Huntin' Duvs revisited. . .

Just passed by Law Dawg's blog and read his story about opening day of dove season. So I drag out my dusty old tale of the last time I went "huntin' duvs".

This is the #2 reason why I don't hunt any more.

When I was about 15 years old, my older brother and I were invited to go dove hunting, hereafter known as "huntin' duvs" by these overgrown men-boys that worked for my dad in his "construction related business." For those of you that can't read between the lines, these men-boys are what might be commonly referred to as rednecks or crackers or po' white trash. I just consider them to be plain ol' ignant. Don't get me wrong, I've known most of these men better than 15 years and actually, they are great and wonderful people, but damn men, let's lay off the bar room brawls, deer huntin' stories and ruminations about Nascar a bit, huh?

Once, this one fella, goes by the name of Slim. . .What's that? Why was he called Slim? Well, cause that's what his belt said! Anyway, Slim was reading the local restaurant review of a Chinese joint and they mentioned something about shiitake mushrooms. Slim turned to me and said, "Hey BooBoo (my nickname) whut's a "shit take" mushroom?" I laughed so hard I thought my brain was gonna fly right out the front of my head! Now, in his defense, within the article it was spelled shittake, so it wasn't really his fault for the miscue, however his still doesn't know what a shiitake or shittake mushroom is. Ok, back to the huntin' duvs story.

Slim and Little Dan Dobson invited myself and my older brother Toad to go a huntin' duvs. I wasn't really interested because it required getting up early on a Saturday which was going to seriously interfere with my Friday night filled with underage drinking, but I acquiesed and agreed to take part in the slaughter.

Saturday, September 22, 1986 3:30 a.m.

Big brother and I loaded up our gear: 2 Remington Model 870 12 gauge pump action shotguns, two empty 5 gallon buckets (for sitting), 12 boxes of ammunition, 6 cans of vienna sausages, 1 bag of iron-enriched Wonder bread, 2 cans of Underwood's Deviled Ham, 12 Co-Colas, 24 Miller Lites (you can't hunt and not drink) for Toad and all the necessary camoflage cause them little duvs gots good eyes. Off we go up into the hills headed towards Sand Hill, Mississippi.

One hour and and so many minutes later we arrive to the huntin' field to find amassed an army of hunters, must have been 34 or 63 people, can't quite recall, but I'll quantify it like I know my father would when he wants to describe a large quantity of something by saying "a bunch!" We stood around a fire raging in a old 55 gallon drum, listening to some old coots talk about how they've been baiting the field with millet and corn and such illegaly since ealry July and the huntin' duvs ought to be good.

"Better'n last year," they expounded.

A few grunts of affirmation arose from the peanut gallery, many of whom were obviously still drunk from the night before and no doubt self-medicating with the hair of the dog. The light from the fire illuminated their dark and obscure faces when someone finally said, "Well, bout time we head out, don't y'all think?"

And with that, the huntin' duvs was on!

As we dispersed out into the field, my brother Toad and I, and our buckets, took up positions on the right side of the field right along the tree line. Imagine a rectangular field maybe one half larger than a football field rimmed out with half-cocked, half-drunk, bloodthirsty idiots armed to the teeth with large calibre repeating shotguns. Fairly sad.

At that moment, I realized two things:

#1: I had to take a #2

and

#2: There were far too many half-cocked, half-drunk, bloodthirsty idiots armed with large calibre repeating shotguns in this tiny space.

The shooting started immediately after the first sub-atomic particle of light split the sky and my mind escaped to a memory of Alfalfa reciting the Charge of the Light Brigade on The Little Rascals:

Alfalfa spoke:

Some one had blunder'd: Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do & die, Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them Volley'd and thunder'd; Storm'd at with shot & shell, Boldly they rode & well, Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of Hell Rode the six hundred.

Author's Note and sub-plot: This is when Spanky uses his magnifying glass to light afire the ream of firecrackers hanging out of Alfalfa's back pocket to whence Alfalfa runs amok until he finds his way outside and puts his assfire out in a BUCKET of water.

The slaughter continued well into the morning.

