Dove Hunting Tradition

Each Labor Day weekend, a drove of coonasses and a handful of my Georgia relatives make their way to Tallahatchie county to hunt the elusive dove.  This annual tradition has been occurring as long as I remember.  My Dad worries for weeks about what to feed them and will they have doves and will we have enough room.  What he knows but refuses to admit is they wouldn't care if they ate bologna sandwiches, slept on the floor, and didn't kill a single dove.  The doves are an excuse.  There is always great food (hello, we have Cajuns involved!) and most of the hunts are superior.  I look forward to it all year.  I only get to see these gentlemen once or twice each year, and I love that my kids are getting to know these men whom I've adored my entire life.  Some of my favorite moments...

It's hard to beat a Delta sunrise.

The Sunday morning hunt was abysmal.  But, Kate was ready.  She stared at her owner the ENTIRE hunt, waiting on her signal to retrieve.  Even though he never took a single shot.

Coke bottles we found under a shed.  I wonder where they came from and how long they've been there?  They were pretty clean and obviously set there on purpose.

My Dad.  Shelbi & I spent the afternoon riding and walking with my Dad, and it rocked.

Molly gets a trophy.

My Dad and his friend, Mike.  Mike is who we stay with during Mardi Gras.  Gotta make sure he gets birds, Dad, so we ensure our sleeping quarters for February!

A half-pecked sunflower stem.

Shelbi being the good dog and waiting to retrieve a bird.  Notice my Dad has his rifle on his shoulder, so I don't think he was trying very hard...or maybe he was going for the trick shot.

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