The Pointing Dog

noreply@blogger.com (L.P. Garnell) — Thu, 24 Jan 2008 17:27:00 +0000

These days his trot has developed a limp,
But you cannot tell it, when he gets their scent
When it is cold, he’s slow to untrack,
But when the trip comes, he’s a giddy pup to pack

Up in his box with just a leg up
Bouncing along, in the back of the truck,
Out in the field, fore the sun makes its run,
We sit and wait, for the emanate fun

Soon we are bathed, in its golden light,
Starting our walk, in dying night
Shooting time has come, and their on the ground
Back and forth moving, and running around

Into the wind, he knows he must wade
As some journeyman master, doing his trade
Sniffing and smelling and tasting the air
When he finds it, he’ll take me there

Upon arrival, he goes on point
Not moving a muscle, nor bending a joint
No matter how far,
Or, how slow I do walk

He waits for the flush,
And, the sound of the shot
Dead birds are down,
Then, gathered up

Another fine job,
Then, back to work,
When the day’s done,
We load up, and go home

Tomorrow I’ll work,
And he’ll, chew a bone
Until, the next time,
He’ll patiently wait

Sitting and looking, and licking his plate,
Quail and quail hunting, all in his head
Indeed, yes, he is-
A fine pointing dog, named Fred

Something to Think About

The Pointing Dog