Hunting

I was pheasant hunting the past two days in South Dakota. I love that state. The almost-accent the residents have--how they say knoow, for instance--the hunting culture, the rigs. Its not that much of a horse state, but that's alright; parts of it are if you know where to look. I went with my dad, two family friends and some guy who owned land out there, and Chester, of course.

He ran through barbed wire on the first field we went through, which is why he's all scratched up. He's a damn good dog.

So the land is pretty big, about 1000 acres, give or take. It's half farmland and half grazing land for about hundred head of cattle, with a good half-mile of coastline the owner technically leases from the state. In that section of South Dakota, its farming and hunting. That's just what people do. Today was opening day of deer season and, let me tell you, I talked with a few locals while walking Chester for his morning poop, and those guys get out to the stands around three and just sit there and wait. Pheasant hunting doesn't open until ten, so Chester and I were hanging out at the gas station and chatting it up with some of the locals, who had a good looking ten-point buck in the back of their rig.

Now, I'm all dressed in my hunting clothes, excluding the orange vest for the birds and shells. It's about ten degrees out with a fairly gusty wind going and a few of these guys--there were about twelve of them, in three trucks--are in just overalls and sweatshirts. I ride in just about any weather except for rain and lightning, so I know how to dress for the cold. I'm not fat, I just wear this huge black-grey coat that makes me look like I weigh about two-hundred pounds.

Now, I'm damn warm. Somebody could have handed me a horse right then and I would have just hopped right on. Somebody could have set a fire made out of ice and I would have been fine. Somebody could have gotten me to drink a dozen milkshakes and I would have still been toasty warm. One of these guys could have attacked me, stolen my coat, and I still would have been relatively warm.

I'm talking with these guys about deer hunting when one of them just sort of walks away in the middle of his sentence. Hey, cool, whatever. I do that sometimes. None of the other guys seem to notice. Hey, maybe he has a disorder where he can't finish his sentences or he has Tourette's and his tic is that he just sort of leaves.

We're talking and all of a sudden, we hear this sort of grunting and then a crisp snapping sound. If you've ever heard a bone snap, then you know the sound. It's one of the few sounds in the world that makes me shudder. The conversation doesn't even pause; they're still talking about how they farm land for this guy just so he'll let them hunt on his land. I'm just sort of nodding and randomly interjecting anecdotes about what I know about land, which is pretty much that it's made out of dirt and people sometimes grow stuff on it, like corn and wheat and beans.

Then there's a soft whoosh sound, from behind one of the rigs, and a few of the guys start to get a bit nervous. The guy who's leaning against a gas pump straightens and looks like he wants to just leave. I don't quite know what's going on, but I put out my smoke just in case. Chester stands up and pulls to the end of his leash and does his best to pee on the pump where the guy had been. He sort of gets it but mostly misses.

Awkward silence. I had half a thought to either say something funny or pretend I had to get back to the motel. We're all glancing over at where the guy is doing something behind one of the rigs; we can just see his cap bobbing up and down. My only thought is that the deer they had showed me earlier wasn't actually dead and this guy was doing his final act of service by blowing the deer.

The cap moves closer and I start getting nervous. Should I have brought a gun? The motel was about 400 yards away; maybe I could run, although I couldn't even remember the last time I ran. Should I run inside? Maybe I can hide behind the counter or in the men's bathroom. They'd never look there. Could I throw Chester at them or pretend to have a seizure? Could I pretend Chester was having a seizure?

The guy standing next to me groans loudly and barks out, "Damn it, Dick, you can't keep on doin' this." He was very tall and could apparently see what the guy was bringing over. All I saw was some sort of vapor, maybe. It could have been the guy's breath or some quick fried venison. That's seriously what I was hoping.

A thin burst of heat hits me. Even a degree or two change of temperature in this type of cold is noticeable. The guy steps around the closest rig and I can't help but start giggling. Like, what the fuck?

He's carrying the head of the mule deer he apparently had gotten that morning, rack still attached. He had doused it with gasoline, I figure, and was holding a flaming deer head in his hands. A few of the guys with me sigh loudly but move back a bit to form a ragged, misshapen sort of oval-ish shape.

The guy reverently lays the deer head in the middle of the circle and steps back. A good chunk of the guys cross themselves and incline their heads in prayer. Chester thinks his deer head is about the most interesting thing he's ever seen.

