Style, you
either have it or you
don't. And if you have it, you have it
all the time.The Rogue Goes to the Dogs
by Tux Toledo
Page 13
"It
means that this entire area is open." He swept the horizon
with his arm. "The birds aren't planted. They're
out there somewhere in their natural habitat. We can go
anywhere to find them. Spectators will follow on horseback."
"Yes, Al told me about that."
"But if you want to stay here, fine."
"I've got these," I held up the binoculars. "James will
wander around."
"You know best," Nick said.
I climbed up to the top of the transporter. Nick handed me a
folding chair.
"Want something to drink?" he asked.
"Thank you, but I have my own." I pulled a leather-covered
flask from inside my tweed coat. It was filled with Aberlour
A'bunadh single malt scotch. In case you don’t know, Aberlour
A’bunadh is a cask strength scotch whiskey – just like in the old days.
"Save some for me," Nick said. He mounted his horse and rode
off with Concorde.
I settled into my chair, took a sip from my flask for fortification,
and readied my binoculars. The event started and I must admit
that it was interesting. Each contestant took off on
horseback with his dog running several hundred yards ahead.
If the dog found a quail he would suddenly turn into a statue, tail
pointed skyward. It was as if you were looking at a stuffed
animal. Exciting in a reserved, controlled sort of way.
When Nick took to the field the same thing happened. There
must have been fifty spectators, all on horseback, following
him. Concorde ran with poise and confidence. Then
he too froze. He had found a bird. Well, he should
have found one. Nick dismounted to stir the quail but there
was no quail to be stirred. The mounted spectators
groaned. Concorde had failed again.
© 2008 David Biagini