Finding forever! The joy of falling in love with a bird dog.

My rookie season is an ever-evolving philosophy: try something new each year. Equal parts growth mindset and self-imposed discomfort, it’s my way of pushing against failure and refusing complacency. Last year, my rookie season took place on the upland prairies where watching bird dogs work and holding my breath as coveys rose to the shot. I knew immediately the sport had me. It would be part of my life for as long as I could walk a field with friends and family. And even when I no longer could, I’d still obsess over new techniques and listen to the stories of young hunters finding their way.

Let me explain.

The smell of a field at first light. Dew soaking through canvas pants. Smoke drifting from the barrel after my first shot. It hooked into something deep. In short, it felt like forever.

What I didn’t know was how steep the slope would become once I decided to get a dog. That decision changed everything. It supercharged my desire to be in the field and quickly consumed most of my waking thoughts.

Like many before me, I made my way through the progression—gear upgrades, shotgun debates, endless YouTube videos, mentorship calls. That path is well-worn. But everything changes when you meet your pup. That’s when the adventure shifts from sport to partnership. A living being commits its energy to your shared purpose, and you commit your time, patience, and heart in return.

Dogs are all great. A hunting dog is different.

You hear owners talk about them. Finished dogs, steady to wing and shot, and think, *Man, they really love that dog.* But the stories aren’t just admiration. They’re reverence. Respect. Gratitude.

So let’s start at the beginning. This is a story of the moment I met mine.

Once I decided the time was right, I fell down the rabbit hole of breeds and bloodlines. Did I want a family companion? A strong retriever? A staunch pointer? All of the above? Every owner swears by their breed. “My retriever would out-hunt your pointer any day,” someone will say with a grin. I’ve seen grown men tear up recounting stories of their best dogs. The animals that brought them more birds than they thought possible and still found ways to test their patience.

In every story, the dog is the hero.

I found myself wondering: if we could ask the dog, would they say the same about us? Would they tell tales of glorious shots and long retrieves? Or of empty hulls and miles walked without reward? Would they speak of us as their champions?

I hoped so.

And I knew I wanted that bond, the kind forged while watching a dog sweep across a prairie under a wide autumn sky.

But before I bought a bird dog, my life had shifted.

I’d been laid off from my corporate career and was spiraling in search of purpose. I decided to take a year off and pursue something I might soon be too old, or too busy, to attempt. I imagined whimsical freedom. Instead, I felt untethered. I tried to be useful wherever I could, but I never quite felt needed.

Maybe it was ego. Maybe it was identity.

I poured time into my fly-fishing business. I volunteered as an assistant coach for my son’s lacrosse team. I experimented in the kitchen, chasing new culinary skills. None of it settled me.

After months of rejection emails and limited opportunities, I felt broken. For twenty years I had been a husband, father, and leader. A man always in service, often exhausted. Good problems, yes. But problems nonetheless. Then, in a brief Zoom call, my professional identity disappeared.

I found myself in the privileged position of asking a dangerous question:

If time and money weren’t an issue, what would you do?

The answer surprised me with its clarity: I would train a puppy. I would build a partnership in a sport that had already reshaped my relationship with food, land, and mind.

Now, back to the dog.

After weeks of debate, I settled on a female German Wirehaired Pointer from a breeder in Isanti, Minnesota. I visited multiple litters. Good dogs. Strong lines. NAVHDA and AKC pedigrees. But none felt like mine.

Until there were only two litters left.

My wife came with me to the final visits. When we stepped into the yard of the second-to-last litter, four puppies scattered in play. One walked straight to me, sat at my side, and looked up as if we had already agreed on something.

My wife laughed. “That’s your dog.”

The problem? She was the wrong color. Smaller than her brother. Not the bold, alpha pup I’d pictured.

That brother, larger, louder, had presence. He drew my eye. But the female returned to me again and again, sitting quietly at my side. I left undecided and visited the final litter.

That night, I replayed everything. Bloodlines. Temperament. Structure. My wife simply said, “It’s your decision. But she chose you.”

I tried to argue for the alpha’s traits, but I couldn’t ignore the truth: for the first time in months, I’d felt uncomplicated joy kneeling in that yard beside that smaller female.

The next morning I woke with clarity. My wife suggested one final visit alone. If I saw something different, choose the male. If not, I had my answer.

We returned as a family. The alpha pup entertained the kids and roamed. The smaller female focused on me, on us. On our little unit.

And then there was her gaze.

She didn’t just look at me. She looked to me.

I knew then. Even if she frustrated me. Even if she challenged me. This was my dog.

We named her Covey.

For months, Covey and I worked. Commands in the backyard. Retrieves in the lake. Scent work in tall grass. More than once I nearly sent her off to a professional trainer, convinced I was ruining her natural ability. Each mentor talked me down.

“The learning curve is part of it,” one reminded me. “You’re a team.”

A team.

That word shifted everything. I had been trying to make her a tool—an extension of command. Instead, I needed to understand her. Once that mental switch flipped, our sessions changed. We began to hum. She anticipated. I adjusted. Confidence built on both ends of the lead.

I could feel forever taking shape.

She isn’t perfect. And I resist sounding like every parent convinced their child is gifted. But after loving many dogs before her, I know this one is special.

This story might read like a “dog saved me” confession. Maybe there’s truth in that. But it’s bigger than ego or rescue. It’s about the quiet healing that happens when purpose meets wild ground—when you move through a dark season with something beside you that wants nothing more than to work and belong.

One day I’ll tell my grandchildren about the time Covey bumped a flock of turkeys and sprinted back to me after realizing she’d bitten off more than she could chew. I’ll laugh about her first dove retrieve. About the way she swims laps long after the kids are exhausted. About my daughter’s tears the first time we boarded her.

I understand now why hunters speak so tenderly about these animals.

They want to work for us. They love the fields as much as we do. They are bred for it, but the bonus is the companionship. The bonus is the love.

It may be too soon to call Covey the best bird dog I’ll ever have. But she’s already one of the best dogs I’ve known. We’ve begun a story measured not in seasons, but in shared mornings.

Here’s to finding forever in a field as you watch your dog work.

Here’s to friendships and shooting partners forged in tall grass.

Here’s to the kind of love that takes a piece of your heart—and leaves you better for it.

Cheers to forever.