Terry Drinkwine Outdoors!

Fly Fishing, Grouse Hunting and Fine Bird Dogs Spoken Here!

Think. Reason. What’s that?


Every now and again I find myself out-thinking myself. It’s a habit I got into when I was a kid, when I looked for reasons to not have to do something I was expected to do (or do something I was expected not to do). My dad first brought it to my attention – sometimes in an abrupt way – while I tried to explain my logic. Apparently, others have the same habit.IMG_0096

I’ve been hearing a lot, both in the media and from seemingly intelligent well-meaning people, about the cruelness of those who leave their dogs locked in cars with windows cracked, while they’re in a store or restaurant. It’s gotten to the point of people calling 9-1-1 to report it …after all, it IS an emergency; the dog has long hair and his tongue is hanging and it’s hot out.

These are the same people who dress their dogs in scarfs and goofy looking garb that give the animal a human quality because it’s cute and after all, treating the dog like it was human …well, that’s the humane thing to do. Too bad the dog can’t talk, there might be a comment or two his human wouldn’t understand why it was said.

I take exception to being told I’m hurting my best bud, my hunting partner, the one I share my sandwich and ice cream with. I take exception to someone who knows nothing more than having seen a story on a so called news program that ran with a horrific incident where an animal or child was left un attended in a car when the temperatures reached the 90’s and above. I take exception with the busybody who can’t think and reason out what he or she is confronted with.

I know we are in an age where everyone has rights; where by the push of a button or touch of an icon something will happen that enables us to be instantly in charge; where someone will make someone else do something for no better reason than we think it should be done/

If you see a Brittany sitting in the back of a Jeep with the windows cracked and his tongue hanging out, don’t call 9-1-1, it’s Seamus, the dog I make room for when he jumps up on my bed; the dog I share what I’m eating with; the dog I spend an hour picking burrs from his coat after a hunt, because I hurts me to see them intertwined in his coat because I think they hurt …the one I feed and water before I have my morning coffee.

So, unless he’s trying to climb through the partially open window to get out, mind your own business. By the time the cops get there, I’ll be back and gone anyway.


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