By WR Jones
The English pointer in front was my daughter’s dog. At least that is what I told my wife and daughter. After all what 4 year old girl wouldn’t want an English pointer for a first dog? And of course, she wants her dog field trained to point and retrieve. Yep, sure she does. To go along with my conferring ownership on my daughter I was forced to let her name “her” dog. She went with the name, Brownie, and would not be budged off it.
This was my first inkling that either my daughter hadn’t mastered colors, or the idiot gene from my side of the family had been faithfully reproduced for another generation.