“Rainbow sparkle unicorn puppy,” comes my daughter's response to the all-important question on what we should name the new puppy.

I look in the truck’s rearview mirror to catch the excitement in my daughter’s face, but instead see Braker, our Pudelpointer, moping about in the bed of the truck. His long eyes indicate his exhaustion. A pang of guilt hits me. I’ve been a bit selfish not holding him back on our recent two-week quail hunting extravaganza. He’s been going hard in the paint, and it shows.

“Ok, since that’s the only one I heard so far, that makes it to the top of the list,” I reply as I focus my eyes back on the road.

Not to be outdone, her brother blurts out the first name that pops in his head.

“Pistol!”

“Pistol… I like that. Has a sharp twangy feel to it, something that you can spit off the end of your tongue,” I say with a smile on my face.

I look out at the desert’s setting sun in what could be one of Clint Eastwood’s spaghetti westerns. I can see him facing off some grizzled no good bandit, locking eyes, hand hovering, waiting above his pistol.

Pistol… Yes, that will work just fine. In the past, this has been a decision that could have taken lawyers, three supreme court justices, and an ensuing battle to rival the O.J. Simpson trial to get a decision made.

And just like that, a five-year-old saves us from untold headaches and legal counsel fees.

He then throws in a slew of dinosaur names and what my wife has to later explain to me as a litany of Pokemon characters. He’s not satisfied with just one name, oh no. She’s going to have more surnames than a Russian.

Give them a reason to string some letters together that have the potential (or not) to form a word and they’ll give it their all.

As they continue to bark out names, my mind wanders to the past two weeks of scouring the desert for quail with Braker and the family. It has been pure bliss.

Upland had been the common bond between the wife and I since the beginning. It’s what got us outside together, it’s what bonded us. With two kids in need of rearing, upland hunting has taken the back burner in her eyes over the past five years. But the plan was to come back to it and bringing the kids along for the experience.

This trip was the catalyst for the spark was reignited her passion for the uplands. The kids are old enough to participate and she is ready to get back behind the gun and watch her pup, Braker, do the thing he loves most.

My throat constricts as I look back at the years hunting with Braker, mostly because it brings up the sore subject of his mentor, Sage. Sage was my first hunting dog and one that will always have a place in my soul. We learned how to hunt out west together, how to be partners, and how to be best friends. His loss two years ago shook me to my core. I did what I often do when faced with a loved one's death, I ran from it. It was painful to try to chase birds without him, so I didn’t. Not much at least.

Perhaps Braker suffered even more. He not only lost his hunting buddy but more importantly his reason for living, chasing birds. That was on me. Upland was put on the back burner because of my selfishness. I just couldn’t get out in the field without Sage.

But time heals all.

“Sage, huh?” my wife asks as she can see my glassy eyes reflecting off the twilight.

Damn. I’m an open book sometimes.

“Yea. No biggy. Just thinking,” I reply.

I look back at Braker again and realize after two years of towing the company line, albeit a slow two years, he was in need of help and it was time to start looking into it for him.

The road trip had gone so well that we decided that the next hunting season we’d extend it. Bigtime.

We would round up the kids, plan out hunts all throughout the west and show the kids this great country they were so fortunate to be born into. No small feat. Two kids, one (soon to be two) dogs, Hazel and I in our camper for six months. Add running a company and schooling the kids while on the road and you may be reading an article from a future resident at an insane asylum.

So the plan is set and the wheels immediately get rolling. We don’t hem and haw over it. Life’s too short for indecision. Come up with the idea, plan, then execute. Let the dust settle where it may.

As I finish taping out the last few sentences of this post, on my lap sits a three-month-old English Setter aptly named Pistol. I now firmly believe my son has a bright future in fortune-telling. Pistol not only holds her name but is an adjective that could not be more appropriate for a creature of her character.