In the early sixties, as a young boy, I was introduced to hunting dog tactics on Montana phez. My dad had two dogs, both of which only had 2 legs apiece. One was named John and the other was me. John and I were flushing bred, could manage the thorny thickets flushing and retrieving on command. I learned to hate the taste of pheasant early in life. John and I would come home bloodied from the thorns and dad would get a scolding from mom (I was about 6 or so and her baby at the time). I was in my thirties before I reacquired the urge to hunt pheasant. I now have a female Lab that is just past her first hunting season.
