The First Point
Posted 09/07/2025
Sammy hadn’t planned on buying a bird dog. Not yet at least.
He was supposed to be in a downtown apartment filled with shiplap walls, farmhousefurniture and wedding photos. Now it was quiet — painfully so — except for the sharp little claws tapping across laminate flooring and the smell of whatever the hell “puppy formula” was supposed to be. The dog — a wiry, liver-spotted German Shorthaired Pointer with a name that hadn’t quite stuck yet — stood in the middle of the living room chewing on one of Sammy’s Danner boots like it owed him money.
The ring had come off two months ago. Clean tan line still there. Some days he rubbed it out of habit, like phantom pain.
“Hey,” Sammy said, half-heartedly. The dog glanced up and wagged once, as if to say we’re both starting fresh, bud.
The crate was too small. The leash too long. He’d spent $1,200 at Cabela’s trying to re-create the hunting memories his dad used to tell him about — cotton fields, piney woods, and his granddad’s old pointer named Jake who could find a covey with his eyes closed. Sammy didn’t have cotton fields. He had a city park, a stack of training books, and a heart that felt like a half-finished house—framed, but empty.
He pulled out his phone and typed: “how to train bird dog quail whoa command” then changed it to: “can a guy train a pointer alone after divorce?”
As if on cue to break the silence, the dog tilted its head and barked once at the pigeons outside the window. Sammy stared a little too long at the way its body tensed. There was something buried in that bark — instinct, maybe. Or purpose. He didn’t know which one of them needed it more.
It was early — maybe too early — and fog still rolled low over the wet Bermuda grass of the local soccer fields. Sammy was bundled in an old canvas jacket that smelled like cedar and regret, standing there blowing a shiny brass whistle he’d bought off a gun dog forum at 2 a.m. The dog, who he’d finally named Boone, didn’t respond to tone, treat, or even yelling. The first time Sammy tried to use the whistle, the dog took off like it was the starting pistol at the Kentucky Derby. What did catch Boone’s attention
however was a low-flying mockingbird that sent him sprinting across the field like an
over-caffeinated linebacker.
“Boone! No birds! Not that kind of bird!”
An old man walking a dachshund gave Sammy a wide berth, likely mistaking him for a camo-wearing lunatic. Boone circled back eventually, tongue out, tail wagging, eyes bright. Sammy squatted down and tried to act calm, like the videos said.
“Good boy,” he muttered, more to himself than Boone.
Later that night, with a bag of frozen peas on one knee and a broken check cord coiled on the floor, Sammy called his dad.
“You remember how Granddad trained Jake?” he asked.
His dad chuckled. “He mostly hollered and prayed.”
Sammy grinned, leaning back in his kitchen chair. “Sounds about right.” They talked for a while. His dad told him stories — some he’d heard a hundred times, but tonight they landed differently. He remembered the way his granddad’s truck smelled like gunpowder and coffee, and how the dogs always rode up front, never in the bed. He remembered hearing about “the one clean shot” and how no man worth his salt ever wasted a bird.
“Granddad ever use a whistle?” Sammy asked.
His dad laughed. “Only when he was mad at the referees. He trained dogs with a boot sole and a sixth sense. You think Jake learned ‘whoa’ from a YouTube video?”
Sammy smiled. “So you’re saying I’m screwed.”
“No, I’m saying you’ve got more tools than we ever did. Just gotta figure out which ones are worth a damn. You gettin’ out in the field with him yet?”
“Sort of,” Sammy said. “Mostly we’re chasing butterflies and peeing on city park signs.”
“Well, that's where it starts. Dogs don’t teach themselves to find birds in air conditioning. Get him on wild ground and trust the nose.”
Sammy nodded slowly. “You ever think I’m doing this for the wrong reasons?”
His dad was quiet a beat. “No. I think you’re doing it for the right ones. You just don’t know ‘em all yet.”
Sammy blinked hard and looked away from the window. The fog outside was lifting.
“I’ll keep after it,” he said.
“I know you will. Men in this family are stubborn as hell.”
“Yeah,” Sammy said, smiling. “Guess I come by it honest.”
The grass was knee-high and wet enough to soak through his gaiters by 8 a.m.
