Wings

I fell asleep so quickly and so soundly last night that I hadn’t even put on moisturizer or plugged in my phone. I simply fell asleep with the device, and my best intentions, in my hand.

It had been a long and excellent day in the sun, the sort of early-fall weather ordered specifically for bird hunting: cool enough to enjoy a long walk through dense grass cover with a heavy shotgun over your shoulder, warm enough to shed a layer once the dogs got moving.

The dogs were squealing and rattling their kennels in eager anticipation from the beds of trucks. The women pulled on their blaze-orange caps and shooting vests with the easy competence of people who knew what all the pockets were for. This would be my first hunt of this kind.

Apparently, a friend of a friend of a friend has both a membership to a game farm with well-stocked fields and also a job as a “rep” for a hunting apparel company that sponsored the day’s activities.

When I first sent a message to The Rep asking for a place in the hunt, I was met with warm regards and a guaranteed spot, followed shortly thereafter by a “follow” on all social media platforms. She’d been engaged with my online movements over the last couple weeks and I was curious to learn more about The Rep IRL.

Pulling up to the clubhouse, I opened the car door and my faded orange hat immediately blew off the dash and started down the gravel drive without me.

The Rep gracefully trapped it beneath her foot by the strap, picked it up, and handed it back.

“Thanks,” I said. “Nice reaction time.”

“You must be—” she said, holding out her hand.

I took it, and what followed was the least agreeable handshake I have ever participated in.

Her pinky bent inward and nested itself directly into my palm, forcing her ring finger outward and around the fleshy pad beneath my pinky. The configuration effectively disabled both of us from producing anything resembling a normal squeeze.

We were both exceedingly aware of this and drew absolutely no attention to it.

The Rep led the way to the front door.

Inside the clubhouse, I wiped my feet on a bear-hide rug and looked up at a large stone mantel laden with taxidermy of every description. Beyond it were a pool table and an already-full bar, despite it being lunchtime on a Saturday, which I took as encouraging evidence that I had chosen the event well.

The Rep locked her big blue eyes onto mine, completely ignored my travel companion, and took my hand again, more carefully this time, to place a pen in it.

“Sign the waiver here, and then let’s chat by the fire.”

I signed the waiver and was nudged by my companion.

She leaned over and whispered into my ear.

“Oh, she likes you.”

I dismissed this assertion. But it did make me wonder. I began sleuthing and came to find out, she hadn’t followed anyone else on social media.

Only me.

(And the only reason she had been able to find me on social media in the first place involved a recent grocery-store mishap, which is another story entirely.)

Once we reached a quorum and the entire party had arrived, The Rep divided us into groups of three. Longtime friends Ally & Leah would stay together. Cate & Dawn, who had been engaged in a long-term monogomous committed life partnership for quite some time, would stay together. This meant, happily, that I was left with my travel companion.

Then each group was assigned a guide.

Of course, The Rep was ours.

We made our way to our assigned field. The property boasts 450 acres of upland bird-hunting ground spread across nineteen fields. It’s early yet, so everything was still thick and green, with cover high enough in places to swallow a dog. To keep the dogs from tiring too quickly, we would rotate between three of them throughout the afternoon.

As I said, the dogs were practically bursting in their kennels. The ladies donned their vests. We loaded the shotguns.

I lent the Browning to my travel companion because it was lighter, newer, and fitted with an adjustable choke. I took the twelve-gauge Winchester, which had a full choke and roughly the maneuverability of a fence post.

Even though I had not asked for a demonstration, The Rep was kind enough to show me how to hold it.

She stepped in behind me, reached both arms around my body, adjusted the gun against my shoulder, repositioned my hands, and generally manipulated me into the correct shooting posture with the focused professionalism of a golf instructor who had failed to notice there were other people present.

My travel companion’s eyes were laughing at me.

I silently scolded her for being rude.

Funny how the hands I don’t want on me never seem to hesitate.

We started into the fields.

Before we had even reached the first pass, I spotted the markings of a rooster along the edge about thirty yards ahead. A moment later, it disappeared back into the grass.

We brought over the old dog and sent him in.

He worked the cover, nose down, weaving through the grass until suddenly he stopped.

Five minutes in, we had our first flush.

“Ready—go!”

The bird exploded upward.

Before I could blink, mount the gun, locate the safety, remember which direction the safety went, or otherwise participate meaningfully in events, The Rep fired.

The rooster dropped. Head shot clean off!

Well.

That’s how it’s done, I suppose.

She picked up the bird with the composure of someone picking up a scarf she had dropped, tucked it away, and looked at me with the pleased, expectant expression of someone who knew perfectly well she had just put on a show and was waiting to see whether I’d been impressed.

There were other opportunities.

Quite a few, in fact.

At one point later in the afternoon, the dog went rigid again.

We moved in.

The bird flushed.

I shouldered the Winchester, fired, and, against considerable statistical probability, hit it.

Sort of.

The rooster came down somewhere ahead in the grass, and for approximately three seconds I experienced the enormous satisfaction of having successfully shot something.

Then the dog found it.

The bird was very much alive.

One wing hung oddly, but its legs were working perfectly well, and it had decided that whatever arrangement we had made regarding dinner was open to renegotiation. The dog pursued it through the brush while I stood there with my shotgun experiencing a rapid transition from I did it! to Oh dear God, I didn’t do it. to How do I do it now?

The Rep caught up, took the rooster, and dispatched it quickly by wringing its neck. Then she held it upside down until its body went still.

And, after a moment, we kept walking.

The day went on like that, combing through the fields behind ecstatic dogs. We had plenty of opportunities, probably fifteen flushes, and only five birds to show for them. Considering the modest amount of shooting skill I currently possess, and the fact that I insist we attribute at least some of my failures to the full choke, I was perfectly content to have a small dinner to take home.

(All to myself, of course. No one else in my family will eat anything unless it was raised expressly for slaughter and passed through a USDA-inspected facility before arriving discreetly on Ikea crockery, where no unpleasant questions need be asked.)

Afterward, we rendezvoused back at the clubhouse. Once all the groups had returned, we counted thirteen birds. The kitchen staff came out, selected a few from the rack, and carried them inside. Not long afterward they reappeared battered and fried, and we ate a genuine field-to-table feast with spicy bourbon barbecue sauce.

Cate and Dawn sweetly sought me out afterward and invited me to their women’s shooting night on the outskirts of town. I was honored. What an inclusive group.

Eventually I threw my rooster into the hatch and made my way home.

I had thought it might be nice to dress with company, but it wasn’t meant to be. There will be other hunts, and better company for them.

By the time I crawled into bed, I was dog-tired. And now, after all of this, an unexpected question keeps returning to my mind:

Should I get a retriever?