End of the Season: 2004-2005
It's January 31 and another great bird hunting season with the Club has come to an end. Tj (my Wirehaired Pointing Griffon) lay curled on the passenger seat as I drove across Kansas on our way home last night. I realized she had hardly moved over the last hundred miles. I stroked her shoulder and, without lifting her head, she moaned her pained approval. I felt that same fatigue, as well as many pains of my own. My right knee, which had been hyper extended and damaged 35 years ago, was aching. The surgery 3 years ago had helped, but hunting every weekend since late October had again taken a toll.
I felt satisfied and ready for the off-season, although I would never admit that to my wife. It's important for her to believe that hunting is an obsession over which I have little control. Our lives together just go more smoothly that way.
I reflected on TJ's development over her four hunting seasons. The first year had been almost magical. In her enthusiasm for the field she had overrun and flushed a lot of birds, but once on point, she was staunch and her retrieves were to hand without fail.
To the degree that the first year was great, the second season was disastrous. She became what my father called an 80-acre dog. Once released to hunt, she would clear 80 acres of CRP of any fur or fowl without regard to her hunting partner (me). She stopped being a pointer and became strictly a flusher and chaser. After getting what turned out to be good advise, I followed her across the 3 states of the Club's leases carrying my unloaded shotgun. The advise had been simply: "don't shoot anything TJ doesn't point." By the end of the second season, she was again pointing. We had survived the year of adolescence.
TJ's third season was one of great progress. She began to block running pheasants. It was not unusual to see her "get birdy and track for a short distance." She would then circle 30-40 yards down and across the wind with her nose high. It was wonderful to watch and appreciate.
 This year, her tracking of wounded birds was a highlight. On a recent hunt, she tracked a wing-tipped rooster over a quarter of a mile across a light CRP field. As she pranced back with the pheasant held high, I was so pleased and proud.
As we drove through the Flint Hills, I reflected on what I had gained and learned from the year. It could be summed up with the picture I've attached and the phrase: "Happiness is a mixed bag of birds, getting the last mile from a pair of good boots, and sip of well-aged bourbon."
We wish you all a peaceful off-season.
Charles and TJ 
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