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Flush a bird in the winter and this is the look you’ll get.


A mixture of anger and annoyance, contempt and confusion. She thought you were partners. She thought that you and her had a deal . . . she puts ’em up, you put ’em down.


But you just stood there on your cross country skis, poles in hand, mumbling apologies and justifications. Something about the date and game bird seasons.


But bird dogs can’t read a calendar and don’t grasp the complexities of wildlife management systems.


So you get the cold shoulder for fifteen minutes before all is forgiven again.

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