By Chad Love
I was visiting family last weekend, and as I always do when I'm back in "civilization," I took a few hours to hit all the hometown bookstores, used and otherwise, that I grew up haunting. And it was at (where else) my local Barnes & Noble, as I was standing at the newsstand leafing through the various hook-and-bullet periodicals, that the guy standing next to me doing the same asked if I was a bird hunter.
I replied in the affirmative, and so in that universal manner in which two kindred souls hopelessly surrounded by alien lifeforms (In this case multitudes of post-pubescent celebrity rag readers) bond as a means of mutual survival, we chatted for a few minutes. As it (so often, these days) turns out, he was primarily a deer and turkey hunter, but also professed a keen interest in duck and pheasant hunting. I asked him if he owned a dog, and (again, as is often, these days) he replied that he didn't, and in fact had never owned a hunting dog of any kind.