Hunting Season

As I write, my favorite hunters are out doing their favorite thing in the world. Pheasant season opens today. My son, his black lab Decoy, Reno and a couple other friends are out tramping the fields. A wet October means there is still a lot of corn in the fields, giving the birds the advantage. No offense to the hunters, of course.

As I write Hank and Kobe (the two lemons) are snoozing in the computer room. Mick and Maddie (the two livers) are sleeping on the bed. It's a rough life. But, face it, we all hunt in our own distinct way.

Ever year at this time I remember fondly hunting with my brothers and Dad when I was little. I remember feeling excited to go, and yet, feeling bad because I was leaving Mom at home alone. I wanted to be one of the guys, but felt like it was a bad thing. Funny how our baggage can be both light and heavy at the same time.

Each time our dogs head out the front door they are on their own hunting trip. Hunt for the right spot to pee, hunt for the right place to leave a pile, hunt the pesky squirrel that messes with their heads. I don't think they carry any baggage with them when they hunt. Lucky dogs.

Hunting is a relative term. We are all hunting for something. We hunt for peace of mind, for faith, for the break we deserve in life. We hunt for someone to share our life with, and the patience to endure what we asked for. We hunt for our self, and our self worth. We hunt to find family and what it means to us. Some people never even step foot into the field of their hunt.

Some of us are surrounded by hunters, and hunting dogs. Our hunt may be for a place on the sofa to sit, room in the bed for the humans, or for a home for our foster dog. But hunt we will, with the joy of a dog (or two or three or four) by our side.