October skies. Gold, crimson and tangerine leaves framing a crisp blue panorama. Birds singing in the meadows and deer grazing by the stream. Then BLAM! The crack of a firearm splits open the sound waves and an animal hits the dust. Hunting Season is afoot.

Now if you are a Yankee, born and raised in the suburbs of New Jersey, the closest thing to the hunting season you’ve ever experienced is the carnage, the mauling, verily the ripping/clawing/biting of a Macy’s Day Sale.  But as far as an actual Hunting Season, huh? Like on Bugs Bunny cartoons? Elmer Fudd with a double barrel shotgun making Daffy Duck’s bill spin? Ya gotta be kidding me? But sure as God made little green apples…for target shooting with BB guns, Hunting Season is big doings in the countryside and especially in the south, as in: Old Jeb was out huntin’ for some food, and up from the ground came some bublin’ crude…(yes, yes, ok, I’ll finish the sentence), oil that is, Texas tea.

Now let’s NOT get our collective citified tongues all a-clucking. Many of the people who hunt do use the meat, the skins and the teeth/antler/bones (the later for decorative lamp stands worthy of any 4-H prize). And I myself have a N.A.R award (Bar 7) in riflery for target practice from Camp WannaPee, so I am not against the sport of shooting or the hunting of animals as a food source where absolutely necessary. I understand that deer will starve to death if they over populate so hunting can be more humane than a slow death…assuming you can hit something and stop its heart beating in a nano-second. And I am sure there are a gaggle of hunters who could qualify as bunny assassins, fair enough. But saying I am not against shooting a living thing under certain circumstances and actually doing it are two different things.

The reason this comes up is that the folks in these here parts seem to be wild for Dove Hunts.  (Ah, metaphor meets reality: pitting the doves against the hawks once again–and I am, uncomfortably, a dove in this scenario). Mind you, the actual doves in question look a great deal  like city pigeons, AKA the notorious ‘Flying Rats of Manhattan’. If you have ever had the dubious adventure of pulling out a sandwich in Central Park only to moments later resemble a scene from ‘The Birds’ you might easily be persuaded that keeping down the bird population is a good thing by any means. And, if you have to know, I’ve got a hit out on a certain raccoon that eats my bird seed every night, so I am not without blood on my own hands.

But, still and all, leaving rage out of the picture, I wanted to know what was the thrill of the hunt?  For me ‘the IDEA of the hunt’ is thrill enough. Very much like going into a New York City Club all dolled-up and being pretty sure I could go home with any one of the fine wine-inebriated men of my choosing was, quite simply, a prize in itself. I didn’t actually have to close the deal to know I was comely bait to all, albeit bloodshot and lonely eyes, in the room.

On the other hand, I have heard tell that men (and women more fiercesome than I), on the other hand, actually have to take action. They have to bring home a conquest and then upon awakening realize they were amiss in explaining the catch and release Miranda rights to their prey. And open the cage door as they may, a majority of their booty (so to speak) simply don’t want to go home. This however has never cured a single such ‘hunter’ from repeating the process. Has it never occurred to any of them to suggest to the paramour d’jour that they ‘go home’ and when ’the mark’ acquiesces to simply say, “just kidding”? I guess not.

But now, when it comes to using a weapon stronger than Chanel No. 5 (if there exists such thing) I am a bit of a neophyte. Sure I did use that 22 rifle at camp and I am still happy to shoot the devil out of the heart of a paper target, but spill blood. I can’t relate.

Yet, I am curious. I desire to comprehend why my southern colleagues (male and female alike) want a pelt, feathers and/or carcass at the end of the day.  Why must hunting for the true dyed-in-the-wool hunters include the whole kit and caboodle: the chase, the kill, and the bragging rights?

My plan is to find out for myself. But I don’t want to eat leaded duck, possum, doves or Bambi, so I have decided on a compromise. I am going to go out and ‘kill’ a clay pidgeon (a non-animate clay disc for those of you unfamiliar with the topic).

I have purchased a camoflage shirt with matching capris. And I am reading up on the subject of weapons. How uneducated am I when it comes to hunting and shooting? I didn’t know until yesterday that a shotgun shoots ’shot’ (kinda like large BBs, which are of course shot from a BB gun) and a rifle shoots bullets. And a musket shoots lead balls backed with wadding and gunpowder. Canons shoot cannonballs, launched by powder, wadding and chutzpah. This, I am sure, seems hilarious to those of you from the south. But if it wasn’t a Winchester, a Colt 45 or a Midnight special we didn’t ‘know from nothing’ growing up with our Swanson’s in front of the TV in Jersey.

So now I am off to hunt down, kill, bag and bring home my first ever clay pidgeon.

So be varwy varwy quiet! HeeeeeeHeeee!

Next month we shall discuss southern food for Thanksgiving and how to stuff a clay pidgeon.

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