Today I had to make a decision that pains me as much as any I' ve had to make. My oldest brit, Remi, is no longer able to hunt with the other boys. He has severe arthritis in his hips, and all of the medication and supplementation in the world isn' t going to make it any better.

This is the dog that helped put me trough college, guiding for pheasants, sharpies and prairie chickens. This is the dog that taught ME how to hunt. This dog is my best friend.

He loves nothing more than to make huge casts through the high plains grasses, running bigger than any brits I' ve owned. Now, his arthritis makes him gimpy after a short morning in the CRP. His eyes still light up like torching trees when I grap the Filson vest or walk towards the gun cabinet. His little tail blurs at the mere mention of birds. His heart for the hunt is still there. Only his body fails him, now.

Oh, he' ll still go out with me, but from now on it will only be short hunts in the corners and abandoned tree rows. And he' ll watch with unguarded jealousy as I load his kennelmates into the crates for the long days afield. He never quit me, and now it feels like I' m qutting him...

I only hope he will enjoy his retirement, curled up on a plush dog bed in front of the fireplace.