Surely it must have sounded like World War 9, which of course is when stupid, little birds with tremendous eyesight try to take over the world and we are saved from the brink of apocalypse by a bunch of gun-wielding, half-drunk rednecks.

Those poor birds never stood a chance.

By 9:30 a.m., my shoulder was cursing me vigorously for ever taking up the fine art of firing a repeating firearm, hour upon hour.

Birds divng in from the left.

Flocks descending from the right!

It was a deathfest!

And as for myself, I was charged into maximum overdrive with bloodlust. All cracked out on vienna sausage sandwiches and a half dozen Co-Colas! Man, I was out of my mind!

Blam! Blam blam!! I had no mercy for those evil flying birds!!

The stench and haze of black powder had replaced the thin whispering fog! Tremendous blasts were emanating from all directions! Catastophic mayhem! A bird apporached from the right and I fired! Damn! I missed, but big brother Toad had a bead on it, steady, steady. Boom!!! Down it goes, devil bird! Toad flops on his belly and scurries out to the dead bird (wouldn't be wise to stand up on a day like this) only to be confronted by a boy of about 11.

Confused by the curious encounter, my brother couldn't find anything to say, but the young boy broke the strange tension by exclaiming "muh buurd, muh buurd!" "Muh buurd, muh buurd!"

Now, it was obvious that this kid had a problem of some sort. Some might have characterized him as "special" or "challenged" or those of lesser education might say "retard." One thing was quite obvious, the boy was deaf as a, well, as a. . . as a deaf person. "Muh buurd, muh buurd!" he repeated.

We all know how quirky human nature is and in cases like this the usual response is plain sympathy. My brother being the good natured fellow that he is, followed the line and let the poor deaf kid have the bird, even though the boy came nowhere near the devil bird with his shot.

And this event repeated itself several more times over the next few volleys of shotgun blasts.

"Muh buurd, muh buurd!"

Ending always with Toad relinquishing his dead handful of bloody feathers to the boy.

Sometime later, close to lunchtime I think, Toad proclaims that he has to step off into the woods for #1 and disappears into the forest. And here comes another bird from my right! I raise up, get a fine bead on him and just at the last second the bird does an impression of a kamikaze until he's about two feet off the ground. I fire. . .

BLAM!!

Being the detail oreinted indivdual that I am, I never noticed the short row of scrubby bushes about 30 yards off to my left. At least not until they exploded in an eruption of dirt and leaves and a certain young deaf child came rolling out of the dust cloud screaming bloody murder that sounded something like this: "mmmuuuuuuuuuuuaaahahhhhhhhhhhh!!!!

Holy smokes!! I just smoked that little boy with an ass load of #9 shot!! Then, big brother comes running out of the woods with his #1 flapping about in the breeze screaming, "What the hell happened?" I replied as calmly as I could, "I think I just shot the deaf kid!"

Oh man, I am in deep #2.

As you can imagine, the war was temporarily suspended, threats issued, fisticuffs almost ensued and now I was publicly humiliated, shamed. How the hell was I ever going to show my face around the office after this little episode?? Tempers calmed and it turned out the boy was fine. I had peppered him good, but no broken skin, no eyes put out.

Thank God for that!

Deaf must be terrible, but blind AND deaf? Wouldn't be fair to the little kid.

Shortly thereafter, we rejoined as a group for lunch around the burning drum. All eyes on me, all words spoken about me, the whole while an ever growing cloud of black death surrounding me. Hunting resumed, but I never fired another shot. I was more afraid of what my brother was going to do to me later and then the eventual confession to my father. That would be nothing compared to the potential penalty I was going to recieve from Toad.

What did continue were numerous episodes of "muh buurd, muh buurd!" To which, my brother had nothing left. He didn't even retrieve the birds he shot. It was almost like he had his own retrieving dog, except the dog was keeping the birds. I was never so happy than to load up in the truck and leave.

My heart weighed heavy with failure. I felt I had let my idol, my hero, my brother, down greater than I ever had before. And to make matters worse, he wasn't talking to me at all. Didn't even have the radio on in the truck. But after about 45 minutes of driving silence, he turned to me and said, "You know what?"

"What?" I answered, not really wanting to hear the reply.

"I'm glad you shot that motherf*cker!"