It was a beautiful Saturday only a couple of weeks ago, and I sat in a foldable camouflage chair, 12 gauge over/under shotgun in hand, beneath the sparse cover of a pine tree. My host, a dozen yards away, sat uncomfortably on a bucket turned over for that purpose, his gun propped on his knee and his eyes, like those of his dog Lucy, vigilant for any sign of movement in the field before us. Another five or six men were scattered along a dirt road just out of sight. We were reminded of their presence by the intermittent echoes of shotgun blasts.
This is dove hunting.
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