An inch of brilliant virgin snow blanketed the turf, fog wafting, clinging to the turf, air damp and cold, misty rain falling as I pulled into Deerfield’s North Meadows with three energetic Springers boxed in the truck bed beneath the cap for their daily morning romp.

I knew the second I spotted waterfowl everywhere, literally thousands, down for the storm amid the corn stubble, that this day promised unexpected “entertainment” for me the observer.

I had an idea which of my three bird dogs would be most attracted to the flocks of geese and ducks of all kinds, but waited for it all to play out after releasing them from their porta-kennels. Sure enough, Bessie, 9-months old veteran of one bird season as an infant, was most attracted to the unusual phenomenon before her. With the wind at their backs as they exited the truck bed, I knew it would take a little while for the dogs to notice the waterfowl, and I figured the adults, Ringo and Lily, would pay little attention, which proved accurate. But Bessie, little Bessie, young Brown Bess, no sir, she wasn’t about to ignore them once heard the honking, saw them moving through the field. She was going to have a blast flushing them, along the way discovering sandpipers that were even more entertaining to chase through the snow and puddle lakes. And chase them she did, until there wasn’t one on the ground for a quarter-mile radius; barking, chasing, stopping on a dime and changing direction to flush those she had earlier ignored. What a scene. Great fun just watching the enthusiasm for the chase.

Yes, young Bessie’s a bird dog. It’s in her blood. And I can see fall will be fun watching here develop. This much I know: like her parents, there’s no quit in Bessie, which is not good news to a certain elderly man I often run into afield who doesn’t appreciate my presence in the coverts we both hunt.

My response to that is: Get used to it! I’ll be there long after he’s gone.

Bessie, too.

The way it is.