The Humiliation of a Hardworking Labrador: Don’t Suck
Eastern Colorado. A crisp autumn morning. The golden fields whisper promises of pheasants hiding in the brush, waiting for their time to fly. This is what every hunting dog dreams of—a day in the fields, doing what he was born to do. But for Buck, a seasoned Labrador Retriever with the heart of a champion and the patience of a saint, it was yet another day of watching his owner single-handedly ruin his reputation.
The Setup for Disaster
Buck had been through this drill before. The moment his owner, Todd, pulled on his bright orange hunting vest, Buck felt the surge of anticipation. Today was the day. Today, the birds would fall. Today, his owner wouldn’t suck. Or at least, that’s what Buck told himself every morning before stepping into the field.
Todd, bless his heart, was an enthusiastic hunter. He loved the tradition, the camaraderie, and most importantly, the Instagram-worthy moments. He just had one minor flaw: He couldn’t shoot. At all.
The Flush
Buck took his job seriously. He zig-zagged through the field, his nose working like a finely tuned instrument. He caught the scent, locked on, and did what any hardworking Labrador would do—flushed the bird with a masterful burst of speed. A majestic rooster burst into the air, cackling, its vibrant colors glowing in the morning light.
It was perfect.
It was textbook.
It was doomed.
The Moment of Truth
Todd shouldered his shotgun. Buck braced himself, watching as Todd lined up the shot.
Don’t suck, Todd.
Boom.
Nothing. The rooster kept flying, laughing its way into the next county.
Todd stood there, stunned. Buck sat down in the dirt, deadpan. His brown eyes locked onto Todd with the heavy disappointment of a father watching his son fail algebra for the third time.
Redemption (Or Not)
“Alright, Buck, let’s get another one,” Todd said, still convinced that the next shot would redeem him.
Buck sighed and resumed his work. Another scent, another flush, another moment of glory—ruined by Todd’s inability to connect pellets with feathers. This time, Buck didn’t even try to hide his disdain. He retrieved the unscathed pheasant in spirit and placed an invisible bird at Todd’s feet.
Todd reloaded.
The Watching Eyes of a Legend
As Buck prepped for round three of flush and watch Todd choke, he couldn’t help but feel the weight of his ancestors watching from Labrador Heaven. They had fought hard for the legacy of great hunting dogs, and now their descendant was out here babysitting a grown man with the reflexes of a broken lawn sprinkler.
It wasn’t just an embarrassment—it was a travesty.
A Call to Action: Don’t Be a Todd
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The Final Shot
As Todd lined up one last shot, Buck closed his eyes and whispered a silent prayer to the hunting gods.
Boom.
Feathers. The rooster tumbled to the ground.
Buck ran to retrieve it, triumphant. He dropped the bird at Todd’s feet and looked up with a new kind of admiration. Maybe—just maybe—his owner didn’t suck.
Until next time.
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