Daisy howled the whole length of Used Car Road, and Mitch turned down his pre-hunting playlist to let dog excitement and dirt road crunching and old truck rattles fill the cab. After six miles of Daisy yowling and Mitch grinning, we spilled out of his truck and into the pre-dawn cold, and Mitch let Daisy explode from the truck bed. She raced every which way, sucking in all the good scents of sagebrush and dust and Autumn air and replacing them with the foulest farts I’ve smelled in my life, even though Mitch said Daisy’s way past her prime now, and I should’ve been there when she was a pup and ate that whole package of cookies off his dad’s kitchen counter.
The First Rule of Hunting
