An ode to Ruark. And also our grandfathers. The Old Man watches as the steam rises off his coffee mug, just poured from the old rusty thermos his wife gave him so long ago. He drinks his coffee black. No cream. No sugar. It’s just easier that way. His pale, grey eyes scan the darkness for the faintest flicker of movement. His hands caress the checked wood grain of his father’s Remington, each scar and carving familiar to his touch. The Kid is drifting in and out of sleep at the other end of the small boat. He drew the short straw among his brothers and cousins and Grandpa picked…
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Dogs I Have Known
I’m not exactly sure how or when my infatuation with hunting dogs began. I came by this naturally, I suppose . . . My maternal grandfather was a quail hunting tour-de-force, almost always with a pointer or 3 leading the way. My dad raised beagles when we were very young, so gun dogs were abundant. There were always 2 or 3 in the kennels, until a litter came along. Toby and Max and Dutchess and Bear wandered through my adolescence with their tri-colored saddles and soulful howls. But somewhere, and I don’t remember the switch exactly, we ended up with a Brittany. Abracadabra was her name on paper, which we…
