Scent fills her nostrils. Her tail cracks back and forth like a windshield wiper. She quarters into the wind. My finger creeps near the safety.
Her ancestors, training, years of experience all lead to this moment. Muscles ripple down her sides as she hones in on the target. A lone, compact turd of cow shit.
Without missing a stride she scoops it up, swallows and quarters.
*This short piece originally appeared on Mouthful of Feathers and was a gentle jab towards our good friends who, in all honesty, have tremendous skills with both shotguns and pens.