Day's End - Making memories

Has there ever been a bird dog man or woman with a soul so dead that he or she has not been re-energized by the first cool days of September, by the first forecast of frost, by noting the opening days marked on the calendar so many months before?

Or the feather-fetching canine that doesn’t come alive at the first whiff of Hoppe’s #9 or whatever gun cleaning potion you ordinarily employ or by the old bird vest or coat being taken from the closet? Or perhaps it’s the drier zephyrs after a spell of hot humidity, the cooler nights, the shortening days, the wrinkling of the wild grapes, the first crimson leaves appearing on the sumac or a single falling maple leaf that trips your trigger as it does mine.