I wasn’t talking about the dog, exactly. But I was talking about the dog.

It all started a couple of weeks ago when a friend invited me to a (all-expenses-paid) weekend at an incredibly popular quail hunting plantation. I have waxed indignant in this very forum about my aversion to the gentrification of hunting and the silliness of such places, and that makes me a full-fledged, card-carrying hypocrite because I often find myself filling in at such places as the “make-even” man for friends and business associates who need an extra gun. I guess I’m the guy who can say, “yes” at the last minute, look the part, drink whiskey with their customers well into the night without behaving foolishly (it’s all relative, you know) and shoot well enough the following morning to make them look good to the guides and their customers for having brought a “ringer.”

I wouldn’t recommend that as resume fodder to a young college graduate, but it’s always worked for me.

But I had to politely decline this one.

“Brother, that sounds awesome, but I just can’t do it. I’ve been running the roads, leaving early and getting home late for the past two weeks. I need to make sure my family remembers who I am. I’m looking forward to running carpool to basketball practice, raking leaves and spending the evenings on my patio for a few nights.”

“Plus my wife’s extended family will all be at my house Sunday from 11-2 for the annual Christmas semi-reunion and if I’m not around to help get ready for it there’s a 99% chance I won’t be invited next year because I’ll be divorced.”

He got it. He’s younger than me and has a very different job, but that concept is universally understood.

“OK,” he paused for a second and added, “do you think they’ll mind if I bring my son?”

“Nah,” was my immediate, off-the-cuff response, but the look on his face indicated I should expound a little.”

“Look. Most of these places don’t want shooters under 16 years old and they want them to have hunting licenses. I don’t blame them. That means the kid is at least a safe enough bet to have done the minimum hunter safety course and less of a liability…”

“But he’s 13…”

“…And that’s where practicality sets in. You’re paying a lot of money for this. They want to accept your money. My recommendation is that you just show up with him. Introduce him around and make sure he gives them a lot of ‘Yessir’ and ‘Nossir’ right off the bat. Then quietly lay some whupout on the guides and tell them he’s been quail hunting with you all his life and he knows to keep his shooting lanes between 12:03 and 3 if he’s on the guide’s right and between 11:57 and 9 if he’s on the guide’s left and that he’s never shot a single dog in his life.”

“But he’s never been…”

“That’s irrelevant. They not only don’t need to know that. They don’t WANT to know it. Do you want to take him or not?”

“Yeah but I feel bad…”

“You’re paying for a service. They’re providing it. If you have to back out they’ll keep your deposit but they’d rather get the whole amount plus tips. Just tell your boy to lay the respect on ‘em like crazy and don’t shoot any humans or dogs. Tell him that they’ll respect the hell out of him if he passes on a shot because he’s uncomfortable with the shooting lane or the height of the shot. That’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Well, if you say so…”

“It’s a dead lock. I swear. Make sure he knows to keep pace with the guide and not lollygag or complain, and when the guide sends in the flush dogs tell him the guide’s going to expect him to walk fast but stop when told. And for God’s sake tell him to let the birds go rather than shooting low and hitting a dog or swinging around on a human. The rest is just ‘yessir,’ ‘nossir’ and good old-fashioned cash.”

For the record, I’d lay odds that “yessir,” “nossir” and good old-fashioned cash have a stronger door-opening average for more people than Ivy-League diplomas and country club memberships.

So they went.

And they had a ball.

No humans and no dogs got shot. Nobody got mad. It was pure bliss, and I expected it would be. His kid’s a good kid.

But that’s all back-story. This started in the middle. “In Medias Res” for all you folks with Ivy League diplomas. Let’s bring it home.

“I don’t know, man. That could really bite you.”

My friend had just sent me a photo of an English Spaniel puppy. He was like a Shriner at a convention who had fallen in love with a cocktail waitress at the Howard Johnson’s and was looking for validation. I’m loyal to the point of enablement most times, but sometimes you have to shoot them straight.

“Let’s walk through this. You have five kids. Your wife has been at home with (the youngest) four of them while you and the oldest have been at a luxury hunting preserve living like Edwardian feudal barons for the past two nights. Are you sure you want to surprise her with a puppy?”

“But I feel like there was this immediate connection. It just feels right.”

Damn if this doesn’t sound more and more like a Shriner talking about a cocktail waitress.

“OK. Here’s the B.S.-free answer from me. There ain’t no way in hell I could get away with coming home with a $3000 dog. Hell, I couldn’t get away with coming home with a free dog. But I’m not married to your wife. You do what you think is best.”

He bought the dog. And full disclosure – I have no idea what it cost. They may have given it to him because his son laid so many “Yessirs” and “Nossirs” on them.

And Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny might each be wearing a Fez while hitting on cocktail waitresses at the Howard Johnson’s in Meridian, MS right now, too.

When he got home that following Sunday, I was sitting on my patio treating myself to an Old Forester and water, basking in the afterglow of having pulled off another Christmas semi-reunion brunch party with the extended in-laws. I perked up when I heard his car in his driveway and turned down my music to zero in on the results. I even ran inside and got my wife and brought her outside to listen with me.

As expected, there were lots of delighted squeals from the offspring.

But I was waiting for the wife.

Would it be a delighted squeal? The all-too-familiar crack of an open palm on a stunned cheek? A single gunshot followed by a thud?

Then my phone rang.

“Man, the dog is a hit. Come over and meet him.”

“Well I’ll be damned,” I thought, “It looks like he might just get away with it.”

“On my way,” is what I said.

I ran inside and grabbed my old copy of “Training the Hunting Retriever,” copyright 1959, by Thomas R. Cofield. And I topped off my drink.

For what it’s worth, I think he made the right choice. Nothing but smiles in his driveway that afternoon and I admit to being a little sentimental about it. I pretended to sneeze while I wiped my eyes and handed him the book.

“Damn sinus infection. Can’t seem to shake it. Take this. Either use it or don’t but I want it back either way. I haven’t been able to find any more copies of it. But I’ve trained 3 dogs with its advice and I don’t have anything bad to say about it.”