December sadly marks the end of our upland season. With my wife away for work and one of our cars breaking down mid-month, hunting was limited. But for the days we chose to brave the cold, it became about savoring the moment—silent, frosted trails and the companionship of a bird dog working against winter’s edge. A quiet, reflective finale before we hang up the vest and start thinking about spring, mayflies and trout.

As we climbed the bank overlooking the river, Tilley circled, then dropped, signaling it was time for a break. I sat on a log, looking at the two birds, proud of what we’d accomplished. But my mind wandered back to a comment that had stung earlier that Spring:
“She may not be a grouse dog.”

Those words cut deep. Critique my choice of cover or my poor shooting, fine—but questioning her felt personal. I understood where it came from: a hardcore field trialer, where subtleties and standards matter. Still, it made me wonder, “What makes a “grouse” dog, anyways?”

The truth is that we humans love hierarchies—have and have-nots—and we’ve long linked bigger trophies to better hunters or anglers. We start worrying about our station in the community and how others will judge us.

But comparison is the thief of joy.

In pursuit of recognition, we rob ourselves of the meaning of those memories we make along the way—the quiet joys and simple triumphs of a dog doing what they were born to do.

I still don’t know what it means to be a “grouse” dog…but what I do know is our dogs owe us nothing. But we are eternally indebted to them for allowing us these moments to reflect on.

See you in 2026.