By Randy Lawrence
This really isn't my story to tell. I just can't help myself.
Firelight Moondance is a friend of mine. Lynn Dee Galey had marked her as "special" from the whelping box on, so I was thrilled when 'Dance spent some time down here in southern Ohio a year ago, helping me through a hard time during my father's decline, entertaining me with her quirky antics in exchange for some kindergarten bird work experiences we had together.
"Quirky" plays well on this old farm. In fact, it's almost an entry requirement, starting with the guy whom the horses and donkeys and mules and pigeons and cattle and dogs think works for them. 'Dance fit right in.
So don't expect me to be unbiased about anything about her, from her pedigree to her name to the somewhat unorthodox way she's gone about coming into her own.
But today Lynn Dee Galey sent me a photo of her youngest in-house Firelight. Seems they were walking one of the sandy two tracks near their home in Michigan when this happened:
Lynn Dee Galey's trademark Vermont Yankee reserve aside, this is pretty small beer in the grand scheme of bird dogs. My old friend Nelson Groves, the godfather of Southern Ohio grouse hunters, would have snorted and said, "Well o' course she stood there." (To Nelson, dogs didn't point; they "stood there.") "That's what her ol' mother did, and her daddy did, so that's why I hired her."