Article by Colin Kearns
When our crew of hunters stepped out of the shuttle—an old school bus painted dark green and equipped with two gun racks inside—a strange thought hit me: We’re not so different from the gun dogs. Let me explain.
Minutes earlier, as we drove past strips of corn and sorghum, the sight of a lone ringneck pheasant running away from the bus was enough to send one person in our party, Laci Warden, in a fit of laughter that was equal parts giddy and crazy. We all sort of stared at her. “What, guys?” she said. “I’m excited!” Soon the rest of us in the bus were cracking up, too. Which brings me back to the dogs.
The second they sprung from their crates, they were hysterical—literally pissing and shitting with excitement. It was as if they were begging to be released into the field.
They wanted to kill some pheasants. Just like us.
They wanted to kill some pheasants. Just like us.
Turns out, none us had to wait long. Ten minutes into our first push, one of our guides yelled: “ROOSTER ROOSTER!” Shotgun cracks replied. One of the Labs rushed to the dead bird, and soon our first pheasant of the trip was in the game vest.
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