Today is a hunting story for all those currently going through withdrawal, pining for cold sunrises, crisp fall days and the thrill of the chase.   It is also a true story, though many details have been changed to protect the guilty.

The protagonist of our story, whom we’ll call Bob, does not fit the profile of your typical hunter.  He is an urbane man, recently retired from a large corporation where he held an important job.  He is also holds a doctoral degree from a major university, his obvious intellect complemented by a genteel manner and calm, thoughtful demeanor.  He is the archetype of a kindly gentleman.

However, there is a problem.  As a recent but still fairly young retiree, he has taken up gardening as a healthful outdoor pastime, specifically, grape cultivation.

Bob’s grapes are nurtured with utmost dedication.  Vigilantly pruned, lovingly watered and painstakingly fertilized, the grapes have grown well under his caring hand.  Some even believe that Bob sometimes reads Proust and Thoreau aloud to the plants when no one is around.

Unfortunately, the grape clusters were inexplicably murdered last year in the first blush of youth.  One day the grapes were beginning to show promise of ripening and the next, the vines stood barren.  Bob was devastated.

Recently, as Bob sat on the patio softly reading Hemmingway’s Big Two-Hearted River to a struggling scotch pine, he happened to look up and see movement around his arbor.  After a few seconds, seeing no further commotion, he curiously walked over to the plants.

As he neared, Bob was startled to see a common ground squirrel hurtle from the plant, bouncing like a runway rubber ball.  After the critter disappeared into nearby hole, Bob examined his plants and realized that the cute rodent had been intent on girdling one of his precious vines.  Anger flashed across his mind as he remembered the missing grapes from last year.

“This is war,” he said with silent resolve.

Now, Bob doesn’t own a gun and in fact, lives inside the city limits where shooting is not permissible.  However, he reasoned that the city fathers would understand a man simply trying to protect his grapely jewels.

Bob needed a weapon but didn’t want to purchase a firearm because he knew that even a .22 rifle would draw unwanted attention from the local police force.  So, enlisting his wife because he was too embarrassed to make the purchase himself, he became the proud owner of a Daisy Red Rider BB gun.

The Red Rider is a legendary American icon and it would be a safe bet that the majority of readers have handled one during their youth.  They are tremendously underpowered for hunting anything larger than a churlish centipede but Bob proceeded undaunted.

Suitably armed, Bob knew he needed a good hunting blind.  After careful consideration, he chose the master bathroom where he could sit on the porcelain throne and quietly wait for his quarry through the open window.

He didn’t want the critters to gnaw on his precious plants any further so he decided that a bait pile of fresh baby carrots would prove irresistible to the squirrels.  This decision was apparently based on the well-known fact that ground squirrels love produce packaged in cellophane bags.

Every hunter knows that clothing is an important factor in success, so after careful consideration, Bob chose a stained T-shirt and jockey shorts for his hunting attire.

The next day our hero was ready, perched in his underwear near the open window, steely gaze fixed on the carrot pile as the child-sized BB gun rested on his lap.  While being told the story at a Fourth of July party, this mental picture that nearly drove me to incontinence.

Soon, two grounds squirrels showed themselves and stood confused at the new salad bar that had mysteriously appeared near the grapes.  Bob tensed on the trigger, taking careful aim and braced himself for the tinny “Pfffft” of the firing rifle.  As the steel projectile left the barrel, the results were instantaneous.

The ground squirrels stood there, perplexed, undoubtedly chatting like Alphonse and Gaston:

“I’d say, old chap.  I do believe someone is firing upon us.”

”Why yes, I’d say you are correct in that assumption.  Shall we flee in terror?”
”Surely.  After you.”
”No, no.  After you.  I insist….”

In the hail of BB’s that followed, the ground squirrels almost made their escape.  One unfortunate did catch a random BB in the head, instantly snuffing out his promising rodent life.  This tiny tragedy apparently served as a warning to the other ground squirrels and none have been seen since.

However, the story is not quite finished.  Yesterday, I got a phone call from Bob:
”Do you know any taxidermists who work on really small animals?”

Maybe Bob is more of a hunter than I realized.

photo: Mnmazur

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