Sammy had borrowed a buddy’s property—some overgrown pasture and hardwood draws just outside Deport. Nothing fancy. No planted birds. No launchers. Just Boone, a whistle, and whatever wild quail might still scratch around in the brush.
They had been walking for over an hour. Boone zigzagged ahead, too wide sometimes, nose to the ground, tongue lolling. Sammy was learning not to call out and get scared every time the dog was out of sight. That kind of trust didn’t come easy—not for a guy whose life had recently split in two.
He reached the fence line and leaned against a cedar post. The fog was starting to burn off, the sun just beginning to bleed through the pine canopy. Sammy raised his hand and started to whistle Boone in when he noticed the dog had stopped.
Not sniffing. Not creeping. Stopped.
Twenty yards out, Boone stood frozen. Front paw lifted, tail straight as an arrow, eyes locked on a stand of switch grass that looked no different from any other. Sammy held his breath. He didn’t move. He didn’t speak.
There it is, he thought. That’s what they talked about.
The world went completely still. No traffic. No email alerts. No weight on his chest from the divorce or the bills or the future he used to plan with someone else. Just this dog, this patch of grass, and this inherited hunger that somehow made him feel whole again.
And then—seemingly from under his feet—a covey of bobwhite quail exploded into the air. Boone didn’t flinch. Sammy didn’t shoot. He couldn’t have if he tried. His hands were shaking too bad, and anyway, the moment wasn’t asking for that.
It was asking for stillness. For silence. For reverence.
The birds vanished into the tree line. Boone broke his point and looked back, ears up, tail wagging like he knew.
Sammy walked over slowly and knelt beside him. “Good boy,” he whispered, scratching behind the ears.
And for the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel like a guy trying to go back to something. He felt like a man building something new.
The sun was high now, warming the midday air. Sammy dropped the tailgate on his old Chevy and looked out over the waving field of bluestem. Boone leapt up beside him, panting and filthy, tongue out like he’d just won the World Series.
No birds in the vest. No shots fired. But it didn’t feel like a loss.
Sammy popped the cooler open, grabbed a bottle of water and a sandwich that he split with Boone. The dog took it gently, like he’d done it a thousand times, and curled up beside him—muddy, satisfied, completely still.
For a long while, neither of them moved. Sammy watched the shadows creep out across the pasture. He could hear the wind tickling the grass and a far-off motor humming somewhere out of sight. It was quiet. The kind of quiet that doesn’t ask anything from you.
He thought of his granddad’s old voice, deep and worn: “You don’t really know yourself ‘til you walk behind a good dog.”
Back then, it sounded like old-man lore. But now? Sitting here with his boots kicked off and a dog that finally trusted him—he got it. Boone hadn’t just helped him find birds. He’d helped him find stillness. Helped him be alone without feeling lonely.
This wasn’t a second act. It wasn’t a fix. But it was something better—a reset. A new page. A slower heartbeat.
Sammy leaned back, hands behind his head, and looked up at the last smears of orange in the sky.
“We’ll get ’em next time, partner,” he said.
Boone thumped his tail once, then closed his eyes.
Epilogue
The photo sat in a cracked leather frame on Sammy’s desk. Boone, standing tall on a rise of prairie grass, nose high, tail straight, sky wide and blue behind him. Sammy had taken it with an old Polaroid camera he found at a pawn shop, trying to capture a piece of
something that couldn’t be stored in pixels.
It was nearly a year since that first hunt. The training wasn’t perfect, and neither was Sammy. But they had birds now—real ones—and stories, too. The kind his future kids might hear, just like he did. About a wild pup who wouldn’t listen. About a missed covey rise. About quiet mornings and old instincts coming back to life.
His job still demanded too much. The city still moved too fast. But Boone didn’t care about traffic or emails or who texted back. Boone cared about birds. About the land. About purpose.
And in some strange, faithful way, Sammy had started to care about the same.
He was supposed to be in a downtown apartment filled with shiplap walls, farmhousefurniture and wedding photos. Now it was quiet — painfully so — except for the sharp little claws tapping across laminate flooring and the smell of whatever the hell “puppy formula” was supposed to be. The dog — a wiry, liver-spotted German Shorthaired Pointer with a name that hadn’t quite stuck yet — stood in the middle of the living room chewing on one of Sammy’s Danner boots like it owed him money.
The ring had come off two months ago. Clean tan line still there. Some days he rubbed it out of habit, like phantom pain.
