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Rascal and I were hunting woodcock in an unfamiliar river bottom when we lost each other. I'm still not sure how it happened. One minute he was bounding along before me, disappearing and reappearing intermittently in dense tangles of saplings; a moment later he was simply gone. For several minutes I walked back and forth on the riverbank calling his name with the ascending pitch of panic. It was early October and the wind was blowing loudly in the yellowed cottonwood leaves, which seemed to absorb my voice.

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