“That was quite a story,” my friend said. “There must be some sort of lesson in it. Perhaps about fathers and sons?” “Yes, I think there is. But not merely of fathers and sons. I’ve seen it once before, with Polka and Bosman – mother and son. Rather parents and children. Or maybe even better, of the old and the young. The wisdom of age and experience versus the boldness and energy of youth. It’s all there; we must just open our eyes.”
OUT ON A FRANCOLIN HUNT
The old fellow was struggling to keep up. We were in the second valley, driving a francolin covey up the hill. It was a strong covey, ten or eleven birds, perhaps even more. Maybe two coveys converged. They had bred well this year. It wasn’t really a hard climb at all, unless you were as old as the golden. His white muzzle showed all of his eleven-odd years, which is old for such a large dog. He was a senior of many years’ experience. But it was his first time on francolin, and at an age that he was perhaps better suited to sit in a hide and wait for the geese and ducks to come flying in. To swim
