Golly didn't have a vicious bone in his body but he was far from affectionate. About as cuddly as a Cape buffalo, Golly required no petting or ear scratching. Just as well because no one wanted the 70-pound lummox in their lap anyway. His idea of playing with people was to mow them down like a runaway bus and then go back and drool on them. Golly wouldn't go near anyone just to be petted but he loved water and would hunt you down like a process server to shake a couple gallons of it on you. He was the friendliest wet dog I've ever known.

Since Golly's time, the shorthairs I followed have all reminded me of him--intelligent, predatory and cunning.

Golly did not run like a cheetah. He had the typical gait of a continental bird dog and, though seldom out of sight, he kept busy searching for quail. He was truly a predatory gun dog and a very smart searcher, able to track down running quail (some old Florida "crackers" derisively called them "Mexican" quail but I'm pretty sure they hadn't run that far) like a beagle. Single birds were his specialty and even the most imaginative of them were unable to hide from him in gopher holes or briar patches. Golly pointed the occasional quail that flew like grouse into trees and he was relentless at hunting down crippled birds but I'm almost sure he ate some that went down out of our sight.

Doc was a snapshot artist whose gun was often empty before the rest of us started shooting. He claimed just about every bird that fell including some that dropped while he was reloading. Golly, on the other hand, fetched every bird he found to Gary, leaving the matter of sorting out who shot what to his boss. This gave rise to a series of amusing footraces among Doc, his English setter Dick, pointer Harry, and Golly.

The question of who ended up in possession of a given bird was often settled under protest by Dick and Harry, who delivered their retrieves to whomever yelled loudest. But it was only Golly with his infallible dead-bird ability and his unwavering loyalty to Gary that kept Doc from deep-frying just about every bird our party brought down.

About this time, an interstate highway came under construction through part of our favorite hunting grounds, wreaking havoc among several of our home coveys. We were combing a jack oak ridge that ran along the new right-of-way one morning when Golly came in behind us with a live quail in his huge jaws. We had not shot at any birds in the area and any rumors of this one's demise would have been quite premature. It nearly flew off when Golly handed it over and he had to grab the agitated bird again.

We continued along the ridge after adding Golly's bird to our bag and, in a few minutes, here came the dog with another healthy quail in his mouth. This time Gary and I followed Golly back to the right-of-way, over the rough-graded eastbound lanes and into the median ditch wherein the dog squirmed out of sight into a culvert. We could not see what was going on in the pitch-black pipe but the shorthair soon backed out of it with yet another bobwhite. Gary collared Golly and when I went to inspect the other end of the culvert I saw quail trying desperately to squeeze through a tiny slit that remained uncovered after dozers pushed dirt over the opening.