During my first of two annual South Dakota trips in the fall of 2024, I confronted one of those heart-wrenching dilemmas that some pheasant hunters intimately know. It was our first hunt of that particular day—a crisp morning where the autumn air held that special clarity that hunters dream about, with an endless clear blue sky stretching over freshly cut corn fields bordered by inviting wood lots. The conditions were perfect for what promised to be an exceptional day afield. By late morning, as we were finishing up Kaila's turn, my trusted 10-year-old Brittany suddenly slammed on point with the intensity that undoubtedly showed a bird was present.
The rooster flushed just ahead, its magnificent plumage catching the morning sunlight in a brilliant display of nature's artistry. My shot rang out across the peaceful landscape, and the bird tumbled back to earth—but not with the clean fall every hunter hopes for. With that sinking feeling in my gut, I immediately knew it was only wounded. A familiar pang of regret hit me, but I quickly turned my focus to Kaila, who had already zeroed in on the downed bird with remarkable precision. She's a seasoned hunter, honestly one of the finest I've ever had when it comes to recovering wounded game. There's something truly magical about watching her work—it's become one of the most rewarding aspects of hunting for me over our years together.
As we methodically moved through the woodlot, Kaila's pace quickened with purpose. Her body language, which I've learned to read like a book over our countless hours afield together, told me the bird was tantalizingly close. With unwavering focus, she headed straight toward a hollow, fallen tree where the crafty rooster had clearly taken refuge. Without a moment's hesitation, she started into the hollow tree, her determination palpable in every movement. She wanted that bird with every fiber of her being and wasn't about to let something as trivial as a dead tree stand between her and her quarry. I watched with a mixture of pride and growing concern as her lithe frame disappeared almost entirely into the dark hollow. Then, something deeper than conscious thought—call it hunter's instinct—kicked in forcefully.
"KAILA, COME!" I commanded, putting every ounce of authority I could muster into my voice.
She stopped instantly, backed out with practiced obedience, and turned to look at me with those soulful eyes that seemed to be pleading for permission to continue the pursuit. She knew exactly where that bird was and stood ready, every muscle tensed, to complete her retrieve. But as much as I trusted her impeccable instincts and considerable skill, I also recognized the very real risks before us. The tree wasn't just hollow—it was a twisted, confined space with no visible exit, the kind of natural trap that could turn dangerous in moments. The last thing I could bear was the thought of Kaila getting stuck in that confined space while single-mindedly focused on retrieving the rooster.
I carefully crouched down to inspect the tree more thoroughly. Even with my flashlight beam probing the darkness, I couldn't make out the other end of the hollow—never a good sign. If things were to go wrong, this wouldn't be a simple extraction. We'd need more than just a hand saw; it would take a substantial chainsaw and potentially hours of careful work—time we might not have if Kaila found herself in serious distress. As much as it pained me to my core, I knew I had to make the difficult call to pull her off the bird entirely.
"GONE AWAY," I said gently, running a comforting hand over her head. "GONE AWAY."
She reluctantly backed away from her prize, her entire body language telling me she wasn't ready to abandon the pursuit. But Kaila is exceptionally well-trained and listened to my command, though I could tell her heart remained firmly fixed on that hollow log and its elusive occupant.
We pressed on with our hunt, but my mind kept drifting back to that wounded rooster. Losing an injured bird is, without question, the most disappointing aspect of pheasant hunting for me. I've missed birds cleanly before—it's certainly not ideal, but it's an accepted part of the sport. But leaving a wounded bird unrecovered? That sits heavy in my conscience, weighing on me long after the hunt ends. It's never been about simply filling the game bag for me; it's about the fundamental principle of finishing what you start and showing proper respect to the bird and the hunt itself.
Despite these gnawing thoughts, I knew in my heart I'd made the right decision. Kaila's safety comes first, always and without exception. I've invested years into her training and care, but more importantly, she's become my trusted companion in the field and at home. The bond between a hunter and their dog transcends mere utility—it's built on a foundation of trust and mutual respect that goes bone-deep. That unshakeable bond is precisely why I couldn't justify risking her well-being for a single bird, no matter how much it troubled me to leave it behind.
The day continued with hunts alongside Kaila's daughter Piper and granddaughter Tika, each showcasing their own remarkable abilities as we retrieved two more roosters with the precision and enthusiasm I've come to rely on from this exceptional line of dogs. By the time we called it a day, I had reached my three-bird limit: two birds secured in my game bag, one remaining in that hollowed log, and a bittersweet story that I knew would stay with me.
Some might dismiss it as just one bird, and perhaps they have a point. But for me, hunting has always been about so much more than mere numbers. It's about the complete experience, the challenges faced and overcome, and the profound connection with both the land and my dogs. Kaila's unwavering determination that day only reinforced why I love this pursuit, even when things don't go exactly according to plan.
Later, driving back to the Airbnb, I caught sight of Kaila resting peacefully in the back, her head propped up and her eyes half-closed in contented exhaustion. She'd given everything she had that day, and I couldn't have possibly asked for more. The decision to prioritize her safety over retrieving that rooster, though difficult in the moment, was one I knew I could live with.
Ultimately, I've learned over decades in the field that the hunt isn't merely about what you bring home to the table—it's about the lasting memories you create and the profound lessons you learn about your dog, about yourself, and about the countless choices that define the kind of hunter you continually strive to be.
Below is a series of pictures as Kaila entered the hollow tree:
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