But Chester, who has at least some sort of mild survival instinct, drops down onto his belly and sort of grunts himself forward to sniff the deer head. The tongue is sticking out of the deer's mouth and I know right then what he's gonna do. I sort of jerk a bit on his collar but Chester is very badly leash trained. It's a part of his hunting background, I figure. All of the guys have their eyes closed and I'm just hoping none of them open their eyes.

Chester scoots forward and chomps down on the deer tongue. He tries to jerk it out of the deer's mouth but only succeeds in tipping the entire shebang over. One of the tines lands on a guy's boot and I'm about to pee myself. I'm sure it's going to puncture his foot and I'll have to figure out how to explain to my dad why I can't go hunting--hey, I'm at the hospital. What? Yeah. Hospital. A flaming deer head landed on a guy's foot and one of the tines bloody punctured it. All the way through. Sticking out the bottom of his boot. It was kind of cool.

But the tine just rests there as the deer head clanks and dies again on the gas-stained asphalt. Chester is still hanging on the deer tongue, tugging at it but just really pulling the deer head around. I'm certain the gas station is only seconds away from going up in flames and that's just another explainy-situation I seriously do not want to deal with.

Instead, the guys sort of jerk back and then all twelve of them just stare at my dog and his pitiful attempts to gorge on deer tongue. I've long let go of his leash, frozen, not quite sure what to do. Do I stop him? Try to put the slowly dying flames out so they don't burn his stupid face? Cut out the deer tongue and then just walk away? I was going for the last one when the biggest of the guys--and I mean he's fucking huge, like seven feet tall and about 400 lbs, a beard that he tucks away in one of his suspenders and the most incredible eyebrows I have ever seen, like he could have fucking braided those things--sighs and walks over to my dog. He pats out the fire with his bare man-bear-awesome hands and then digs a knife out of one of his two hundred pockets.

Chester is looking sort of concerned at this point, not really sure to let go of the deer tongue and demand the bearman give him attention or to just hold on and hope. He's looking ready to go for the first option when the guy reaches into the deer's mouth and cuts out the tongue with a long, clean sweep of his knife. Chester slinks away, victorious, and then drops the deer tongue at my feet.

The guys are watching both me and my dog. The huge bear guy picks up the smoldering deer head and walks towards the rigs with it. I don't know whether to thank them for the tongue. I pick it up and try to get Chester to eat it. He holds it in his mouth and just sort of gnaws on it. If I hadn't seen him eat four pounds of temporarily abandoned steak, I would have been sure he was a vegetarian.

One of the guys steps forward and looks concernedly at Chester. "Dog don't like it?"

No shit. He's not eating it, fucker. "Apparently," I ventured, and two of the guys crouch down next to my apparently idiotic dog.

"Never seen a dog like this one," one of them mumbles, and I slowly kneel down next to them.

The other guy says something but I honestly don't understand it. I think he tries to tell me that my dog is stupid. I slowly nod and watch Chester drop the deer tongue in a guy's lap.

Now, when Chester throws up, he makes these huge huck sounds before he does it. But if he's gonna throw up, you can't move him. This dog throws up wherever the damn hell he pleases. So he starts making that low, groaning huck sound, and I stand up and back away. I tell the guys he's gonna throw up but I apparently don't know what my own dog sounds like even though he has literally thrown up into my face. The two guys don't move, just talking real low to each other and rubbing Chester behind the ears.

Chester's head is in the guy's lap, shoved right down so he's practically in the guy's arms. I keep trying to tell him that the dog is going to hurl, but absolutely none of any of the guys believe me, or they just can't hear when a chick talks about her own damn dog.

Chester does this huge, awful HUCK and then just vomits right into this guy's lap. It's a bad one. Apparently, he'd been eating bird shit or something because it totally looked like there was some of that in there. This guy's clothes are obviously new; his clothes are way too clean to be old, and only sissies wash their hunting clothes. Chester's momentous vomit has probably ruined his fancy clothes.

Chester pants vomit-breath into this guy's face, licks him, then turns around and eats the deer tongue, tail wagging like he'd just gotten on a bird.

The vomit guy jumps up and turns to me, barf dripping down his clothes. He looks like he's about to hit me; I put my hand on my knife. It's something he notices and he tries to calm down. "WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME HE WAS GONNA BARF?" he shrieks, and hits the side of his thighs with his fists about four times.

