He looks different in the framed photograph that sits on a shelf in the kitchen. There are boyish qualities in the smooth face and thick red hair, but it's definitely Dad. Rocky, Dad's old setter, is standing on his hind legs with his front paws in Dad's hands, almost like they are dancing. Both seem happy, not with the number of quail at their feet, but with the moment's significance. The night before my first hunt, when I was just 10 years old, I looked back and forth between the picture and my dad, across the dinner table. Dad's cheeks had become rough like sandpaper, and his hair was tinged with gray. Rocky had since retired from hunting, and Dad had a new dog. As I went to bed that night, I remember wishing that I would feel what Dad felt the day that photo was taken.