In mid afternoon, after the four, plus, hour drive from Houston, Layla, and I pulled up at the house at our lease in McCulloch County, Texas. We had “snuck” away early from our jobs and, as expected, were the only ones there that day. All of our gang would be up the next day.
We changed from our business clothes, slipped into jeans and camo shirts and along with Gus, our Brittany spaniel, happily trotting beside us, quickly headed out to the “secret” stock tank. On an earlier trip up I had found a spring fed stock tank tucked behind a butte, or small mesa, and way off the beaten path.
About an hour before sunset, the mourning doves started coming into the water. Our set up was ideal. The tank had a rocky, gravelly bank all around, a couple of dead mesquites at one end and several live mesquites at the other end that we used for shade and concealment.
The doves came in singularly and in groups and were met with our bam, bam, bamming and soon we had neared our limits. It was great sport, and a lot of fun, watching Gus retrieve the birds that fell into the water.
Finally he rebelled. As I knocked another one down into the water, Gus walked over beside me and shook himself vigorously, liberally dousing me, and plopped down beside my foot. “Fetch him up Gus,” I commanded with no response. “Gus, fetch the bird,” more forcefully as he looked up at me and rolled over on his back! He was “done” for the day!
Trying to get Layla to retrieve the last bird for me, she declined also. It was left for me to either jump in, or to chunk rocks and cow patties at the bird to wash it close to the shore. I chose the former and unceremoniously waded out and picked it up.
So much for delegating!