With Gritty Lessons in Unlawful Folly
By J Lee Austin
After a brief, three day respite of dry coolness, the summer swelter is back on here at the beach. While fall is not yet crisping the air, the roaring return of football and the opening of hunting season are welcome signals that it won’t be long. C’mon October, we ready for ya.
Last week our son sent some photos of his dove hunt in Missouri, and based on the grins and smirks, he and his homies had big fun. While I personally gave up hunting many moons ago, his pics did conjure up fond memories of my halcyon days engaged in such activities. I really did have some grand times with the sport, although notably, there are those who don’t consider it a sport at all. From the comic Paul Rodriguez,
“In a sport, both sides should know they’re in the game.”
Come to think of it, birds shooting back would be quite the game changer. I would pay good money to see that sport.
I have oodles of hunting stories in the vault, but one of them in particular stands out like a pig in a parlor … the Dilley Dove Hunt, which used to convene annually in the harsh country of South Texas where prickly pear cactus and thorny mesquite rule and often punctuate the proceedings.
But the doves were thicker than bugs on a bumper down there, so we would ignore the pokes, the scratches and the leaking blood like the tough guys we knew we were. Regular gladiators off the chain.
It was a stellar day, one that made for a veritable heap of birds on the tailgate. As is the usual and customary tradition for your basic rednecks everywhere, it was time to pop-a-top.
But first a quick break for a tangentially related side-bar: The common-sensical practice of having Happy Hour only when the hunt is over was not always honored. In fact, I recall one casino-sponsored Louisiana hunt that featured star-spangled bikinis on 4-wheelers delivering cold ones every few minutes, the libations sparkling soon after first light. Fortunately for everyone (except the birds), those days are long gone.
So with the hunt ostensibly concluded, it was time to party. Surprisingly, the festive scene turned into a spectacle when some of the boys inexplicably reckoned it was time to crank the Rock and Roll way up to painful on the radio dial, and to accompany the raucous tunes with some loud, hot, lead.
So while baffled heads looked on in creeping dismay, Crazy Nutball and Deranged Accomplice gripped a frosty longneck in one hand and a 12 gauge in the other and proceeded to pellet the sky with a predictable lack of detectable accuracy.
With Night Ranger’s “Don’t Tell Me You Love Me” blaring away, Captain Elmer and Mister Fudd were taking pot-shots wildly from the hip, aiming vaguely at the last few shell-shocked birds zig-zagging skittishly to the roost. I tried closing my eyes.
For the idiots blazing, it was all great fun and games until … until the boisterous jocularity came to a screeching halt, stifled curtly by some seriously speedy Game Wardens appearing abruptly out of nowhere. Or somewhere.
Either way, screaming up in a cloud of dust and braking on a dime, here they came, the prototypical good cop, bad cop. The grizzled veteran and the wet-behind-the-ears quivering sack of ambition looking for some fresh meat. After the obligatory chit-chat, the kiddie copper motioned at the mound …
“You fellas shoot all these birds?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Who shot what?”
“Sir?”
“Kinda hard to do the math on your individual bag limits with ‘em all piled up like that. Guess that’s why they made that law about keepin’ ‘em separated,” said the sardonic representative of the law such as it is in Frio County.
“Oops. Sorry about that, we didn’t know,” mumbled the cornered crew with semi-straight faces.
Then the fun got funner, as soon as Fudd McDoofus asked the question that will live forever in its infamy …
“Hey, what’s that black rubber thing on your belt there, Officer?” Eyes widened all around.
Not only did the pinheads learn that it was a Plug Checking Tool, they got to see it in real-time action, when Officers Dooley and Able looked for the required spacers in their fancy, engraved, high-dollar, semi-auto shotguns (which by law can hold only 3 shells for dove hunting.)
No plugs were present, of course. Those of us using Over/Unders were exempt from the unpleasant probing procedure for obvious mathematical reasons. I tried closing my eyes again, nope still there.
“Sorry again,” shrugged the guilty miscreants.
So it happened that the Hot Shots’ illegal weapons of mass destruction got summarily confiscated. Until later that evening upon visiting the local judge, where they learned they could pay bigly through the nose to get them back.
Birdies chuckled under their breath. ~~ j ~~
“You see I’m against hunting, in fact I’m a hunt saboteur. I go out the night before and shoot the fox.” ~~ Tim Vine
