A Hunting We Will Go

If you live in Texas, sooner or later, someone is going to say this to you:  "How do you know you don't like hunting if you've never tried it?" People here take their hunting very seriously, planning for weeks before opening day.  They eat what they kill; a good sized deer can feed a family for the winter. So when a guy I was dating, J(forgot his name), asked me to go dove hunting, and asked that question, I reluctantly agreed.

At the crack of dawn, along with a large crowd, there we were.  I was reasonably sure I would never actually hit anything.  Doves are not huge birds, after all. I was determined to just shoot a few rounds of pellets into the air, and that would be that. When the doves began flying, I dutifully raised the shotgun to my shoulder and fired. It was a tremendous noise; the doves that fell from the sky were likely scared to death. 

After a couple of hours,my ears were ringing. J decided that we should drive to his family's property, where we might find a few more doves to frighten to death. Thirty minutes later we drove over an extremely rough dirt road in a pickup truck, me holding on for dear life and J looking for doves.  He pulled over near some trees, shut off the engine, and turned to me.

"There are two doves over on that branch," he whispered.  I could not see a thing. Not a single dove. If there were two doves in that tree, they couldn't have been worried.   I wasn't sure exactly what I was supposed to be shooting at. I said as much. We got out of the truck quietly, and J handed me the shotgun.

"See that branch right there?"  J leaned in next to me, his mouth next to my ear.  He pointed right in front of us.  "It's straight up from there...just lift the gun slow and easy...easy...now...SHOOT THE SQUIRREL!  SHOOT THE SQUIRREL! DAMMIT--SHOOT THE SQUIRREL!!!"

He grabbed the gun from me and shot that squirrel, which I never did see. The doves flew away.  My heart was practically bursting from my chest while J ran to find what he had killed.

I was livid.

"What in the HELL was that about?" I yelled.  "Why did you want me to shoot a poor squirrel? You scared me half to death!"   J just looked at me as if I'd lost my mind.

"Squirrels are good eating," was all he said. I threw up a little in my mouth.  We got back into the truck and drove around a few more hours, until I accidentally shot two doves, who zigged when they should have zagged.  J had killed about twenty.  He cleaned all of them, wrapping the breasts in bacon with a jalepeno, and grilled them, along with the squirrel.  Because you eat what you kill.

I killed the doves, so I gave thanks and ate them, and they were delicious. I decided then and there, however, that hunting was NOT for me, and neither was J. In that split second when he was screaming at me to shoot a defenseless squirrel, I actually thought about shooting him.  I'm not proud of that, but I thought about it all the same. I can't hide from it. It still frightens me to see that darkness within myself, and I still grapple with what that says about me.  I have a long road ahead of me to spiritually recover from that single moment.

Because you eat what you kill.

Anticipation

The word is anticipation. This was a bit out of my comfort zone. 



 As Cyana hiked back to the village with her catch in tow, her chest swelled with pride.  A prize of this size would feed many.  Cyana had been lucky that it had been her blooding; instead of having to roam far into the forest, the scent of blood had drawn the animal to her.  It had been easy to trap, and now it stumbled along behind her, led by the rope she held.

Cyana could visualize the meat being turned on the spit over a roaring fire.  Her mouth watered in anticipation.  Other hunters preferred to skin their kills prior to cooking, but Cyan felt that it was best to let the skin char and roast, while the meat inside the skin was cooked. She could taste the sweet, juicy meat on her tongue now, even though it would be hours before it was cooked enough to be eaten.

When Cyana reached the edge of the village, Lelana, the Eldest, raised a hand in greeting.  Cyana handed her the rope, symbolically gifting the catch to the village.  Lelana's lyrical voice carried over the clearing, as the other elders circled the ensnared animal, their knives catching the sunlight.

"Here is food, Eldest,"  Cyana tried to keep the impatience out of her voice.  She was eager to get her catch ready for roasting.  This was part of the ritual, however, and disrespect was not allowed.

"Were you mated before the kill?"

"Yes, Eldest."

"Then the good of the tribe has been served."  Lelana spoke quietly, as she pulled ceremonial knife from her robe, and with a practiced flick of her wrist, slit the throat of the man, catching the blood in a bowl as the other elders stabbed the body until it stopped moving.  The stab wounds would be stuffed with spices prior to roasting; the thought made Cyana's mouth water once more. She stepped forward, grabbing an arm and dragging the dinner slowly to the cooking fires.

My Girlie-Girl Side Was Showing

When I was living with my First Cat, Isobel, I knew next to nothing about cats. I knew that she was a cat, and that was next to nothing. I had to take her to the vet to even find out that she was a girl. But we settled into a nice routine, and life was good. Until Isobel decided that I was not contributing sufficiently to the household.

When a cat sees you as an equal, they bring you their kills to share. If a cat thinks that you're an idiot, they bring you LIVE creatures so that YOU can learn to kill them. Isobel started off bringing me dead things, including a white-wing dove that she left underneath my coffee table. I didn't discover that until I hit the poor dead bird with my foot, and I am sure that Isobel got quite a bit of enjoyment watching me hop around with a roiling case of the heebie-jeebies.

Then Isobel started bringing me live things--lizards, toads, small birds, a gigantic cockroach, etc. She would come to the door, meowing until I opened it, then she would walk in and drop her prize. I try to pretend like I'm a tough chick, and when I was single I handled all these creepy-crawly things by myself. I am embarrassed to say this now, but I acted just like all those ridiculous girlie-girl stereotypes. I would squeal hysterically, jump on the couch, run around waving my arms in the air, and generally have a conniption. (I am not casting aspersions on girlie-girls, but that has never been descriptive of my personality.)

The neighbors likely thought I was being murdered, but all I was doing was trying to safely catch whatever critter Isobel had dropped and herd it out the door. Well, except for the cockroach--I pounded that thing so hard that it separated into individual atoms(I have a phobia, and it makes me wacky). Isobel would sulk for days when I would release her prisoners, as if she despaired of my ability to feed myself if she weren't around. My girlie-girl spaz-out was a completely involuntary response on my part, and once I calmed down, I always hoped that nobody saw me flailing about in my apartment.

And for many, many years, my secret was safe. Even the person who knows me best, my husband, had no idea.

Until last night.

I looked outside on our patio and saw our cat Zena heading our way*. She had something in her mouth and a determined look in her eye, which flashed me back to Isobel. I said a very bad word and rushed outside. I had to chase Zena around for a couple of minutes, but I got her to drop what was in her mouth, scooped her up and threw her in the house.

Then I looked down.

It was a dead mouse. On my patio. A dead mouse.

I did what most people do in these situations.

"EEEEEEEEEEEK!!!!!!"

Yep. I went into full-on girlie-girl mode, screaming, running around, and just completely losing my damn mind over that dead mouse. I was so completely hysterical that I didn't even realize that I was in my backyard.

Until I saw my neighbor out on his patio, watering the grass. And another neighbor grilling. And a bunch of kids playing on their trampoline.

Even that German Shepherd, who never stops barking, was silently staring at me, mouth agape.

I shivered, still feeling those heebie-jeebies, and 'calmly' walked back into my house. I took a deep breath and nicely asked my husband to please go outside and dispose of the mouse carcass. He did it, but he teased me unmercifully about it.

If anyone asks, I'm going to say that I had a bee down my shirt.



*We don't 'let' Zena outside. She usually gets out before we even notice, because she is that fast. Luckily, she knows where we live.