Prey needn't worry much when I'm on the Hunt

I’ve hesitated to write this column before but sometimes a guy’s just gotta let it out. Throw caution to the wind, that sorta thing. Certainly in the past I’ve revealed way too many personal details about myself and my family in this column. That’s why they stare holes through me occasionally after reading the Sunday paper. But this involves my tendency, despite being overly opinionated at times, to avoid subjects which may spark controversy or cause you, the reading public, to lower your opinion of me, an amateurish weekly columnist. Inspiration to emerge from the proverbial closet has surfaced recently in the form of a female. Allow me to explain lest your imagination runs wild. Recently an extremely young lady (same age as me) from Alaska became a vice-presidential candidate. And one of the first things the media informed the world of was her propensity to enjoy the pursuit and bagging of an occasional moose in her home state. She’s not ashamed or afraid to admit she’s a hunter, so I have decided that from now on, neither am I. I don’t hunt mooses or meese, whatever they’re called, but I do chase an occasional bird, deer, or squirrel. For the record, most of the prey I pursue are relatively safe, considering my lack of adeptness at the whole hunting gig. I don’t think my luck is much to brag about either. During my hunting escapades, I have been fortunate enough to have turkeys, armadillos, and pheasants cross my path at different times. Unfortunately in each case, I was deer hunting. When I go huntin’ for squirrels, they’re holed up like beach bums during a hurricane. But when I go deer hunting, they won’t leave me alone, one even climbing on the tree stand with me at one point. I freeze to death in deer stands. On three different occasions, I have fallen asleep in them. Once, when I actually saw a deer for the first time in years, my gun jammed. My middle son was with me and heard me say a bad word for the first time in his life. It wasn’t a hot bad word, but I was still plenty embarrassed. However, my biggest flop occurred a while back during a bird hunt. As game wardens surrounded the field, I confidently remembered renewing my license the previous fall. What I hadn’t remembered is that I had left them at home 30 minutes away. Fortunately all I got was a warning and some well-deserved ribbing from my fellow hunter types. So with all the bad luck, freezing to death in winter, burning up in the summer, my poor aim, and comments from folks criticizing me for stalking Bambi, one might rightfully ask why I bother. First of all, I like hanging out with hunter types. There’s a comradery among hunters that I appreciate and respect. Second, I don’t have to shave when we go on hunting trips. But more importantly, I get to spend quality time with my boys. Some of the best days we’ve had were when the birds weren’t flying or the deer sniffed us out and headed off in another direction. And one day maybe my boys will tell their children about a dad who found the time to take them hunting. And maybe I’ll be their hero, no matter how crooked my aim.