A few weekends ago, I was reminded about some of the reasons I love dogs so much. My dad, a friend of his and myself took my parent's dog, Sasha, out to a local game farm for her first pheasant hunting excursion and it was an absolute blast.
Sasha is a one-year-old golden doodle (half golden retriever, half poodle). At home, she's spoiled rotten so I wasn't sure what to expect from her out in the field, but she was impressive for a rookie.
I absolutely love watching a bird dog work. Their nose to the ground when they're on a trail, running full speed, dashing in and out of brush and grass with seemingly no regard for personal well-being. And then the joy in their eyes after they've flushed a bird and are retrieving it to their owner. It's great.
While Sasha certainly had some rough edges, she did flush some birds and seemed to be working to find pheasant scent. She also was genuinely excited to be out there, running around with what seemed like endless energy. She did wear out as the day went on, however, and started watching the other dog we took along. She'd still work in spurts but it seemed like she was content with her eventful morning and, to be honest, I was happy with her morning too. I think my dad, the proud owner, was also pleased that she didn't embarrass him and that there is hope that she can one day turn into a good bird dog.
The next time I stop by my parents' house and am mauled by Sasha as I enter the door before soon chasing her around the house trying to get my shoe or coat or something else she has decided to play with, I'll have a little more respect for her. She's a bird dog now.

