The Notebook

He smelled her fifty metres ahead, locked on point textbook-clean. Now he's waiting, grouse in his mouth, for me to tell him he's good. That's what bird-dog hunting is.

Cooper, rookie season. The exhaustion of his first real day in the field — the one where he started to understand this wasn't a game.

The woods don't just produce game. They produce evenings like this one — and that might be the real reason we keep coming back.

January. Nothing left to hunt, but we keep walking. These are the days a dog learns the country better than any opening week could teach.

They're soaked, filthy, spent. They'd ask for nothing but to do it again. That's a wirehair for you.

November. The colour's gone, the cold is setting in. He doesn't care — there's still scent in the brush.

The marsh is another school. Cold water to the neck, wind that cuts — and a dog who brings the duck back like it's the most natural thing in the world.

First snow goose of the season. Cooper carried her back like a chick — after charging through the decoys like a maniac. We won't forget that one.

The woods end here. They know that when the cutting board comes out, there's a chance something falls. They wait. They're patient.