I don't even try to argue or placate him. The guy was obviously an alcoholic--your face doesn't get quite that shade of red even if it is fucking cold out. He looks like he has a headache and like he's about to puke, probably all over himself, which I would find funny--y'know, puke over dog puke.

Chester wanders over to me and sits on my boot. I pick up his leash and tell him he's a good boy.

A few of the guys start laughing. I grin and then nod to a few of them.

Confidently, I turn and walk away, almost getting run over when I cross the road. I know the puke guy was praying for that to happen.

Good dog.

I Own This

At this very moment in time, I own three animals. This does not include that squirrel living in my basement or what I'm certain is a bat-monster living in my attic. I have two dogs and a horse. One dog, Chester, is a hunting dog. He's very manly--his manliness is emphasized by the dangling man sac between his hind legs--and is a damn handsome lad. I got him when he was six weeks old and my dad has been trying to steal him from me ever since. I think he's four. My other dog, Caine, is...different. I am convinced he is either mentally retarded or an evil, conniving bastard who is trying to earn my trust and will one day killing me for locking him in my truck for six hours and then yelling at him for being in my seat and not letting him pee to amuse myself.

Chester is the top dog. He's a yellow lab, and much larger than Caine. He's put together much better than what the picture tries to show. Caine, however, looks just like that. He's a fucking cartoon character. Yes, he wears sweaters; he likes it. Caine is a miniature labradoodle--coughmuttcough--with three-fourths of horrible, possibly inbred or perpetually drunk poodle and one-fourth of some sort of lab that only existed to create him. Caine is stupid. He's the only dog I have ever owned who will not jump over the siderail of a truck bed. He just won't do it; it's like something in his ridiculous genetics makes it so he can't jump that one thing. However, he is hypo-allergenic, which was a stupid thing for me to get since I'm not allergic to dogs. I'm allergic to hay and dust, which are stupid things to be allergic to when you're around horses for eight hours a day.

A tale about Caine:

I live with my parents; I have for years. The storm door to the backyard is glass and the indoor door is wooden with glass panels. There is a carpet in front of the door because I often tromp in with grass and paper shavings and dirt and horse crap on my boots. Caine has never had a problem with this carpet or this two-door arrangement.

Caine loves to go in my truck. I don't know why--it smells, there is stuff everywhere, he only has one little seat with a small, reeking dog bed and I yell at him whenever he goes in the front seat. I also yell at him and often throw books or random shoes Chester happens to deposit on the front seat whenever he visits at him whenever he lays anywhere that isn't his little dog bed. I assure you--be assured--he is not abused. He's just stupid.

Caine usually spends all day with me, and by with me, I mean he gallivants into my truck around ten, I do stuff until dark--which can be six hours or nine, depending on the time of year--and he's lucky if he's allowed out of the truck during that time. He does, however, get whatever leftovers I have from McDonald's, but not the fries. My horse loves fries.

Now, on this particular day, I had been working with this bitch black mare whose owners had asked me to start for them. I was agreeable but told them to not ride the horse or really do anything with her until the month was out. Obviously, they did not do as such, and, as I had informed them, I charged them double for two weeks. The horse's owners apparently did not remember agreeing to this, even though their signed copy of our arrangement was tacked onto a board in the kitchen, which I passed every time I went to be paid. They were furious and threatened to sue me. I was very clear in telling them this would be a stupid endeavor; the proof was right there.

They reluctantly paid me, but the problem had wrought it's damage. I was pissed. I threw myself in my truck and glared back at Caine; he was lying in a little ball and looking meekly up at me. Stupid, stupid dog. So, I left their property, deposited the cheque and went to my barn.

There was a tame squirrel that lived around the barn manager's house for a few years until a coyote ate it, leaving parts of the squirrel all over the place and "traumatizing" some of the stupid little rich girls there. This squirrel would let you do anything with it; even though I hated squirrels and always have, I sometimes messed around with this squirrel and once tried to train it to chase cats, which was...dumb of me.

Caine's predatory instincts are extremely dull. He will whine when he sees a cat, will sort of chase a rabbit until he gets distracted or confused, but he knows how to chase a squirrel--if he can see it. I'm bad at getting him groomed so he often has hair all over his head and covering his eyes. So I picked up the squirrel and wandered over to my truck. Actually, it wasn't really wandering. It was determined stomping--I am very fond of stomping and do it often.

