We all ride to see
The perfect race
The one we dream of
But does not exist
Where the dog goes
Only where it should
Deep forward and using the wind
To find game at the end of a half-mile cast at the top of a hill
Where the sun shines on it
(Not he or she)
And the birds roar away
From six feet in front of its nose tilted up
Where it stands a statue
Tail twelve o’clock
No twist no curl no twitch no flag
Before during or after
Two more just the same
Then gone at the end
But with nineteen minutes
To show it to the judges
And your scout
Who is jealous of you
And hates your dog
(His stood first till this brace)
Finds your dog on point
With two minutes left
And instead of roping it
And blowing his whistle three blasts
To signal I Got Your Dog
Instead yells “Point”
The Son of a Bitch
And you ride to his call
And there stands your dog high and tight
Will it stay when you flush
After three usually no
Your scout knows that well
Was why he called point
But nothing to do
But flush
But as you walk to your dog
You get an idea
Instead of flushing
You grab its collar
Pull it away
Walk back to your mount
Say to the judges
Was a rat not a quail
After your dog
Is named Champion
You look up your scout
And with a sucker punch
Break his jaw
His dog’s owner
(A plaintiff’s lawyer)
Files a complaint
With the UKC
Wants you banned from the game
So you lawyer up
With a trialer attorney
Who suggests to the UKC
They get an advisory opinion
From the Trustees of the AFTCA
Who unanimously say
Your punch was justified
So the complaint gets dismissed
For lack of evidence
Then you wake
It’s a dream
Caused by ice cream
You had after supper
