Dog Gone Whistle

“See, I rest my case.” Uncle Ben said.

“What case and what in the world are ya a-talkin’ ‘bout?” Bubba asked and I knew he was growing angry, so I changed the subject. “Let’s get back to them folks that don’t like hunters.”

“I had a woman stop at my house last year and ask me what I had hangin’ in the big tree in the front yard.” Burrhead said as he added a log to the dying fire.

“What did ya tell ‘er?” Bobby Dale asked, totally engrossed in the tale.

“I told ‘er it was a cow with non-typical horns, with a score of ‘round 200, and it was butcherin’ time.”

We all shared a laugh and as soon as it grew quiet once more I said, “Seriously fellers, I don’t know how some folks will survive if something ever happens and we have to revert to the old ways again.”

“What ya mean?” Uncle Ben asked as he pulled his pipe from his teeth.

“Ya know, no electrical power, no gas, not runnin’ water. How could most folks survive without them thangs?”

Uncle Ben smiled and said, “I do it everyday.”

“Yep, but by choice. I mean, really, what do y’all think would happen?”

“Well,” Burrhead said, “I think a lot of them folks that don’t like to wear animal fur would be out in force, lookin’ fer a new fur coat come a hard snow.”

“Yep and them folks that think chickens are loved to death by the butcher would soon learn how to prepare their own meat.”

A few minutes of silence filled the night and then Bubba said, “I hope that don’t ever happen.”

“Why’s that Bubba?” I asked, because I was actually interested in his answer.

“Because I don’t want to share my neck of the woods with a bunch of greenhorn hunters that expect a deer to look like a cartoon Bambi and don’t know the difference between the barrel and stock of a gun.”

“What yer sayin’ then Bubba, is most of ‘em couldn’t find their rear-ends, even if they started with their hands in their back pants pockets.”

“Exactly.”

The remainder of the night was filled with similar intellectual subjects until we moved off to our sleeping spots one by one. As I lay in my sleeping bag I thought, I’m one lucky man to live where I live. How many fellers can hunt with a nice group of friends and family and discuss such deep and meaningful subjects. I’ll bet them big rich jaspers can’t buy this . . . or sadly, even appreciate it.

The next day we all filled our deer tags, but that’s another story for another time.

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