Wood Duck, Isn't It?

The duck wandered over to some sparse grass at the edge of the road, aimlessly. He looked about him like a person who has been abruptly wakened and doesn't know where he is. His obvious contentment struck me as something of a marvel. An old Ford truck lurched into the driveway; two men in the seat hailed the proprietor. They were hunters, big, warmly dressed, heavily shod men. In the back of the truck was a large bird dog with an expression of remote disdain for the world of roadside commerce. The pointer stood up, looked after the hunters, raised his ears briefly, and then lay down again. It's funny he wouldn't be