It's called a chigger. They are way smaller than you'd ever guess considering the size of wound they inflict. Most websites say it takes a magnifying glass to see them crawling on your skin, and they bite hard, leaving a welt larger than a mosquito bite with an itch that not even a wire brush on a Dremel tool can satisfy. They don't carry any known diseases, thankfully, because Rudy and I got eaten alive this week. Deet and I are going to get a lot closer this hunting season.
But we had a load of fun. I stuck some decoys in a dead tree and pulled up a shady stump nearby. Within ten minutes I had shot two doves, but Rudy, having never retrieved a bird that he didn't first see me throw, assumed that these downed birds were his find, and therefore his to chew apart. Several more doves flew within shooting range unharmed because Rudy was receiving lessons in the art of being a good gundog. He did very well for his first time.
Yesterday we went hunting again and I can't believe how excited he got. As soon as we pulled onto the dirt road leading to the small reservoir where we hunted on Wednesday, something clicked on in his little dog memory and he began jumping over the console from front seat to back, whipping my shoulders with his vibrating tail. He barked at me when I told him to sit and stay in the back, but reluctantly he complied. He is the reason I'm hunting doves this year.
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