So I sat home, crocheting, until yesterday afternoon, when I loaded up Rocinante, picked up the eldest from school and headed out for one of my secret spots, this secret spot, in fact. It didn't disappoint...
That's a two-man limit reached with plenty of time left over for us to sit back against the cool metal of the stock tank, drink some cold, gushing windmill water, and take in the gorgeous sight of the undulating waves of the evening flight silhouetted against the setting sun. Most long walks are worth it. Most roads aren't.
A damn fine day, and I have to brag just a little: He shot that limit (including three doubles!) in two boxes of shells, with a few left over. Of course, dumb, young-of-the-year birds, calm winds, and an open choke helped, but hell, I know a lot of grown men who can't get a limit of mourning dove in two boxes of heat-seeking missiles, much less two boxes of shotgun shells.
He's become quite fond of - and getting quite deadly with - that old 1100, the same gun with which I shot my first dove, and quail, and duck, and squirrel. Yes, I'm almost exclusively a two-barrel man now, but I cannot deny my heathen, gas-operated, three-shot past. At least it doesn't have a plastic stock and some moron "celebrity" hunter's endorsement, right?