My husband is enjoying an opportunity to hunt partridge for supper. He heads out in the morning on the four-wheeler and takes Abby with him. He told me the other day that he'd shot a partridge at a distance but hadn't killed it instantly. When he approached on the bike, it couldn't fly but it was trying to get away and he couldn't catch it.
"I told Abby to get down off the bike and go around," he said. "She did and stood right in front of that partridge so I could grab it."
He's very impressed with our new dog. Such a different personality than Stella, less independent and dominant, very much interested in doing what we're doing and being with us, on our terms. I'm glad he has the company of a dog when he heads out. It's hard for him to shake the thoughts about how his children have treated him, how his daughter is using Facebook to attack him with lies, about how the people he's known all his life are gossiping about him based on what they hear and read. He's a sensitive and deep-feeling man and family is so important to him; to be betrayed by his own two children because of the machinations of the woman he was married to for 25 years is a great torment to him. Going back into the woods on his bike with a gun and his dog to bring home a lovely meal for us is a balm to his battered soul.

These field-dressed bodies weigh 3/4 of a pound each. Dwayne puts them in the crockpot with potatoes and carrots and a can of mushroom soup and voila! A tasty dinner from our woods.
(Tastes like chicken, not strong or different at all.)