I tapped on the glass, predictably scaring Caine. He looked up at me and saw the squirrel. He jumped to his feet and whined, frozen at the sight of the squirrel in my hands. I held up the squirrel and kind of jiggled it a bit.

Caine fucking threw himself at the closed window. It wasn't like he couldn't see it--it was tinted and it had been closed all day. He slammed into the window and sort of slid down it, leaving a trail of nose goo and spit, covered with the marks of his flailing paws as he tried to hit consciousness into his little brainless head. After a moment, in which I wasn't sure to laugh or call the vet, Caine pushed himself to his feet and looked back at the frozen, horrified squirrel in my hands. He sort of whined and kind of lifted a paw in the direction of the squirrel before wandering to the floor--I don't know how he found it--and collapsing next to my grain bucket. I released the squirrel and hesitantly made sure Caine was still alive.

Incredibly, he was. He was confused as all hell but just fine.

I left him to sleep--in retrospect, since he could have had a concussion, it could have been a bad idea, but I was too overcome with hilarity to think of that--and went to work with my horse until it became so cold out I hurt. A few hours later, I figured it was late enough to go home and somehow drove myself home without killing myself.

At home, Caine, who is usually fucking ecstatic to do really anything--go inside, FUCK YEAH, go outside, FUCK YEAH, eat, FUCK YEAH, take a shit, FUCK YEAH, watch me eat, FUCK YEAH, get in the truck, DOUBLE FUCK YEAH, etc--would not go near the house. I tried everything--treats, picking him up and just sort of tossing him and watching him somehow use the air as a force field and project himself away from the house, lecturing him on common decency and how he should clearly see the house was no threat.

Chester, who was inside and nearly shitting himself with excitement of not only being able to see me but to also see his gay little buddy, started howling. For some reason, this sparked something in Caine's little head and he started doing his little jiggy-prance-holy-shit-I'm-so-fucking-excited dance.

After he does this for a while, which must include sticking his butt up in the air and shaking it all over the place, my mom comes around to try and figure out why Chester is howling and Caine is doing his retarded little gay yips all over the place, and she opens the inner door to apparently not have to peer through two panes of glass to see what's going on. She now, evidently, looks like a squirrel.

Caine, for the second time in a day, launches himself at a glass window/door. This time, since this was shit glass, he breaks the fuck through and then runs all over the house, all proud of himself, getting little glass shards everywhere. Chester tears off after him as my mom stares at me, this Caine-shaped hole in the glass by her knees, and instead of doing something normal, like apologizing for having such a retarded animal living with her, I casually glanced over myself and, content with the fact I had nothing other than an iPod and heavy winter clothes on, I sauntered over and crawled through the hole Caine had made in the glass. I got to my feet, brushed imaginary glass shards off my knees and walked away.

Caine had somehow not managed to gouge or even scratch himself with his daring glass dash. The sweater protected him. He did, however, manage to get a nice long shard stuck in Chester's side, but that was remedied with my dad going HOLY SHIT HE'S PROBABLY DYING SARAH YOU SHOULD GET HIM TO THE VET RIGHT NOW AND PAY SIX HUNDRED DOLLARS BECAUSE ITS SUNDAY NIGHT AND ITS ALMOST TEN FOR THE VET TO ASK YOU HOW THE HELL YOUR DOG GOT GLASS STUCK IN HIM AND FOR YOU TO TELL HIM YOUR OTHER DOG RAN THROUGH A GLASS DOOR AND FOR THE VET TO WORRY ABOUT YOUR FUCKING SANITY BECAUSE YOU DIDN'T BRING THE DOG IN THAT RAN THROUGH THE DOOR BUT BROUGHT THE DOG IN THAT WAS JUST AN INNOCENT, HOWLING FUCKTARD BYSTANDER AND THEN FOR HIM TO TELL YOU IT WASN'T VERY DEEP AND DOESN'T NEED STITCHES, JUST KEEP IT CLEAN AND YOU'RE GOOD. I took Chester to the vet so I wouldn't have to scour the house for glass.

Caine was so proud of himself, and he hasn't run through glass since. He is, however, now afraid of the carpet for no apparent reason.