
by Anthony Giattino The woodcock crumpled and fell from the sky; I couldn’t believe it. My dog, Marlowe, had been on point, focused like a surgeon, and I was nervous. The loud report from the shotgun faded into a quiet stillness. Marlowe looked at me, just as surprised as I was. “What now?” he seemed to ask. I was responsible for ending that bird’s life and it deserved the respect of being treated and cooked as the gift it was. “I’ll bring it to Chef Nick.” The woodcock I shot, and the meal it became, would forever change my perspective on...






