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Because the grass was so deep the mallards would be surprised, and it was while they were rising, their wings pounding to give them altitude-it was then that sometimes a shot could be taken, arid Ike would watch with even brown eyes for the mallard to fall.Īt the moment it was hit, when it went from the beauty of a flying duck to the broken form of death-at that moment Ike would leap forward into the pothole and sometimes be waiting when the duck hit the water. It was hard to walk because the peat under the swamp-grass was unfrozen and springy and frequently allowed a foot to go through down into the mud, where it tried to suck a boot off.īut a rhythm could be felt after a time, and it was possible to move forward. North of town there were chains of swamps with open, small potholes of dark water where the mallards would sit. Wayne had a smokey-black Lab named Ike after the president, and he would retrieve with a lily-soft mouth no matter who shot the duck. Teal flew along the river, their wings whistling, and were difficult to hit because they flew so fast and never seemed to reveal themselves until it was too late to raise the old single-barrel sixteen-gauge and shoot. Sometimes it was walking along the river out of town, starting in the cold mornings, the rainy cold mornings of late October when nobody sane went outside. After forest grouse, after rabbits, after bow hunting for deer, but before the long winter hunts, there was duck hunting games.