Anyone who is blessed enough to be "owned by a bird-dog" knows the syndrome: they are energized by the coming of fall.
Emma begins to get The Fever in late August, when the cast of light changes and the mornings are crisp and cool. Her ears take a different set; her eyes shine and glisten; she insists on going out early to make her rounds; she also insists that I go with her, as if she has something she wants to show me. Usually, though, she goes on her first rounds by herself.
The ranchstead here consists of about ten acres that are fenced off from the cattle. This little 'compound' is made up of some old buildings, my house and shop building, two long tree lines, some evergreens, several large brush piles, a dozen or so big round hay bales, and a myriad of coverts of brush and weeds.
In the morning, Emma is frantic to make the rounds of her domain. I let her out and she is moaning and whimpering with anticipation as she rushes down the stairs of the porch and heads off into her first adventure of the day. She knows she is to stay inside the wire and to check back with me every half hour or so, and so she does. She'll come back to the door, bark, and wait for me. If she hasn't finished her sport she will move to the steps and wait for me to release her again, and then off she goes to continue the Great Exploration for another half hour.
Her life is complete, and can only get better when bird season finally begins and the rambles will include me, and 'our' Browning.
For her, it's perfect happiness such as I think we poor humans can seldom, if ever, know.