He was a big one and a desperado, too. Very brave and very black, his dark eyes missed little... if movement came from feathers. When he watched pheasants and ducks fall, quakes of anticipation shook his broad, muscular shoulders. He wasn't perfect - headstrong and unsophisticated, but always swept forward by a grand desire - that mysterious and reckless need to find and bring back birds.

I can still see the hunks of damp sod and bruised grass he kicked up, left hanging in the bright morning air... a full second after he was sent to retrieve.

- Thomas Quinn