Quail hunting has been called by some in the media “the sport of royalty.” The fact is, for several decades it was one of the most accessible of all upland game pursuits for the common man in America, and especially so for those in the South. Quail were abundant and thriving in virtually every small woodlot that had adjacent crops or natural grasses. Their lovely “bobwhite!” call could be heard every evening as the covey was called back together after their daily foraging so as to huddle safely through the night.

Thoughtfully bred English Pointers, what everyone in the South simply called bird dogs, were widely available from numerous breeders at a cost not prohibitive to a blue-collar worker. Quail hunting was a culture in and of itself, and regardless of income or social status, those who pursued it I suppose, in retrospect, could indeed consider themselves royalty. To see a bird dog running and, quartering at top speed, suddenly get a nose full of quail scent and slam into a perfect statue of a point was the reward. The shooting was secondary, as virtually all quail hunters are solely in it for their dogs.

Now don’t get me wrong, quail are a delight from a culinary standpoint, and we all took a share when they were abundant. But no longer so, and we never knew what we had until it was gone.

Our family rule was only take the male cock birds, which have a distinctive white head, and leave the hens for breeding. To do otherwise was considered a serious breach of etiquette. A cool shot, gunning over steady pointing dogs, could pick out the white head even after the heart-pounding explosive flush of the covey.

Such was the family in which I had the privilege of growing up. One rite of passage to becoming an adult was to successfully take your first bobwhite quail with your own shotgun over the pointing dogs.

My mother was an elegant if infrequent entertainer, but one tradition throughout my childhood was her annual Christmas Eve brunch for family, friends, and coworkers. Roasted quail were the centerpiece and always served on her finest silver and dinnerware. The men of the family were tasked a few weeks ahead to provide the quail for this event.

Christmas Eve of 1971 was on a Friday, and most businesses at that time were closed. My mother’s brunch swelled to 33 confirmed attendees, and we were short on quail.

So it was that my Christmas gift of 1971 came early — a Browning Light 12 Auto-5 shotgun given to me on Christmas Eve morning with the news that my grandfather and his bird dogs, along with Paul “Trigger” Giles, who was one of my father’s best friends, were on their way over. We were tasked with taking a limit of quail to fill out my mother’s brunch menu.

Behind our home at the time were more than 1,800 acres of woodlands and crops — loaded with quail.

So, at 8:00 a.m. sharp on a frosty 22-degree morning, my grandfather and “Trigger” Giles pulled into the driveway. My grandfather, a talented dog trainer, had English Pointers “Thunder” and “Ike” with him, surely the best he ever had. Our family insisted that dogs be absolutely steady to wing and shot, both for safety of the dogs as well as simple aesthetics. Both were.

At 8:15 a.m., after the usual safety and etiquette briefing, we were off. The frost on the ground and a very light southerly wind made perfect the direction of our hunt. “Thunder” and “Ike” were highly animated, which is always a good sign for dog men; good, experienced dogs can have an aimless gait to them when no game scent is present.

Fifteen minutes into the hunt at the edge of a broom sedge field near the woods, “Thunder” suddenly froze into a point. Seconds later, “Ike” slid in behind him in a perfect honor. Both were absolute statues and were literally shaking all over, not from the cold but from pure excitement and reward of game contact. It is the moment dog men live for over and over.

My grandfather said, “Michael, you take the covey shot and I’ll back you up.”

So I stepped amongst the dogs in a picture that I now know hundreds of artists have painted, carrying my first shotgun with my grandfather standing beside me carrying what would be his last.

Two steps past “Thunder’s” nose the covey erupted. I missed the first shot but connected with the second. I was enormously relieved when “Thunder” came back and nuzzled the white-headed bobwhite into my hands.

Such became a lifetime of trying to recreate this simple event.

In that moment, we were royalty.