The patience of a bird dog. Occasionally, I ponder the life of a dog on the road. We think of all the running and smelling and retrieving and pointing, etc., but, really, what is their life? Most of it consists of looking out the holes of a box. At what? More hunting gear and the inside of your truck bed? Hours and hours of that view, and then The Man comes along, opens the dog door, straps some bling on the neck, and sends them off- expected to never pass up a bird, bump a bird, have a slow retrieve, or make a mistake. Then, hours more in the box (while The Man has a good meal, a warm shower and a few adult beverages with his pack.) resting up for another day.
My best bird dog ever, Ruby (long ago departed), loved the box on the road. She'd curl up in GA and I would have a hard time getting her to water down on rest stops. When I opened the door to the dog box, she'd look out. If she saw pavement, she'd put her head back down, sigh, and chuff and say, "Leave me alone. I'm going to need this sleep for later!" If she saw gravel, thick woods, prairie, cut-over, wheat fields or mountains, she'd be up and ready to go.
They are amazing animals.
They are amazing animals.
