Sitting at my feet is a 25-pound companion who never thinks of herself. She was made by God to assist men and women in the acquisition of food, specifically cuisine that takes wing. Her ancestors flushed the partridges and pheasants of a field so that the hawks and falcons of the landed gentry could strike them from the air. When they fell to the ground dazed and confused, these little wonders with God-given ability to smell beyond the wildest imaginations of mere humans would dutifully scoop up the prey into soft mouths. Never thinking of these delicacies for personal consumption, they happily bounced back to the gamekeeper to deposit the prized fowl seeking only a pat on the head and the “good girl” or “good boy” they live for.

My current edition of the descendants of these companions of nobles and kings is a black and white English lady named Annie. Packed into her little frame is a big-dog heart ready to scour field or pond for the wonder of a bird or duck with an enthusiasm and reckless abandon that never quits, never doubts, and risks life and limb to find, flush, and fetch the feathered prize for the true object of her unbounded devotion and love…me.

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