Day Three: A Hunt Story, Sort Of

Sometimes the story of a day's hunt doesn't say much about shots fired or birds in the bag...

- Text and photos by Nancy Anisfield

On day three of our annual grouse and woodcock hunt in Eustis, Maine, the dogs stirred well before o'dark thirty. A German shorthair elbow was gouging my ribs, so I hauled Prairie off the bed and slipped quietly out the door in deference to my roommate, Cindy, who was still snoring under her blanket. I let Prairie out to pee, fed her, then tiptoed back into the dark room to slide her into her crate. Fifteen minutes later, above the bathroom sink while brushing my teeth, I heard screams similar to those in The Blob when the colossal jelly glob monster rolled down from the movie theater projection room devouring everyone in sight.

“Ah! Prairie, no! Prairie, no!”

Couldn't be my dog. “That can't be Prairie — she's in her crate!” I yelled.

“Red collar? One big brown spot on her neck?”

Trouble.

Prairie had gotten caught scarfing five enormous homemade blueberry muffins off the table. Seems I hadn't latched the crate, and when Cindy shuffled into the hall, Prairie decided to top off her ProPlan with a bakery treat or two. Or five. So we tied her to the railing of the side porch and administered the “guaranteed-to-make-'em-barf” hydrogen peroxide. Seven minutes later, her lips curled back behind her ears. Her tail tucked and that unmistakable barrrh umph sound began. Several huge balls of doughy muffin surfaced (technically “resurfaced”), and with her load lightened, we were ready to go hunting.