Our jobs are simple. She flushes, I shoot.
All she needs is water, a high protein diet and the occasional head scratch.
I however require boots, vests, high-priced shotgun shells, decent scotch, two barreled shotguns, cigars and eggs over-easy with sausage.
When I walk half-a-dozen miles, she’ll run 20, including forays into brush, canyons and places where I am generally too lazy to check for birds, but don’t want to pass up.
I hup and whistle and occasionally yell, often keeping her from what she really wants to do (and sometimes from the birds she knows are close.)
Then she hits her stride, we’re on birds. I barely say a word as she waits for me, pins them down and puts them in the air.
She brings a bird to hand, but I’m so focused on the birds, I don’t even pause to give her a kind word or a pat on the head.
Instead, I wait until we disagree and I hup her in line with my choice.
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Mouthful of Feathers 
man, what a cool read!
Great article, and unfortunately all too true!