HUNTING

 

Boys and Skunks, Game and Pets, "Chucky"

 

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          I can no longer place myself in the mind of that gun-bearing farm boy, age eleven, who lurked with his single-shot .22 caliber rifle behind trees and rocks and stalked birds and animals with gleeful intent to kill.

 

          I can only relate what I remember.

 

          It was during a time of scarce dollars when idled men knocked on doors offering to work for a dollar a day and a meal, and when there was a good market for pelts of beaver, muskrat, skunk and even squirrel.  Some were shot and some were trapped and we boys became hunters and trappers at an early age.

 

          There was also game for the table: deer, rabbit, duck, geese, partridge and, for us boys, even squirrel.

 

          There was a tradition and a need for local killing of animals.  Annually we witnessed the butchering of cows and hogs, their bodies suspended and eviscerated, and then dismembered for eating and cold storage.  We saw the slitting of the hogs' throats and the catching of their blood for the cooking of "boudain" (blood sausage) by our mothers.

 

          Hunting and trapping for game and pelts was just part of growing up on a Vermont farm.

 

          We obtained our .22 caliber rifles after lengthy study of their pictures in the Sears catalog and promises to our parents that we would not shoot each other.  On their arrival we endured a training course by Dad on the proper ways to carry, load, point and protect against shooting anything not intended.

 

          We practiced on tin cans set on pasture fence posts and, as we became more proficient, on posts increasingly distant; then, satisfied with our abilities, we sent for .22 long ammunition to replace .22 short.

 

          We were ready.

          Our mother must have been very loving and patient when we brought home our first bullet-mutilated gray squirrel and asked to have it for dinner.

 

          She said, "I'll cook it if you skin and clean it well."  We did and she did, but we could tell she was not enthusiastic, so we didn't ask again and henceforth cooked our own by our regular campfire near the pasture spring and walnut tree.

 

          In the fall we hunted for skunks at night when their eyes could be seen shining against the beams of our flashlights.  Warmly dressed against the autumn chill and accompanied by a couple of friends and our best dog, we headed down through the cornfield toward the brook.  For safety reasons we took only one .22, but were otherwise armed with a couple of bat-sized clubs.

 

          Near the brook our flashlights picked up two pairs of shining eyes.  The skunks did not run but picked up their tails ready to spray any attacker.  We had learned not to shoot skunks because bullet holes reduced the price of the pelts.  Our planned strategy was to divert the skunk's attention with the dog, restraining him by the collar, while a chosen one could catch the skunk unaware with a blow of the club to the head.  If the dog was sprayed we could keep him in the barn a couple of days and no harm done.

 

          There were risks but also potential benefits.  A boy thoroughly sprayed, despite removal of his clothes and bathing of body and hair, would still retain so strong a residue of skunk odor that he would most likely be sent home from school.  I recall  another day in the fall when three boys were sent home from the same classroom.

 

          The first skunk was taken with the helpful diversion of the dog.  We faked out the second, he sprayed prematurely and though we all received a bit of scent, it was tolerable.  We put the two skunks in a sack and found a way over the brook.

 

          It is noteworthy that skunks were plentiful at that time.  We found them near the house and barns and occasionally a dead one in the road suitable for skinning.  The dogs were frequently in need of a clean-up after a misadventure in the fields.  We learned to skin the skunks, stretch their hides and pack them up for shipment and sale.

 

          As we continued our hunt it was a perfect night, clear with enough moonlight to see the outlines of the near trees.  At the brook the frogs were loud with their mating calls.  As we walked up the hill toward the tree line, an owl with huge wings flapping loudly swooshed by on his way to seek out running mice in the grain field.

 

          It was still.  We could hear our own footsteps and the panting of the dog as he explored around in the edges of the darkness.  Nearby were the rustling of small creatures in the grass.  Distant sounds were faint and foreign to the natural quiet.

 

          At rest for a moment we savored the still moonlit night, feeling a quiet reverence we would never express but would individually remember -- then moved on toward the woods hoping perhaps the dog would tree a coon.  Coons were not easy to take and if we found one Dad and his friends would probably come later with their dogs and take it.

 

          We boys did not hunt for deer though there were many to be seen and occasionally had to be chased from our garden.  Nearly every year Dad bagged one for addition to our meat supply.

 

          Our .22 rifles were not very suitable for crows though we frightened many with near misses and scored one or two as they sat too attentive with their stolen loot.

 

          Not all wild animals would be targets for our weapons.  Brother Ed found an orphaned owl and brought it back to the farm where it took up permanent residence in a dark corner of the hayloft and helped rid the barn of mice.  It was accustomed to our presence there and ignored our playing close by as long as we didn't disturb its daytime slumber.

 

          Countless garter snakes, turtles and large insects were captured and brought home for display and temporary retention.

 

          There came a day when I lost my enthusiasm for firing my .22 at live creatures.  Woodchucks were something of a pest in the fields and seeing a fat one within close range I fired and made a killing hit.  Nearing the body, I saw a small baby figure against the still mother.

 

          I put the rifle on the ground.  It had suddenly lost its magic.  I picked up the infant, hesitated, and finally placed it carefully in my coat pocket.  I looked at the dead mother.  Ordinarily in the fields we would leave small dead animals for the carnivores and the ants to take care of, but in this instance I knew I would come back with a shovel and bury her.

 

          At home I locked my rifle away uncleaned.  My mother immediately took charge of the little one, made it a bed in a cardboard box and showed me how to feed it milk with an eyedropper and later by dipping pieces of bread in creamy milk and holding them to the baby's mouth.

 

          After a few days he was eating regularly, holding his bread in his paws and placing it in his mouth.  He never ate from a dish with his mouth as a dog would, but lifted each fragment with his paws and placed it in his mouth.  He was ever fastidious, washing his paws in his water dish and leaving his droppings in a far corner of his box.  When we freed him from his confinement we were concerned that the cats and dogs would harm him, but after they were admonished and slapped away a few times they began to accept and ignore him.

 

          "Chucky" was ever a delight.  As he grew he would follow us around the house and when we went up the carpeted stairs he would pursue, pulling himself up a step at a time in a leg-over kind of way.  When we came racing down again, he would reverse his course, holding on to the higher step as he feet found the lower.

 

          He was always good for a laugh.  When we were eating he would get under the table and untie our shoestrings and we would sneak him a bite to eat.  Mom would often say, "What are you boys snickering at?" although she loved him too and undoubtedly knew.

 

          When we were absent he would follow in her footsteps and become a small nuisance.  When she was outside hanging wash on the clothesline, he once was momentarily lost in the tall grass but reappeared before she panicked.

 

          Eventually "Chucky" matured and started disappearing during mating season.  He would return for awhile then disappear for longer intervals.  Eventually he was gone.  We thought to see him occasionally in the fields but he never approached us again.

 

          I have not fired a weapon since my retirement from the service over thirty years ago.  I would not suggest that Chucky's memory is in any way responsible for that, but the fact remains that I have

not shot at an animal since that incident.

 

          Perhaps the wars had an influence, too.