Cody was the best damn bird dog a man could own. Tall, proud, independent, intelligent and field smart. When the shots rang out and feathers exploded he’d be on those ducks in a heartbeat. He loved the hunt, the fields, the outdoors. After the hunt he would jump up into the truck, put his head on my leg and sleep all the way home. He’d often give up a nice cushy warm bed in front of the fire to sit by me with his head on my knee.

The doctor brought the bad news; the tumor had taken over his kidney. The best and most humane way was to put him down soon. Not let him suffer. My heart broke. I knew I made the right decision but it was so hard. I was amazed at how the tears soaked my clothing. I loved that boy. I carried his body wrapped in a blanket. Dug a hole and laid him in with his favorite comforter. Rest in peace my loyal friend. No dog will ever be your equal.

About two months later Kenny, my hunting friend, called me. He said, “Let’s shoot today. I have a dog I want you to try out.” I reluctantly agreed.

When I met him at the farm I was a bit curious to meet the new bird dog. Then Kenny helped a little Boston Terrier to the ground, I said, “What the hell is that?” He said, “That’s Buddy, a damn good bird dog.”

I laughed. Buddy stood about 11 inches tall. “That ain’t no bird dog that’s some rich bitches lap dog!” I said. Kenny said, “Now hold on, you ain’t given him no chance.”