knowing in time the Lab would panic- search for him. When Rocky finally returned dry-mouthed and panting, Jack was seething and struggled not to strike him. His hunt on the verge of ruin again, he tongue-lashed the dog instead and leashed him to the trailer hitch. This was no way to hunt and these outings had exasperated Jack, who was accustomed to Blue's measured pace and sure points. With her, he'd decorated his study with enough tail-feathers to satisfy a dozen generations of fly tiers. With this dog he'd run fields like he was training for a track meet. "Damn flushers!" he snapped in spite of himself. Nothing was more exciting to Jack than the seconds separating the point and the flush from the shot. Remembering times with Blue when he could nearly hear the clouds rubbing together while she SPOR TIN G CL ASSICS 148