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Last day of the season, 10 degrees below freezing, calm, 10" of fresh snow. Two birds in the bag. Following Dog through mature aspen with open understory, down a draw toward some white cedars.
Dog is 98 pounds of muscle. A Lab out of the best NFC stock. My training ability betrays his genetics but fuck it he's my best friend and his prey drive just won't stop. And today the deep snow, my stamina, and the muted scent perfectly align for a cold but otherwise perfect shooting day.
He stuffs his head under the snow and comes up with a mouthful of tail feathers. A big male grouse explodes out of the snow/dogs mouth. I watch as the grouse pulls away from the dog, tail featers falling, my brain processing the birds speed,, angle, distance, shot pattern, ballistic effect of the low temperature powder. I hit the whistle and the dog skids to a stop. I pull up, slap the trigger as the comb hits my hats earflap, and the bird goes down. Dog picks up where I left off and delivers to hand. Good day to end the season.
Fast forward 9 months to September 15, 8:30 am, still in sight of the truck, working the edge of a small ridge along a creek plain with hawthorne, aspen and white pine on the high side, grey dogwood and alder on the low side. There's always young birds here early in the season however shooting them is rare because they run and if they do fly its usually too far off and impenetrably thick. But it reminds Dog what's up and gets him a nosefull scent as we work out the cobwebs.
My pantcuffs aren't even wet from the dew and Dog gets birdy. I'm on the "ridge", 6 feet above the floodplain, looking down as this unfolds. I see a grouse running away from Dog. Dog leaps over a couple logs, scurries under a stump and I lose sight, arms ready in case a bird goes up, but 15 yards might as well be a mile. I hear nothing except Dog's collar bell getting closer.
Dog swaggers up with a perfect, warm, dead, ruffed grouse in his mouth. Two bird day, 1 shot fired. Best day ever.
