Preacher.

I can’t say how long I’ve stared at this blinking cursor waiting for words to come. Words about my friend Preacher. Words I thought I’d have ten or twelve more years to come up with but, alas, words that need to be written now.

I came to know and love Preacher, a stunning German Wirehaired Pointer, at more or less the same rate that I came to know and love his master, my friend Shawn. The two of them were inseparable, and similar in many ways. They have both been known to tend toward the surly end of the cheer spectrum. They both sported beards that sometimes picked up debris along the way. They both possessed an intense desire – scratch that, an intense *need* – to hunt. And I’ve never known either of them to pee indoors.

One of the most special things about Shawn and Preacher to me has always been their acceptance of me. You know how you sometimes change little things about how you behave, how you speak, how you are, depending on who you are with? Shawn is one of those close friends around whom I am exactly myself. If I’m not confident about something we’re doing, or if I’m really bad at something, I can freely express my insecurities. And if I’m excited about doing something new I won’t hold back in showing joy. From the very beginning, both Shawn and Preacher understood and accepted me unconditionally.

Preacher knew I was a far cry from the hunter his Dad is. But I feel like somehow he understood I brought something else to the table: My camera. I loved photographing Preacher, and he genuinely seemed to love it too. “Photogenic” is wholly inadequate to describe the connection I had with this dog in the field when I put down the shotgun and picked up the camera.

On a bitter cold, windy day of training with planted pheasant last winter, I got down on the ground as Preacher found and pointed birds for Shawn, who would flush and shoot them. Then Preacher would retrieve. But instead of returning to Shawn in a straight line with the bird, he would make a big, wide arc passing directly in front of me, bounding through the tall grass as I clicked the shutter, maintaining eye contact with me until he passed by. This was not by chance or accident, he did it every time.

I’ve written before about my all-time favorite photograph, a shot of Preacher and some geese on the fender of an old truck in a cold drizzle, which made the cover of Virginia Wildlife Magazine earlier this year. He cooperated on that day in difficult conditions. But whatever the weather or terrain, no matter how hot or cold or tired, he always seemed to pause a little longer, stand a little more still, and look at me through the lens with a little extra focus and intensity. Once I saw a great photo opportunity unfolding, the sort of scene you miss if you’re not ready. I wasn’t ready. Without a camera, I ran up to him fumbling to get my phone out of my pocket, pleading with him in my head, “That’s perfect, stand nice and straight, parallel with the end of the dock while I try and get the sun perfectly behind you… oh and I know I’m rushing and moving erratically but don’t look at me, stay calm and look straight ahead like the handsome badass you are.” And he basically responded with, “I got you. Take all the time you need.” It might have been that day Shawn first started calling me Preacher’s Official Photographer, a title I wear with pride.

Preacher did not love everyone. Maybe he didn’t quite trust most people. Maybe, like his Dad, he just preferred a small but strong circle of loved ones. I have always felt privileged to be inside both of those circles. Shawn told me once if anything ever happened to him and his wife Tara, they would leave Preacher to me. I do not know if this was a serious assignment, but I took it as such, and consider it an honor of the highest order.

Shawn and our friend Matt introduced me to waterfowl hunting, an entirely new venture for me. So far most of the days I’ve logged in duck blinds have been slow, my time spent toggling between staring down at my frozen toes or at Preacher, then up at grey, birdless skies. My last time out, though, I shot my first duck, an idiot merganser that happened by and all my friends let me take first crack at. Preacher swam out into the lazy current of the Potomac, easily collected it and gently returned her to me. That merganser is still in my freezer. I had intended to give it to a friend to tie some flies using some of the feathers but never got around to it. Now I’m glad I still have it, because it’s headed to the taxidermist. The only bird Preacher will ever bring to me deserves to be on my wall. My very first duck, shot in the company of dear friends, on my home river, retrieved by one of my favorite dogs of all time.

I have, as an adult anyway, shed more tears over dogs than all other things combined, and I have not shed my last for Mountain View’s Pale Rider. I’m going to miss you for a long time, Preacher Man. I won’t have my camera when I see you on the other side, but strike a pose for me just the same. For old time’s sake.