There were two- to four-foot whitecaps on Paxson’s big water along the eastern shore where we found a struggling flock of northern bluebills that had allowed themselves to get within shotgun range of the beach. Michelle and Reed pulled the sneak and managed to knock down five birds. I was reluctant to send Covey because he was young and I didn’t yet know what he was capable of.

There was ice forming on the shore, the wind was blowing out of the north a good 30 knots and the snow was sticking to all our dogs’ backs. I didn’t want to put any of the dogs in peril but I knew Covey was the “go-to” dog of our menagerie of canines at the time. What if he couldn’t hack it? If he had any trouble, I certainly wasn’t in a position to help or save him.

Michelle sent Sage and I sent Teddy for the two closest birds in shallow water. The remaining three were drifting away fast, bobbing in big water that crashed on the beach, roared in my ears and looked pretty ominous even to an experienced seaman. I gave Covey the fetch command three times and three times he delivered a fat, plump northern bluebill. I was very proud of him, and after that night, I knew I had something very special. Covey is all the dog I ever wanted. He retrieves those elusive birds over big water and deep grass, and best of all, he likes to lie patiently at my feet and pretends to listen to my stories as I sit in front of the wood stove and drink hot coffee in Ninilchik. The only problem with dogs is that they don’t live long enough. My hunting partner, Jeff Brown, has always maintained, “There was a mistake made in the overall scheme of things that their time here is short.”

Amen. If you have a "Covey,” a once in a lifetime hunting dog, cherish him!