The loss of our beloved Val setter was still fresh, barely a week past. Grief hung in the air, muting the usual pre-hunt excitement. But Tasha, our seasoned 12-year-old setter, couldn't bear another day confined to the house. Her restless energy was a gentle reminder that life continues, even after loss.
The morning was crisp, with a soft breeze cutting through the mild 50-degree air. We set out into the familiar hunting grounds, an unspoken understanding passing between us. Almost immediately, Tasha's instincts took over. Her first point revealed a hen—a promising start, but not our target.
We methodically worked the east end of the field, bordered by a harvested soybean landscape. Two more hen points punctuated our progress, Tasha's experienced nose cutting through the dried grass and stubble. Along the south property line, her movements became more deliberate. Suddenly, she locked into a perfect point.
This time, a rooster erupted from the cover. My 12-gauge Beretta spoke, and the bird tumbled from the sky—a small victory that seemed to lift both our spirits. The improved choke and #6 shot had done their work precisely.
Our hunting ground was a 80-acre slice of prime upland terrain, rich with cattails and promising bird habitat. As we approached the western boundary, another rooster presented itself. Two shots rang out, but this bird was craftier. It dropped a wing but continued flying, eventually disappearing into the dense cattails and standing water.
Switching to #5 shot, we pressed on. The cattail edges and grassy patches yielded only hen points—frustrating but not unusual. By the time we returned to the truck, the morning's hunt had worked its subtle magic. Tasha moved with renewed purpose, the loneliness of recent weeks seemingly pushed back by the familiar rhythms of the field.
It wasn't about the birds we did or didn't bag. It was about connection—between a hunter and his dog, between memory and moment, between loss and continuance.
