The GPS said my dog was 300 yards down a boulder-strewn gully. I stumbled over rocks and sage, and ten agonizing minutes later found the young wirehair staunch, one front leg raised. The chukar covey roared skyward, and I made a go-to-hell shot down the hill at 50 yards.
I missed, but not because of the Pointer shotgun I’d shouldered. It had been functioning fine in the field and on the range and turning heads, too. But in this case, only a Star Trek transporter could have beamed me into range of those devil birds.
