He stood, plainly shaking, and looked at me. "Good dog," I said. This was not going the way I'd hoped. I went to his side, told him, "Leave it." Then I told him, "Heel" and started stealthily moving to the next cover. Sometime on the way there I realized that I hadn't leashed my dog. Still, he was walking easily at my side, head up and ears forward. Was I imagining it, or was he making an effort to sneak?

The next cover was a big one, but half sparse on one side with long weeds laying over it, like a bad comb-over. I stopped and Josey stopped--he was looking up at me. The wind was good for us and I tapped him on the head. Released, he high-trotted lightly through the thin grass around the thick stuff, and wove gently around corn stalks, head up. He slipped into a section of the long weeds, moving carefully, and eventually settled into a point that visibly increased in intensity.

I angled a few steps in his direction, getting ready to shoot, and two roosters flushed. I can see it now, the flight left to right, the shot just ahead, the bird's wings folding and the loud thump as it landed in the field. In the glorious elation of the moment, I cracked open the shotgun and held it over my head, dancing around and cheering wildly, yelling happily.

I don't know how long I did that. I guess not too long before I thought to look for Josey. He was still standing, leaning as far forward as a dog can without falling over. He wanted to go get that bird in the worst way. "Fetch it!" I yelled. "Fetch it!" And he launched toward the fall.

I really didn't see much of his retrieve. My eyes were watering, pretty badly. You know the wind is bad in South Dakota; it can make your eyes burn. I know I got down on my knees, and he put the bird in my hands, and we kind of rolled around on the ground for a little while.

It was like the old saying, Give a man a fish, or teach a man to fish. I had been giving my dog birds all his life, buying the birds and placing them in fields and woods for him to find. Both of us thought he was pretty good at that, admittedly wild but passable, and we'd had some great days in the field.

Who goes to South Dakota and gets one pheasant? We did. But I also got a more responsive dog, not a wild bird dog, but a dog for wild birds. My dog trusted that I knew the right thing to do. And he got a better owner, who learned you could insist on respect, with respect, without losing a friend.

It was late in the day. I cradled the pheasant in my arms, rather than stuffing it into my game bag. "Heel," I told my bird dog, and we left the field, our shadows long before us.