The sun cuts the chill out of the desert as it slowly peaks over the horizon. The gravel crunches under my boots, and as I crest the small rise in front of me, I can see Sunny’s rigid body glowing in the morning light. The intensity of her point is in stark contrast to her typical, unbridled, energy. She is singularly focused on the creosote bush fifteen feet in front of her. Her orange-brown eyes bore an intense hole through the center of the desert brush, and as I get closer, I can see her nose twitch incessantly as she breathes the deep scent of wild birds in front of her.
The tranquility of the morning is broken as I step forward and the four hiding quail burst into the air. I whiff the first barrel, but the second barrel finds its mark. In a flash of brown fur, Sunny is on her quarry, and as she trots back to my feet, I could see her smiling through a face full of feathers.
I daydream this moment at least once a day. It’s just about six months until September.