“Hey,” Sammy said, half-heartedly. The dog glanced up and wagged once, as if to say we’re both starting fresh, bud.
The crate was too small. The leash too long. He’d spent $1,200 at Cabela’s trying to re-create the hunting memories his dad used to tell him about — cotton fields, piney woods, and his granddad’s old pointer named Jake who could find a covey with his eyes closed. Sammy didn’t have cotton fields. He had a city park, a stack of training books, and a heart that felt like a half-finished house—framed, but empty.
He pulled out his phone and typed: “how to train bird dog quail whoa command” then changed it to: “can a guy train a pointer alone after divorce?”
As if on cue to break the silence, the dog tilted its head and barked once at the pigeons outside the window. Sammy stared a little too long at the way its body tensed. There was something buried in that bark — instinct, maybe. Or purpose. He didn’t know which one of them needed it more.
It was early — maybe too early — and fog still rolled low over the wet Bermuda grass of the local soccer fields. Sammy was bundled in an old canvas jacket that smelled like cedar and regret, standing there blowing a shiny brass whistle he’d bought off a gun dog forum at 2 a.m. The dog, who he’d finally named Boone, didn’t respond to tone, treat, or even yelling. The first time Sammy tried to use the whistle, the dog took off like it was the starting pistol at the Kentucky Derby. What did catch Boone’s attention
however was a low-flying mockingbird that sent him sprinting across the field like an
over-caffeinated linebacker.
“Boone! No birds! Not that kind of bird!”
An old man walking a dachshund gave Sammy a wide berth, likely mistaking him for a camo-wearing lunatic. Boone circled back eventually, tongue out, tail wagging, eyes bright. Sammy squatted down and tried to act calm, like the videos said.
“Good boy,” he muttered, more to himself than Boone.
Later that night, with a bag of frozen peas on one knee and a broken check cord coiled on the floor, Sammy called his dad.
“You remember how Granddad trained Jake?” he asked.
His dad chuckled. “He mostly hollered and prayed.”
Sammy grinned, leaning back in his kitchen chair. “Sounds about right.” They talked for a while. His dad told him stories — some he’d heard a hundred times, but tonight they landed differently. He remembered the way his granddad’s truck smelled like gunpowder and coffee, and how the dogs always rode up front, never in the bed. He remembered hearing about “the one clean shot” and how no man worth his salt ever wasted a bird.
“Granddad ever use a whistle?” Sammy asked.
His dad laughed. “Only when he was mad at the referees. He trained dogs with a boot sole and a sixth sense. You think Jake learned ‘whoa’ from a YouTube video?”
Sammy smiled. “So you’re saying I’m screwed.”
“No, I’m saying you’ve got more tools than we ever did. Just gotta figure out which ones are worth a damn. You gettin’ out in the field with him yet?”
“Sort of,” Sammy said. “Mostly we’re chasing butterflies and peeing on city park signs.”
“Well, that's where it starts. Dogs don’t teach themselves to find birds in air conditioning. Get him on wild ground and trust the nose.”
Sammy nodded slowly. “You ever think I’m doing this for the wrong reasons?”
His dad was quiet a beat. “No. I think you’re doing it for the right ones. You just don’t know ‘em all yet.”
Sammy blinked hard and looked away from the window. The fog outside was lifting.
“I’ll keep after it,” he said.
“I know you will. Men in this family are stubborn as hell.”
“Yeah,” Sammy said, smiling. “Guess I come by it honest.”
The grass was knee-high and wet enough to soak through his gaiters by 8 a.m.
Sammy had borrowed a buddy’s property—some overgrown pasture and hardwood draws just outside Deport. Nothing fancy. No planted birds. No launchers. Just Boone, a whistle, and whatever wild quail might still scratch around in the brush.
They had been walking for over an hour. Boone zigzagged ahead, too wide sometimes, nose to the ground, tongue lolling. Sammy was learning not to call out and get scared every time the dog was out of sight. That kind of trust didn’t come easy—not for a guy whose life had recently split in two.
He reached the fence line and leaned against a cedar post. The fog was starting to burn off, the sun just beginning to bleed through the pine canopy. Sammy raised his hand and started to whistle Boone in when he noticed the dog had stopped.
Not sniffing. Not creeping. Stopped.
