I got the call in January. My father, Fred, had suffered a stroke and was confined to a hospital bed. That he'd lived an exemplary life ¿¿¿ no smoking, no heavy drinking, and an abundance of physical activity ¿¿¿ made his malady seem like cruel, undeserved punishment.

A month after his stroke he'd ditched his walker and taken to a cane. But we hit a wall in March when I brought up our annual central Montana antelope hunt.

"Greg," he said, "I'm not sure about hunting again. I'm seeing some improvement in my leg, but look at these toes ¿¿¿ they won't bend. I'm not going to put in for a tag this year."

"Dad," I said. "That antelope hunt is eight months away. You're putting in for a tag!"

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