Hunting

It’s November and for some reason hunting is on my mind. Maybe it’s because of the song about the goose getting fat that keeps playing over and over in my head. Or maybe it’s the cooler weather, or the wild turkeys that seem to be out everywhere. All I do know, is that the images are there. Now, I must tell you that I am not a hunter and never have been. I am an animal lover who refused, as early as age five, to eat beef out of the freezer, for almost a year, because the beef was my pet calf (no more pet calves for me after that traumatic experience). But I grew up on a farm and among hunters. And then I married a hunter.

My first hunting experience with him involved doves. It was the first year we were married and as young love has it, I was willing to answer his pleas to go hunting with him. I informed him I would go, but I would not shoot a gun. There were two reasons for not shooting a gun. One was I would not be the reason for an animal or bird’s demise. The second reason was an earlier experience of shooting mistletoe out of the tree. Being told by my husband it was easy, just rest the gun against my shoulder, I unknowingly followed his direction. Those of you who hunt or shoot know what happened next. Yes, I shot and then picked myself up off the ground, due to the force of the gun jumping back into my shoulder. “Someone” laughed, before he saw the bruise on my shoulder, at which point I think he was truly sorry for not realizing I might get hurt. Needless to say, I was not going to shoot a gun. I had no idea what purpose I would serve on this hunt, but I soon found the answer. My husband soon had his “eagle eye” on doves. His gun went up in the air, a shot rang out, and excitedly he said, “watch where it falls”, and at that moment, I became the retriever (no I didn’t retrieve them in my mouth, I didn’t touch, I simply pointed). It probably shocks no one that I always encouraged hunting trips with the boys.

One such excursion was with my father. They were seeking ducks. My father was not a huge hunter, but being a farm boy, he was very familiar with guns and a good shot. They were out for some time on the father/son-in-law, doing whatever hunters do. Upon returning, they were both excited. It seemed my father had literally killed two birds with one shot. They wanted the ducks for dinner, so my mother, father and husband proceeded to remove the feathers (not me, I don’t do dead animals). Well, when pulling chicken feathers out, you pour scalding water over the bird, making the plucking easier. These birds were having none of that, the water rolled off them like “water off a duck’s back”. Hey, go figure, it was something to see. Finally getting the job done and plenty of laughter, everyone (except me, I don’t eat what I see) enjoyed the delicey.

My grandfather was an avid rabbit hunter, so there were many hunts on our farm (poor little rabbits). He would almost always get his daily limit, which seemed like an awful lot to me. He would bring them to the house and skin and gut them, preparing to eat rabbit for dinner. Again, my mother would fry them up and even though they smelled really good, I was not about to eat bunnies (not then and not ever). My grandfather was quite the hunter, hunting wild boar, bear, deer and fowl of all kinds. He always ate what he killed, and for that I admired him.

Now that I’ve finished this memory, I still do not know why it’s stuck in my mind. You know, I really think it started with the goose.