One Word Between Us

The first shot cracked across the timber and sent a shiver through the flooded woods. Cold water lapped against Sam’s waders as he steadied himself against a cypress trunk. His breath came out white and sharp in the early light, hanging there for a moment before fading into the mist. Beside him, his yellow Lab, Briar, stood still — not trembling, not whining — just waiting, eyes locked on the empty sky.

It had taken years to reach that stillness.

Mallards had been working the hole since dawn, ghosting through the fog and circling low enough to set hearts racing. When the next flock came in, Sam whispered, “Take it easy, boy.” The ducks dropped through the timber, wings slicing the air in that hollow whisper that only comes in flooded woods. Sam rose with the other men, shots breaking in rhythm. Two greenheads folded, hitting the water with that soft, unmistakable sound — a heavy splash followed by the ripple of cold current.

Briar didn’t move.

Sam smiled to himself. The others in the blind didn’t notice, but he did. A year ago, that same moment would’ve been chaos — the dog breaking early, crashing through the water before a command left his lips. It had taken patience, setbacks, and more than a few quiet mornings to earn what now looked like calm.

“Briar,” Sam said softly, voice low but steady.

The Lab slipped off the stand, cutting through knee-deep water without hesitation. No “go,” no hand thrown forward. Just his name — that was all it took.

Sam watched the ripples widen as Briar swam into the shadows, the sunlight starting to cut through the fog like slow fire. He could hear the soft drip of water off the trees, the whine of wings high above, the world narrowing down to one simple retrieve.

When Briar came back, he came up the stand with purpose, and handed the ducks off to Sam. Sam reached for him, hand brushing his wet coat. It smelled like the river and oak bark and the faint sweetness of autumn decay.

“Good work buddy,” he whispered.

Briar blinked up, tail giving a slow, deliberate thump against the stand.

That was all the praise he needed.

The first time Sam saw Briar, he was a blur of yellow fur in a litter full of black pups. The breeder had said something about “steady British lines,” and Sam had nodded, half-listening, because what really caught him was the pup’s eyes — dark, calm, searching. Not frantic like some. Just… watching.

Back home, Briar grew fast. He learned faster. But his drive burned hot — too hot at times. He’d lunge for bumpers, break for birds before they hit the ground, shake off commands like water. Sam had trained retrievers before, but this one tested him. There were days he wanted to quit, to settle for “good enough.”

But every time, he’d look at Briar sitting there in the yard, chest out, eyes on him like he was waiting to be understood — and Sam knew he couldn’t give up.

One winter morning during training, after weeks of failed steadiness drills, something changed. Sam tossed a single bumper across the pond and said nothing. The pup watched it land, then looked back at him, expectant. Sam waited. Five seconds. Ten. The dog quivered but didn’t move. Finally, Sam said, “Briar.”

The dog launched out like a bullet, but with control — clean entry, clean return. No whining. No chaos. Just trust. That was the first time Sam realized that steadiness wasn’t submission. It was respect.

And now, years later, standing in flooded timber, that same quiet respect defined everything between them.

The hunt slowed as the sun climbed higher. The ducks grew cautious, keeping their distance from the spread. The group called sparingly now — soft chatter, a few feeding chuckles — just enough to sound alive. Sam poured coffee from a dented thermos, the steam curling up and disappearing into the cold. Briar rested beside him, eyes still scanning the sky, muscles ready under that calm exterior.

Moments like this didn’t make the highlight reels. There was no cheering, no photos, no crowds. Just a man, a dog, and a stretch of flooded timber filled with light and memory.

When another single mallard drifted in, wings cupped and feet down, Sam’s partner took the shot. The drake fell behind them, across a narrow slew, disappearing through the flooded willows.

Sam glanced at Briar.

“Briar.”

The Lab slipped into the water again, silent and sure. Sam listened to him work — the splashing, the branches rustling, the pause, the splash again — and then the sound of water dripping as he came back through the brush.

The bird’s emerald head glistened in the sunlight, and for a brief second, everything went still.

Sam took the mallard, stroked Briar’s head, and looked out over the flooded trees. The season would end soon. The water would drop. The blinds would come down. But this — this moment — would stay.

Briar shook off, sending a halo of cold water through the air, then sat beside him. Sam smiled, watching the ripples fade across the water.

“Good work buddy,” he said again, quieter this time.

And Briar, steady as ever, gave a single, slow wag of his tail.