‘Ol Pinfeathers
Posted on August 31, 2015 by bob in OffTheBeatenPath
She dropped the dove in his hand, shook her head, snorted, and spit a wad of wet feathers on the ground, the moisture quickly wicked away by the chalky dirt.
“Pin feathers,” he said. “Eight seasons together and she still can’t stand ‘em. But, if you’re a dog, it’s just part of dove huntin’.”
He placed the warm bird into the cooler. It was not alone. The dog took water from the squirt bottle readily, settled back into 
position at heel and awaited his next command. Occasionally she’d cough-hack, about the only protest she could make regarding the remaining and aggravating pin feathers on her tongue. He commented on the heat, how he’d been shooting doves 40 years and never seen a September this hot.
His partner patted the dog’s head in silence then glanced skyward, just in time to stand, fire and miss a high pair overhead bearing straight for the trees on their six.
“You were behind ‘em,” he said smirking, “again. Twenty seasons and you still can’t hit a high pair. You’re shooting like a girl today.”
She chuckled to herself. Her father was always good at giving advice but took poorly to receiving it. She’d hunted with him half those 40 seasons and the past few had seen his shooting and his complaining get worse.
“Will do on the next one, Daddy,” she said, scratching the crown of the dog’s head rhythmically. She had long ago dropped any offense to his gentle prodding; it was simply his way, faulted as it was, of pushing her to improve. She didn’t really need any advice however, as most of the birds in the cooler had fallen to her gun.The dog cough-hacked again and a few more pin feathers popped out.
“I think your new nickname is gonna be ‘Miss Miss’ if you keep shooting like that,” her father said.
To their left, a single dove crossed into the field. Three sets of eyes – hers, her father’s and the dog’s – tracked its movement in their direction. Otherwise motionless, her fingers slowly tightened around the grip and forearm of the sleek 20 gauge auto.
“Here’s your chance at redemption ‘Miss Miss’.”
She stood and took aim, fired and dropped the bird with a single shot. It landed in the middle of the field, a small dust cloud providing an easy mark for the dog.
“Fetch ‘em up,” she said, the dog taking off like a rocket. She returned with the dove, which quickly joined its contemporaries in the cooler.
“That was a good shot, a lucky one but a good one,” he said.
“Big words for a man who’s fired a dozen times and only killed a few birds,” she responded, becoming just a tad irritated.
“Keeps my average higher than average,” he grumped, and flicked a tick off his pant leg and back into the grass. “Fourth one today. Dog’ll surely be covered in ‘em. But, that’s what you get around here in September Miss Miss; lots of heat, bugs and misses. I can’t remember the last time that …”
She cut him off.
“You know, I’ve got a nickname for you – how about Ol’ Pin Feathers?’ Just like a bird’s pin feathers, you’re a mild irritant that goes along with dove hunting, just like heat, ticks and a few missed
The dog cough-hacked again, but it could’ve been a laugh just the same.
“Daddy, if I wanted shooting lessons I’d be at the range. If I wanted to hear complaining I’d be listening to talk radio,” she said. “But I’m here with you and I’d like to shoot a few more birds before the day’s over.”
He began to protest, or maybe defend himself, but only got a few words out.
“Tell you what,” she interrupted. “Don’t like Ol’ Pin Feathers’? Put three shells in your gun and I’ll put three in mine. I’ll take the first shot, then you, then me. Whoever ends up with the fewest birds with those three shells gets stuck with a new nickname. Got it?”
He was resolute.
“Alright, I accept.”
“Good,” she said, “cause here come two birds.”
As had been agreed, the first shot was hers. She folded the rearmost bird, winked at her father, who then stood and dropped the other. Her eyes narrowed.
“One for one,” he said, smiling for the first time all day. “Single out front!”
She turned, flicked the safety off and fired. The dove helicoptered down within a few feet. He looked at his dog, then at his daughter.
“You could at least make her work for it,” he said.
Down the field, someone hollered their names for them to look up as three dove darted over and straight away. He stood and fired, dropping the closest one. Several other birds entered the field on their right.
“Last ones,” she said. “Don’t miss.”
His daughter took her time, just as he’d taught her over the years, led the bird, pulled the trigger and swung through the shot. The dove hit the ground with a thud just as another single entered the field and headed their way.
He took his time, just as his father had taught him many years ago, led the bird but just before pulling the trigger glanced over at his daughter, whose eyes were glued with anticipation to the single dove closing in on them. He saw the same little girl he’d first taken dove hunting more than 20 seasons back. He slowed his lead just before pulling the trigger and at the shot, the dove banked left and up and over the trees.
“Ha!” she screamed. “I never thought you’d miss that shot!”
“Guess it’s decided then – Ol’ Pin Feathers it is,” he said, smiling at his daughter. “We’d better get out of here. I think that last bird put you over the limit.”
Her eyes grew large, but just for a moment.
“That’s enough out of you Ol’ Pin Feathers, but we’d better get you out of the sun before you melt away and get your mutt off this field before every tick in the county catches a ride.”
The dog cough-hacked again, but it could’ve been a laugh just the same.
Niko Corley spends his free time in the woods or in the water, earning his charter boat license in 2012. Email: cootfootoutfitters@gmail.com.
