Top_Heavy's World

The shot was tough, 40 yards straight up, coming from infront, going to pass straight overhead. My instinct was to swing ahead and shoot, but in doing so I would lose the bird and not know the exact lead. I quickly turned my shoulders in the direction the bird was flying and I mounted the gun. The Montefeltro recoiled and the duck, a hen wood duck folded neatly, dead in the air. Her body gained speed as it plumeted back to earth, the thump unmistakable as it hit the mud bank. The body sunk into the soft mud to the point only the tail and one leg was visible. My lab couldn't pull the duck free, but tried whole heartedly. I called "D" off and pulled it from the small crator in the bank. It was a beautiful mature duck. Full of breast and wing, and lacking the pin feathers the young of year birds have. I admired the plump feeling, she was heavy for her size. I rinsed her feathers carefully, as though she were still alive. Her yellow eye ring became vivid again. I stroked the feathers and admired the band on her leg.
The next flock came in on Paul's side. He swung through and was able to scratch one down on his second shot. Paul moved to recover the bird across the flooded willows we hunted. This willow patch was special to me. I spent years following the birds, trying to find the "Mother Load", the special spot where all of the ducks slide through one cut. The secluded tree that is used as a reference by most ducks on their way from roost to feeding areas. The perfect spot that is hard to get to, deep in the woods, far from the weekend hunters, and too dry to allow boat access. A two mile walk was the first leg in getting here, but it was worth every step... the flock came in from the left. I was so busy watching Paul that I did't even notice them, a probable family group. 5 ducks, 3 drakes and 2 hens. I swung on the brightest drake and missed, behind as he shifted gears and winged for places far off. I too proved, a constant swing is a good thing, and I scratched my second woody down cleanly. He floated there as the ripples went out from his landing. "D" was all I had to say. The gentle command released the singe greatest dog I have ever seen. Of field trial champion stock, trained by love and thousands of hours in the field... "Drop"... she turned her head as if saying "I want to hold it a little longer". I stroked her ear and laughed. She was so much smarter than I am. I sat next to her in that grassy patch for the rest of the morning. Paul never did shoot his second duck, not for lack of shooting,just not much "luck". As the morning sun came up we headed for the truck. I finally asked for my duck, she moaned a little, but she dropped him into my outstretched hand. A perfect "mounter" quality drake... and he was banded too.
This was the second opening day that I shot 2 woodys and both were banded. 9 banded woodys in all grace my lanyard, I worked incredibly hard for them, but I know it still carries a lot of luck. I miss the days of black labs, wood ducks and mornings with my brothers. The demands of growing up, families and careers have forced the world to speed up, cancer cought up to my "D"... there will never be another like her.

I gave up birds when she went away. Now I only hunt big game and the occasional turkey or goose. My passion for all birds died when she did. Her story is just beginning here, though it feels like it has been a lifetime of lifetimes since she passed. "D" will soon be a common topic again... for too long I have suffered the sorrow and loss alone. I need to finally let it go, for all the world to see how fortunate I was, to have spent 13 years with her. The first, the deepest and the best love I ever had.