To watch a good turkey dog at work is the lure of the sport. There is little shouting, no whistling (although I have Jake trained to come at the sound of my whistling like a poult), and no berating of dogs. Instead, a turkey dog ranges and circles silently, continually checking back with the hunter.

When a dog gets a snootful of turkey scent, there's no mistaking it. Jake takes off on a dead run to break the flock. Birds scatter in all directions, some running, some taking wing. Singles are chased down and also put into the air. A good break makes it easier to call them back in. What defines a turkey dog, though, is a willingness to bark when he busts the flock. It's essential, because the bark is what tells you where to set up if the break happens out of your sight.

After the flush, the dog is zippered inside a camouflaged bag and settles in with the hunters at the flush site, most often falling sound asleep. It's your turn now, and it's going to take some calling chops to close the deal. But somehow, when you're turkey-dogging, pulling the trigger feels almost anticlimactic.