Purple and Red
It was mid-to-late season, let’s call it December here in Pennsylvania. I can’t recall the exact date, but it was our first year hunting Ringneck Pheasants in the state, and it was proving to be worth every early alarm. I’d spent the months leading up to it scouting what I hoped would be promising cover on public game lands. Being a novice in all facets of upland hunting, I’d also tuned into a handful of seminars on pheasant habits and habitat, which helped me build a reliable rotation of two or three spots I hunted almost every weekend.
I rose early that morning to drive out to my go-to game land, about an hour and twenty minutes from the townhouse I lived in at the time in Philadelphia. During hunting season, turning in early on Friday night was standard procedure just to guarantee a good spot in the field by first light. When the alarm went off around 5:00 AM, the routine was simple: feed the dogs, layer up, and load the truck with gear I’d staged by the door the night before.
It was a crisp, biting cold morning, so I layered intentionally: thermal tights top and bottom, a neck gaiter, a beanie, my hunting vest, and a heavy sweatshirt. I planned to spend the entire day out there with the dogs. My only evening plan was a family BBQ at my brother’s place, where I’d lightly promised a fresh pheasant, though we’d see how the day unfolded. I packed a cooler and a small Bunsen burner just in case luck was on our side and I wanted to cook one fresh right there in the field.
With a long day ahead, I fed the dogs before heading out. Their morning routine is always a bit of a circus. After scrambling out of bed, we all scatter downstairs. We try to be quiet so the rest of the house can sleep, but the dogs and I get overly excited to hunt, so that quiet gets kicked to the curb pretty fast. Whichever dog slept in bed with us that night crawls out while dragging all the covers to the floor, followed by an abrupt morning shake that sounds like a jackhammer at 5:00 AM. Right after, they sit and stare at the bedroom door, whining impatiently while I roll out of bed, shivering cold and stripped of blankets.
The moment I turn the handle, Wells takes off down the hardwood hallway toward the stairs a little too fast. His unclipped nails don't offer much traction, sending him drifting around corners like a character in a Fast & Furious movie, specifically Tokyo Drift. I try to slow him down, but he's on a mission to reach his next obstacle: the back door. Wells slides down the stairs first, with Otis right on his heels. Otis bops down the steps like a rabbit, which is just as funny to watch. From there, we head out to our small fifteen-by-fifteen-foot backyard. It was less than ideal, but we made it work. While the dogs handle their business, I brew my morning coffee and prep their breakfast.
I bring their metal bowls out of the mudroom and set them on top of a crate, inevitably making too much noise and waking the house. Right nearby, we keep an airtight Yeti bucket where their food is stored. I pry the lid off, grab the mug inside, and scoop two portions for Wells and two for Otis. By this time, the dogs have heard the kibble hit the stainless steel and come rushing back inside, eager for their meal. We've trained them to sit and hold until given the command "Go get it" before they can dive in.
Today was special because it was a hunting day. To top off their kibble, I took the bowls to the kitchen counter and opened the fridge. A wave of cold air hit my face, a fitting preview for what was waiting outside. I grabbed the Greek yogurt, dolloped a spoonful into each bowl, snapped the lid back on, and shut the fridge door, once again a little too loudly for a quiet house. I grabbed the bowls, passed the sink, and poured a splash of warm water over their food.
I set their bowls down in the mudroom and gave them the command to go get it. They immediately began inhaling their food. I knew this pace wouldn't last for Otis, though. He's notoriously picky about eating the second he sees the shotgun cases come out. He gets far too amped for the hunt and loses all interest in food, though I can't say I blame him. Today was no different. Luckily, Wellington enjoys a double breakfast and happily cleans up whatever Otis leaves behind.
While the dogs finished up, I completed my morning routine and threw on the rest of my gear. Shortly after, I pulled the truck up to the curb, parked illegally, and began loading up. Larger items went into the bed first, followed by smaller supplies staged near the tailgate. Within minutes, the truck was packed with the cooler, the dogs, the 16-gauge, ammo, dog gear, and an overwhelming sense of anticipation for the day ahead.
We set off feeling overly optimistic. It was cold, somewhere in the mid-20s if I recall correctly. The ground was frozen solid with a bite in the wind that made it feel even colder. My plan was to hunt Wells for the first leg of the morning and then give Otis his turn. Otis was fresh off his stint with Grayson Guyer, so he was still piecing the puzzle together. He struggled at times to channel his excitement and keep his nose to the ground, seemingly unsure of his actual objective out there. That was about to change.
The hour-and-a-half drive felt like eternity. By the time we pulled up, the sun was just beginning to warm the ground, though frost still clung to the grass and the chilling breeze was relentless. I sat in the cab for a moment gearing up, pulling my outer layers on inside the truck to hold onto every bit of heat before stepping out into the cold. I ran through a quick mental checklist and got to work.
I threw on my hunting vest, dumped a box of shells into my pocket, powered on the dogs' GPS collars to verify a signal, put on my ear protection, and buckled the collars in place. It was time to let Wells loose, leaving Otis behind to bark protests from the cab. I gave Otis a quick reassurance that we’d be back and promised him his turn was coming.
Wells and I covered a lot of ground and heavy cover that morning without a single trace of game. No points, no flushes, no gunfire, nothing. At that point, my optimism for finding birds was wearing thin. I decided it was time to give Otis his shot, so we turned back toward the truck, feeling a little guilty for Wells.
Back at the truck, I swapped the dogs out and headed back into the field. I took a different route through a thick field bordered by heavy brush and briars along the left side. It had warmed up quite a bit and so had I, but we were still waiting on that heart-thumping moment when a dog locks on point followed by the explosion of a flush.
It didn’t take long for the script to flip. Within a couple hundred yards, I watched Otis hit the brakes, swing hard to the left, and freeze dead in his tracks with his tail fanned high. I closed the distance quickly. Deep in the thicket, I caught the vibrant flash of a rooster’s green, purple, white, and red head. The only thing left was getting into the brush to push the bird up.
I took two steps into the briar-infested brush, and the pressure was enough to make the pheasant break. It erupted out of cover, flying low and cutting to the left. I mounted the shotgun, let the bird clear the thick branches, and squeezed the trigger. The sharp smell of gunpowder filled my cold nostrils. Finally, that heart-thumping point and the anticipation of the flush had come together, and Otis had executed it to perfection.
Otis broke point instantly and rushed after the downed bird. No formal retrieve was made, but that hadn't been taught yet and wasn't expected. The pure joy and pride in his eyes when I praised him while he held that bird in his mouth is something I hope every hunter gets to experience. There is something deeply rewarding about telling a working dog "good boy" after months of repetition, waiting for the exact moment everything clicks.
When they look up at you without a word, it's as if they're asking, "Did I do good? Thanks for trusting me out here." Take mental pictures of those moments and hold onto them. It is a genuine privilege to handle a working dog and share those quiet triumphs in the field together.
