Post by Jolly on Apr 19, 2022 1:32:00 GMT
Well, no, it wasn't. It was late January of 1983, a cold and cloudless morning. Not much wind, what we call a Bluebird Day. Cold, mighty cold, but clear and the sky was the color of a bluebird's egg. The BIL and I, along with his cousin, Mike, had pooled up a few rabbit dogs and we were going to try to bust a bunny or two.
Haven't thought about that day in a while, but the wife had cooked a big pot of beef vegetable soup this evening. A big pot, about two gallons. I'm trying to make room in the chest freezer and I've still got a few things from 2019. Okra, tomatoes, butter beans, field peas, corn and what not. Wife does a good job. Her aunt in Winnfield does a better job, or at least it seemed so on that winter day back in 1983.
It had been a snake-bit morning. We didn't have enough dogs, just three of Mike's and one that belonged to my BIL. We didn't start until about 8am, on account of the cold. Dumped the dogs out on the edge of a cut-over, that had a few small trees left standing and lots of briar patches. Dogs sniffed, snorted, took a piss or two and sorted out their order amongst themselves. Jump dog was Cicero, who belonged to BIL. Mike's best dog was a chop-mouthed lemon beagle.
Cicero was only good for one rabbit, because he was gun-shy. First shotgun blast and it was the end of him for the day. But he was really good at ferreting out the first rabbit. Had to shoot the rabbit before he caught it, though, or he'd eat it. Bad habit in a rabbit dog.
Well, we hadn't been in the woods too long and I hear Cicero bugle off, then the chop mouth, followed by the other two dogs. A pack of beagles on a hot trail is some of the best sounding music...Hunt with the same dogs very much and you can tell a cold trail from a hot one, a "maybe" from a "definite" and you can tell the direction they're going and when they turn. And the nice thing about beagles, whether rabbit hunting or deer hunting, they're not fast enough to make you chase them over Hell's half-acre. Not like them lying Walkers, who you might have to head off and catch three miles down the road.
I heard Cicero when he turned. Not having enough hunters, we were trying to cover the double-back paths as best we could and I had moved to the top of a ridge to stand on top of a pine stump, a couple of feet from a small pine the lumber company had left. I saw Mike working his way down through the bottom, I figured he had seen me and we'd shoot the rabbit as soon he got past us. I didn't want to holler at him and spook the rabbit.
Well, Mike didn't see me.
Folks, 'tis a bad feeling as you watch a twelve-gauge shotgun barrel swing your way, even forty yards away. The rabbit was running between us, Mike hadn't seen me and it was definitely one of those "Oh, ****!" moments when you know the outcome is either bad. Or worse than bad.
You don't want to get hit in the face with fine shot at that distance, it'll break your teeth or put your eyes out if it hits you in the head. Anything on heavy winter clothes, though, probably means you're not going to bleed too bad. So I covered up my head as best I could and hoped he didn't shoot as the rabbit ran between us. He did.
He killed the rabbit, and I was lucky enough that the shot didn't hit me. It did hit that scrawny pine next to me, blowing splinters into the side of my face. Looked worse than what it was, with the blood and all. All superficial. I was lucky. I used to keep a few alcohol preps and a couple of bandaids in my fanny pack, and they came in handy that day. We kept hunting for at least another couple of hours, but I made sure BIL was between me and Mike.
Couldn't find Cicero. True to his nature, he took off and left us. We finished out hunting, managing to bag a couple more rabbits, but it wasn't a banner day. At least that beat getting skunked. Mike started blowing on his cowhorn and we called up his dogs, then started heading back to the truck.
Got back to the truck and sure enough, there was Cicero. Laughing at us, I guess. BIL had done had enough of that dog and when the dog wouldn't come to the call and load up, I knew what was going to happen when BIL started shoving shells into his shotgun. He gave his dog one more call and when Cicero wouldn't come, he shot him. Killed him graveyard dead, right in the middle of the logging road. Walked over, took his collar off, stuffed it in his pocket and chunked the dog's carcass in a briar patch.
As I said, a snake-bit morning. Mike had durn near shot me, we didn't have but three rabbits for a hard morning's hunt, BIL shot his dog and all three of us were so worn-out and cold our teeth was a poppin'.
Wasn't a long ride back to Mike's moma's house. Not near enough to warm up when you're bone cold. We turned the dogs out and put them in their kennel, giving them an extra couple of scoops of feed. Time to head into the house and try to warm up by the fireplace. Rabbits weren't in any hurry, we'd have to thaw them out to skin them anyway. They could stay in the back of the truck.
It's the little things in life that mean a lot. The fact that I still had both eyes and my teeth. The warmth of a fireplace, as you backed into it so close, your clothes kinda steam from the heat. And a really good pot of vegetable soup on a cold Bluebird Day, that warms up your insides as you chase it down with a hunk of hot buttered cornbread and a steaming cup of coffee. A piece of hand-braided rug to lay out on, when you're tired, full and the fire crackles in the background, warming the room.
