Aengus hunts close in the calf-deep snow, but he’s still 30 yards from the farmyard when the first rooster flushes. I’m 15 yards behind him. The bird cackles a warning, and the snow explodes as a dozen birds bust from the cover, all at the edge of my range. I trudge quickly ahead, and Aengus circles opposite to the downwind side. A rooster rises close. Of course, it does so with the single tree on the place—a skeletal elm—between us, but as the bird catches sight of the big black dog, it banks toward me and I roll it into the brush. More birds flush, but I don’t dare try to double. Aengus, now a decade old and experienced, also ignores the fireworks show of flying feathers and is on the dead rooster right away.