Like Bill Murphy I find myself laughing at the stories that are so similar to mine. In December of 1974 my brother killed himself. I was living in England and Papa told me not to come home for the funeral in Kentucky, but to come to Naples, Florida in January. We did a lot of fishing and once a week we would hunt the palmetto brush for quail. The bush was up to our elbows and we couldn't see the dog. We could hear its bell and when it stopped ringing we knew the dog was on point. The first few times the dog pointed my father would run as fast as one could through the palmetto's toward the silent bell and when the birds flushed I found myself in a position where I couldn't take a shot. The light finally came on and I too would run toward the dog and got to shoot the 16 gauge CHE. The shots were no more difficult than other wild flushed quail. It was the hunting that was difficult. We couldn't see the dog. We were in the brush at six in the morning and out by nine before the rattle snakes started moving. We had a good dog though that would find the birds.
|