I'll be honest, after driving around the country to say Mass and then to Waco to visit the sick in hospital, I wasn't too keen on going dove hunting.
But my philisophical pal, GWB, tipped up looking for action, so off we went to catch the last two hours of dove season.
The clouds were grey and threatening and a chill wind blew over the waterlogged fields. It felt like Yorkshire, in June, and I wished I'd worn Wellingtons as I walked the treelines, hoping for a bird or two to rocket overhead.
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| Old Skool Lancruiser |
They didn't, but that was alright, it was simply good to be out in the field, shotgun in hand. Armed walkabout over, I joined GWB at the decoys and waited. Soon enough, a couple of feathered predators were lured in by the Mojo and flew towards the setting sun. An easy shot, one went down.
Then a couple of squadrons came in fast, heading west; shoot, pump, and shoot again! I missed, but GWB brought one down with a snap-shot from his 20 gauge O/U Franchi Instinct.
Dove cleaned, it was back to the Compound for poppers. Fortunately, someone had the good sense to bring along a quorum of previously shot birds from an earlier hunt. The tasty morsels found their way to the grill and feasting commenced.
And that was closing day.
God bless,
LSP
