Didn't I answer this on another forum, Blooch? No matter....
It was 1971 or 2, and I returned from living in the LA madness after one of those late night phone calls no one wants to get. Pop had an infarction, and was scheduled for some bypass surgery. Survival rate after surgery was about 60% at the time, and survival rate w/o surgery was effectively zero. So, I came home to help out.
It was early September. The surgery was scheduled for the following day, and Pop and I were puttering around the barn, doing small jobs to keep busy and keep our minds off the crisis. Then we noticed that doves were coming in to water at the spring down the hill in the bottom of the pasture.
Plans were laid. The Quarter Horses were stabled, and I went up to the house and returned with Pop's SKB 20 ga, a High Standard 20 ga pump, some shells,a lawn chair for Pop, and Mac's Gogo Girl, Pop's field trail Champion Shorthair.
We eased down the hill and set up near the spring, Pop sitting at ease in the chair holding his SKB. I set up nearby, and the doves started coming in again.
Doves were a passion with us, and I gave an acceptable account, getting a dove for every 2 shells or so. Pop took few shots, but when he swung that SKB,a dove fell, and Girl would bring them back to Pop.
The flight petered out,and as I started over to Pop's position, a late comer showed and he dropped it. It fell close and he reached out and caught it in midair. We looked at each other and laughed together, gathered up our stuff and slowly walked back up the hill. Pop looked tired and grey, as he usually did these days, but seemed happy.
Mom got home from work about the time we got to the house. Before we went into the house, Pop looked back down the hill and said,"It's been a good day". He had not missed, taking 10 dove for 10 shots fired. He picked his shots, taking incomers, and made each one count.
It was his last time hunting. He survived the surgery, but "died" and was revived on the table. Enough damage had been done that hunting, or even just following those great Shorthairs, was not possible.
He took it with his usual courage, and lived a depleted life without much complaint another 19 years,until God called another old soldier home.
If there is a just God, and I believe so, his spirit and that of some good dogs get to work through some great cover now and then in Heaven.