The memory is intense.
I am standing on the edge of an overgrown field, shivering in the January wind. There is just enough snow on the ground to cover the toes of my cheap boots, and my feet feel like icicles. The only thing warm is my left ear, which is embedded with a large thorn from a multiflora rose. As the blood trickles down, I clutch the old Savage 20-gauge pump gun and shiver.
A couple hundred yards in front of me, my hunting buddy is telling the world that she is hot on the trail of a cottontail rabbit and I had better get ready.
Lou Lou the beagle did not have to worry; I am on high alert, and I don’t twitch a muscle as I watch a small clearing where I hope the rabbit will cross. Lou Lou is screaming on this track, and I know the rabbit could scoot by me at any moment; if this happens, there will be only a scant second or two for a shot.
Lou Lou is doing her part. Now I have to do mine.