I Believe in Miracles

A covey of Hungarian partridge took to the air. The flush of Huns always startles me, even when I know they’re around. A moment earlier I had seen them flush and go a short distance, and then saw them running along the edge of an old irrigation ditch. Any hopes that they would settle down and let me get in shotgun range were dashed when they again took off—this time for parts unknown.

I walked back down the hillside where my black Lab, Flicka, was working on another scent. While my back was turned, a larger group of partridge took off. Hungarian partridge, or, more accurately, European gray partridge, frustrate me, and they’ve been doing it for years.

Flicka ignored my frustrations and kept working her scent trail, following it to where the second bunch of Huns had flushed. I assumed she was following partridge scent, so when the cock pheasant flushed from the sagebrush it was a surprise, but not such a surprise that I forgot to shoot. I swung my gun along the bird’s flight path and pulled the trigger, tumbling the pheasant.

Flicka made the retrieve and we continued our hunt. In a frozen, marshy creek bottom, another cock pheasant flushed from a patch of grass, again followed by a shot and a retrieve.

With two handsome, long-tailed pheasant roosters weighting down my vest, we’d had a successful hunt, especially for December.

The pheasants were a happy bonus to the hunt. Spending the chilly winter afternoon following Flicka through the sagebrush and creek bottom would have been enough—a miracle in itself.

Just two weeks earlier, on the day before Thanksgiving, we’d been out on a hunt. We were looking for ducks, and already had one mallard. Our next stop was a tract of public land along a busy highway. While I put on my vest and loaded my shotgun for our walk, a person pulled in at some mailboxes on the other side of the road. Flicka charged across the road to check him out, and then started back to me.
It was one of those things you could see was going to happen, and there’s nothing you can do about it. A car was coming and Flicka was in harm’s way. After the collision Flicka shrieked in pain and surprise, then ran to me on her own power. I knelt down to comfort her, horrified at the encounter, expecting I might have to use my shotgun to end her suffering. After a moment, she settled down and was able to get in the truck without help. She had a bloody gash under her chin, but no other injuries that I could see. The driver of the car had stopped and I had a brief conversation with him. He had a broken grill on his car.

I called my wife and asked her to call our veterinarians and alert them to an incoming emergency, and then hit the road for home. After x-rays and several hours of observation, they sent her home. Aside from the gash on her chin, which the doctor sutured, and a bunch of bruises, Flicka apparently escaped major injury. We’d just have to keep her quiet for a week or so while she healed. We all agreed she was one lucky dog.

And that’s why this afternoon’s outing seemed like a miracle.
This is, of course, a season for miracles. This week we celebrate the miracle of Christmas. Jon Carroll, a columnist for the San Francisco Chronicle and whom I regularly read online, makes it clear that he’s not a religious believer, yet he loves to celebrate Christmas. We celebrate the birth of a child, he says. What’s not to like about Christmas?

My wife and I are churchgoers, and that is where we celebrate the Christmas miracle. This year, though, we have new insights into miracles, when we consider a collision between a 75-pound Labrador retriever and a two-ton car, with the car ending up second best.

Nevertheless, while we believe in miracles, Flicka will be on a leash the next time we stop by that highway.