Posted by
L.P. Garnell on Thursday, January 24, 2008 10:45:58 AM
The Pointing Dog
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