A week of chores and warm weather kept me grounded, but cooler temperatures finally brought me back to the woods. Tasha, my thirteen-year-old bird dog, earned the first shift—the milder conditions were perfect for the old girl.
We hit birds immediately. Two wild flushes before we'd gone five minutes, then steady action from there. Tasha's points were solid, and I knocked down a couple of birds while only whiffing on a few early chances. Midway through our circuit, she froze about ten yards into the brush. When I moved up, the covey exploded—birds flying in every direction, most beyond range or blocked by timber. We scattered six or seven but walked away without a shot.
Three-quarters in, Tasha disappeared down an abandoned trail to an old deer stand, now choked with growth. Her ears aren't sharp anymore, so I followed when the beeper showed 125 yards. I found her standing firm. The first bird dropped clean, but I whiffed on the two that flushed behind it. We made it back to the truck with Tasha still showing plenty of drive, but I called it there—better to quit while she was ahead.
Peach ran the next cover. I'd hunted this patch hard for years, but the habitat had matured and the bird numbers had dropped off. Still, it seemed like decent ground for her. She pointed a grouse early, then a woodcock—neither gave me a look. After that, nothing. No more contact, and she seemed indifferent. Forty minutes in, her breathing turned rough and labored. We stopped to rest, and I walked her back on lead, taking it slow. Water and time in the shade helped. By nightfall, she was herself again.
Tomorrow's Sweep's day, if all goes well.
