Saturday, July 11, 2009

Rabbit Hunting

I went rabbit hunting early today. This is New Mexico and if you want to hunt rabbits in July, you have to go early. By noon, it is about 100 degrees, but the desert floor is about 20 degrees hotter. There are no clouds, and no shade, at least not for anything larger than a jack rabbit.

But the desert cools off at night, and early in the morning there are a surprising number of bunnies hopping around out there. For some reason, this doesn't seem to be a sport that appeals to everyone. It is amazing to me the number of people who do not understand the simple pleasure of shooting varmints. Personally, I think the only reason we have jack rabbits is because God wanted to give us moving targets. Whenever people express horror at the thought of shooting these pests, I always tell them that the last one I shot was in self defense; I had no choice since the rabbit had both ears pointed at me.

This morning was a good day. It reminded me of the first time I took my son, McCullough, rabbit hunting. I think he was four.

It was a great morning, he had a good time, and I had more than a little luck. I like to give the jack rabbit a chance, so I like to use a Colt .45 automatic. It’s a little harder to hit them, but if I do there’s no doubt they are dead. That morning, I was either very good or very lucky; it was a long shot against a running jack and the shot was spectacular. I may have gotten a little exuberant.

Well, later that day my wife and I took the family to the grocery store. McCullough had long since learned that if he ran over to the bakery counter and smiled cutely, he could get a cookie. Then the lady behind the counter would look at me and politely wait until I bought something. Kind of a two-way extortion operation.

This time, as McCullough runs up to the bakery, he saw something different. It was Easter week and on top of the counter was a very large pink papier-mâché rabbit. McCullough stops, draws an imaginary gun, aims and loudly proclaims, “Shot that son-of-a-bitch!”

Needless to say, the lady at the cookie counter was not pleased. “You shot the Easter Bunny!” she said.

To which my innocent four year old replied, “Yes! Knocked his dick in the dirt!”

My wife did an immediate about face and left the store muttering “Not my child. Not my child. Not my child.” I didn’t try to stop her; I have learned that at such times all I will hear is a very long story about how long she was in labor.

McCullough didn’t get the cookie.

No comments:

Post a Comment