S P O R T I N G C L A S S I C S • 75
the runner, thank you very kindly, turning
and legging it up the hollow, his scent hugging
the ground and leaving as clear a trail for the
little dog's keen nose as its long downward
glide had been for her gunner's eyes.
W
e kept climbing that morning,
stopping a quarter-mile up the
mountain beside the waterfall, where I
retrieved and filled her water bottle and
stashed it in my game pouch with her grouse.
But we only hunted up to the gap where the
narrowing stream disappeared altogether
into a muddle of perpetually damp leaves.
We never found another grouse that day.
We didn't need one.
We stopped at Mrs. G's when we got back
to the truck and gave her a fresh pumpkin pie.
But we kept our grouse.
And a few hours later that lovely,
luscious bird took its place, all hot and
golden and butter roasted, on the table
with the quail and pheasant and
woodcock and wild turkey, while Betsy
nestled close against my brush pants,
discreetly pretending not to be seen by
the rest of the family as I shared with
her the finest Thanksgiving dinner I will
ever know.
n
Editor's Note: Michael Altizer's latest
books, Nineteen Years To Sunrise and
The Last Best Day, can be ordered at
SportingClassicsStore.com—click on
"BOOKS." Or simply call 1-800-849-1004.
The author always welcomes and
appreciates your comments, questions,
and input. Please keep in touch at
Mike@AltizerJournal.com.
