My father was a bird hunter. He trained his own bird dogs and the whole works. Almost all of his Saturdays in the Fall were spent in the woods somewhere hunting the elusive grouse. When my brother was little he tried to say "baby grouse" and it came out "graby bouse." My Dad's dogs worked during hunting season and were family pets as soon as hunting season was over. Every once in a while, Pops would come home and his arms would be acratched to the point where they were almost shredded. I asked him what happened and I got the terse reply that his dogs had led him through a briar patch on the trail of a covey of grouse. They knew where to hide. Pops and his dogs would go in after them.
I got the same effect the other day when Molly and I decided to go cross country through the woods. It was more Molly's idea than it was mine but let her lead (maybe that was a bad idea) and I was the one that received the scratched up arms but it wasn't too bad. I do not even know what we were on the trail of.
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