That’s when I noticed the liver-and-white spots of his old pointer, Ringo. I’d always wondered where he’d buried him. And there was the bear hide from our Alberta hunt a few springs back. Plus a few pheasants for fly-tying, one plump raccoon, sticks of summer sausage, a T-bone or two, a feral cat with no more lives, turkey tail fans, a bushel of bullfrogs, and a menagerie of other creatures. I lurched when my hand brushed the tail of a timber rattlesnake.