One Last Hunt
Earlier this month, my wife and I drove to Caribou Gun Club in Le Sueur, Minn., and I asked them to put four pheasants in a field. I opened the door let out our 10-year-old Lab, Albert, and for the next 45 minutes, he hunted hard, nose to the ground, quartering in front of me. Almost like he didn’t have cancer.
One by one, he flushed the roosters, I shot them, and he retrieved them. He climbed back into the truck, exhausted, and slept the entire way home.
It was Albert’s final hunt — we knew that. He died in my arms eight days later.
You can’t swing a dead pheasant without hitting a hunter who says that his or her dog is the Greatest of All Time. But, truly, Albert was.