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My first pheasant hunt of the season was a solo affair from the start, except for the company of the dog. After avoiding the general busyness of opening day, I took off midweek when my usual hunting partners were occupied with day jobs and drove 30 miles north of town to a stretch of cover one Gun and one dog can hunt effectively on their own. The landowner is an elderly ranch widow I've known for years. When I stopped at her house, she came out to the truck to pat Rocky, my yellow Lab, and then we jawed about the weather (inevitable in ranch country) and her health (my medical background is fair game in such circumstances). She then began a long, wistful reminiscence about her childhood on a nearby ranch and eventual marriage to her late husband, whom I had cared for when he died. She obviously needed to talk to someone, and I found her account so sincere and engaging that by the time she finished I'd nearly forgotten why I'd come.

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