Yes, and a good pot of soup on a day decades in the future, to jog an old man's memory, to remind him what is actually important. Family, memories and the simple things...
Haven't thought about that day in a while, but the wife had cooked a big pot of beef vegetable soup this evening. A big pot, about two gallons. I'm trying to make room in the chest freezer and I've still got a few things from 2019. Okra, tomatoes, butter beans, field peas, corn and what not. Wife does a good job. Her aunt in Winnfield does a better job, or at least it seemed so on that winter day back in 1983.
It had been a snake-bit morning. We didn't have enough dogs, just three of Mike's and one that belonged to my BIL. We didn't start until about 8am, on account of the cold. Dumped the dogs out on the edge of a cut-over, that had a few small trees left standing and lots of briar patches. Dogs sniffed, snorted, took a piss or two and sorted out their order amongst themselves. Jump dog was Cicero, who belonged to BIL. Mike's best dog was a chop-mouthed lemon beagle.
Cicero was only good for one rabbit, because he was gun-shy. First shotgun blast and it was the end of him for the day. But he was really good at ferreting out the first rabbit. Had to shoot the rabbit before he caught it, though, or he'd eat it. Bad habit in a rabbit dog.
Well, we hadn't been in the woods too long and I hear Cicero bugle off, then the chop mouth, followed by the other two dogs. A pack of beagles on a hot trail is some of the best sounding music...Hunt with the same dogs very much and you can tell a cold trail from a hot one, a "maybe" from a "definite" and you can tell the direction they're going and when they turn. And the nice thing about beagles, whether rabbit hunting or deer hunting, they're not fast enough to make you chase them over Hell's half-acre. Not like them lying Walkers, who you might have to head off and catch three miles down the road.
I heard Cicero when he turned. Not having enough hunters, we were trying to cover the double-back paths as best we could and I had moved to the top of a ridge to stand on top of a pine stump, a couple of feet from a small pine the lumber company had left. I saw Mike working his way down through the bottom, I figured he had seen me and we'd shoot the rabbit as soon he got past us. I didn't want to holler at him and spook the rabbit.
Well, Mike didn't see me.
Folks, 'tis a bad feeling as you watch a twelve-gauge shotgun barrel swing your way, even forty yards away. The rabbit was running between us, Mike hadn't seen me and it was definitely one of those "Oh, ****!" moments when you know the outcome is either bad. Or worse than bad.
You don't want to get hit in the face with fine shot at that distance, it'll break your teeth or put your eyes out if it hits you in the head. Anything on heavy winter clothes, though, probably means you're not going to bleed too bad. So I covered up my head as best I could and hoped he didn't shoot as the rabbit ran between us. He did.
He killed the rabbit, and I was lucky enough that the shot didn't hit me. It did hit that scrawny pine next to me, blowing splinters into the side of my face. Looked worse than what it was, with the blood and all. All superficial. I was lucky. I used to keep a few alcohol preps and a couple of bandaids in my fanny pack, and they came in handy that day. We kept hunting for at least another couple of hours, but I made sure BIL was between me and Mike.
Couldn't find Cicero. True to his nature, he took off and left us. We finished out hunting, managing to bag a couple more rabbits, but it wasn't a banner day. At least that beat getting skunked. Mike started blowing on his cowhorn and we called up his dogs, then started heading back to the truck.
Got back to the truck and sure enough, there was Cicero. Laughing at us, I guess. BIL had done had enough of that dog and when the dog wouldn't come to the call and load up, I knew what was going to happen when BIL started shoving shells into his shotgun. He gave his dog one more call and when Cicero wouldn't come, he shot him. Killed him graveyard dead, right in the middle of the logging road. Walked over, took his collar off, stuffed it in his pocket and chunked the dog's carcass in a briar patch.
As I said, a snake-bit morning. Mike had durn near shot me, we didn't have but three rabbits for a hard morning's hunt, BIL shot his dog and all three of us were so worn-out and cold our teeth was a poppin'.
Wasn't a long ride back to Mike's moma's house. Not near enough to warm up when you're bone cold. We turned the dogs out and put them in their kennel, giving them an extra couple of scoops of feed. Time to head into the house and try to warm up by the fireplace. Rabbits weren't in any hurry, we'd have to thaw them out to skin them anyway. They could stay in the back of the truck.
It's the little things in life that mean a lot. The fact that I still had both eyes and my teeth. The warmth of a fireplace, as you backed into it so close, your clothes kinda steam from the heat. And a really good pot of vegetable soup on a cold Bluebird Day, that warms up your insides as you chase it down with a hunk of hot buttered cornbread and a steaming cup of coffee. A piece of hand-braided rug to lay out on, when you're tired, full and the fire crackles in the background, warming the room.
Yes, and a good pot of soup on a day decades in the future, to jog an old man's memory, to remind him what is actually important. Family, memories and the simple things...