Twenty yards out, Boone stood frozen. Front paw lifted, tail straight as an arrow, eyes locked on a stand of switch grass that looked no different from any other. Sammy held his breath. He didn’t move. He didn’t speak.
There it is, he thought. That’s what they talked about.
The world went completely still. No traffic. No email alerts. No weight on his chest from the divorce or the bills or the future he used to plan with someone else. Just this dog, this patch of grass, and this inherited hunger that somehow made him feel whole again.
And then—seemingly from under his feet—a covey of bobwhite quail exploded into the air. Boone didn’t flinch. Sammy didn’t shoot. He couldn’t have if he tried. His hands were shaking too bad, and anyway, the moment wasn’t asking for that.
It was asking for stillness. For silence. For reverence.
The birds vanished into the tree line. Boone broke his point and looked back, ears up, tail wagging like he knew.
Sammy walked over slowly and knelt beside him. “Good boy,” he whispered, scratching behind the ears.
And for the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel like a guy trying to go back to something. He felt like a man building something new.
The sun was high now, warming the midday air. Sammy dropped the tailgate on his old Chevy and looked out over the waving field of bluestem. Boone leapt up beside him, panting and filthy, tongue out like he’d just won the World Series.
No birds in the vest. No shots fired. But it didn’t feel like a loss.
Sammy popped the cooler open, grabbed a bottle of water and a sandwich that he split with Boone. The dog took it gently, like he’d done it a thousand times, and curled up beside him—muddy, satisfied, completely still.
For a long while, neither of them moved. Sammy watched the shadows creep out across the pasture. He could hear the wind tickling the grass and a far-off motor humming somewhere out of sight. It was quiet. The kind of quiet that doesn’t ask anything from you.
He thought of his granddad’s old voice, deep and worn: “You don’t really know yourself ‘til you walk behind a good dog.”
Back then, it sounded like old-man lore. But now? Sitting here with his boots kicked off and a dog that finally trusted him—he got it. Boone hadn’t just helped him find birds. He’d helped him find stillness. Helped him be alone without feeling lonely.
This wasn’t a second act. It wasn’t a fix. But it was something better—a reset. A new page. A slower heartbeat.
Sammy leaned back, hands behind his head, and looked up at the last smears of orange in the sky.
“We’ll get ’em next time, partner,” he said.
Boone thumped his tail once, then closed his eyes.
Epilogue
The photo sat in a cracked leather frame on Sammy’s desk. Boone, standing tall on a rise of prairie grass, nose high, tail straight, sky wide and blue behind him. Sammy had taken it with an old Polaroid camera he found at a pawn shop, trying to capture a piece of
something that couldn’t be stored in pixels.
It was nearly a year since that first hunt. The training wasn’t perfect, and neither was Sammy. But they had birds now—real ones—and stories, too. The kind his future kids might hear, just like he did. About a wild pup who wouldn’t listen. About a missed covey rise. About quiet mornings and old instincts coming back to life.
His job still demanded too much. The city still moved too fast. But Boone didn’t care about traffic or emails or who texted back. Boone cared about birds. About the land. About purpose.
And in some strange, faithful way, Sammy had started to care about the same.
About the Author : Layton Norwood
Visit authors website | View more articlesLayton Norwood was raised in a family where dogs outnumbered people and the stories flew faster than the birds. From cattle dogs to coonhounds to bird dogs, there was always something barking, baying, or pointing around the place. He grew up on a steady diet of Louis L’Amour, Elmer Kelton, Robert Ruark, and secondhand tales told loud around the dining table. These days, he’s based in Texas and still chasing stories — and bird dogs — with the hope that his writing finds a home with folks who know the joy of a good dog and a better yarn.
About the Artist : Kate Hall
Visit artist websiteKate Hall is an outdoor artist who resides on an Angus cattle farm in Tennessee, where she began hunting at an early age. During her 13 years as a flight attendant, Kate visited 27 countries and all 50 states. She now spends her time traveling across the country in search of rising trout and upland birds with her husband and their English Setter. In his first two seasons they hunted on public lands in MT, KS, SC, AL, NC, KY and TN for quail, ruffed grouse, sharptail grouse, woodcock, pheasant, prairie chickens, and hungarian partridge. Upland hunting has enriched Kate's life and influences much of her colored pencil work.
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