My sympathies lie with the British in this matter. Over the years I have learned through bitter experience that you cannot be too careful around squirrels.
There was a time when I considered squirrel hunting to be high sport. Crisp, cool fall mornings with damp leaves underfoot were made for stalking the elusive bushytail in his high, leafy eirie. Ah! The nut-like aroma of hardwood leaves! This was life at it's fullest!
Until THAT day.
One Saturday morning, many years ago when I was in my second year of college, my first cousin Kenny and I headed into the woods for our annual fall religious ritual of squirrel hunting. The larder was empty of game and we had both developed a craving for squirrel stew. We loaded my dilapidated VW with our gear and guns and set off for a new section of woods that we had not hunted before.
Arriving shortly before daylight, we exited the creaky Beetle, donned our hats and hunting gear, loaded our shotguns, and headed down separate trails into the deep woods. Squirrel hunting requires stealth. They are active, alert creatures who are seldom still and almost constantly aware of their surroundings. After tip-toeing through a thicket for a half hour or so, I finally spotting a lone fox-squirrel in the top of a black walnut tree. Taking a rest on the bole of a pin oak tree, I took careful aim. At the shot the squirrel folded up as if struck by lightning and fell to the ground with a most satisfying thud. Retrieving the animal, I quickly stuffed it into the game pocket on the back of my hunting coat and began to scan the trees for more game.
Five minutes later,as I snaked quietly along through the edge of a stand of hickory nut trees, I felt the squirrel shift position. Since game often shifts around in the bag while a person is hunting I didn't think much about it. Absent mindedly I stuck my hand into the bag to rebalance the load. Suddenly, a sharp pain lanced through my right hand. Very cooly, I withdrew the wounded member from the bag and found the squirrel's teeth firmly affixed to my left index finger. Attempts to shake it off resulted only in the squirrel clamping its claws firmly in the flesh of my forearm. A lesser man might have panicked at this point, but not I. Calmly assessing the situation, I concluded that I might be able to remove it by wiping it against a tree. This was, ultimately effective, but only after several preliminary attempts failed.
The day had lost its lustre however. Finding myself a short distance from the VW, I opened the door and sat behind the steering wheel, and waited for the arrival of my partner. He appeared shortly. Indeed much quicker than I expected him to, and sans gun and hat and with his hunting coat in tatters. His face and hands were covered with scratches from briars and brush.
"What happened to you?" I asked.
"BeatinesthingIeverheard!" he said, visibly shaken. "I'm slipping through the woods when I heard the damndest racket I've ever heard in my life screeching and howling and caterwauling and moaning scared the (bleep) outta me and animals were stampeding in a panic everywhere and almost running me down and I decided to get the (bleeping bleep) outta there before whatever that was came after me let's get the car cranked and leave this (bleeping) place!"
Seeing that he was in an agitated state, I acquiesced and started the VW, crunching it into gear, and left in a spray of dirt and leaves.
Some minutes later, he began to calm down. Presently he mentioned that he might, in a day or two, take a few friends and go back to look for his gun and hat.
He looked at me for a moment.
"But what happened to YOUR coat, hat and gun?" he asked curiously.
Regards, Shuckins
