When I was a boy in Mississippi, my father had a dream to breed Labs for duck hunting, which I very much supported, for up until then, I was the family retriever. He made me slog into icy bayous at sunrise to fetch the dead birds, the water leaking into my gloves and waders, ensuring I would not feel my extremities until Saint Patrick’s Day. I often got stuck in the gumbo and found myself immobile among the decoys as more birds flew overhead. “Get down, boy!” Pop would whisper across the water. “Here come some more!”
“If I get down, I’ll be underwater,” I’d politely offer.
As Pop would shoot over my head, mallards fell to my left and right as I shut my eyes tight and
