I’m in my hunting-gear and kennel building lacing up my boots with mother, Petunia, daughter, Merri-Merri—both Brittanys—and Misty, a sleek little English pointer. The three are hurrying me along with woofs and groans. The kennel dogs recognize the ruckus and sound off in a coyote-cadence concert, pleading to join us. After I load the hunting gear, I release the dogs and with cries of victory they scrabble out and race for the truck. Like rodeo clowns circling a mean bull, they run around the pickup begging to be loaded in. What a bright, sunny September Montana morning!

It’s almost 11 o’clock when I turn off the engine and step out of the pickup; I’m surrounded by distant mountains that glisten from last night’s fresh snowfall. The ranchers have collected the cattle from the high hills, so the land now belongs to the dogs and me. All is quiet—until the dogs start clamoring in their truck kennel compartments, each one anticipating being first out.