I got a note yesterday from a friend telling me about her upcoming planned adventures as a Great Plains huntress. Apparently, she’s going to go bow hunting for wild hogs or I’d imagine what we actually call javelinas with her new boyfriend.
The image in my head is not of her standing proudly over her kill that she’s loaded into the back of her truck with the blood of her prey painted on her cheeks, but that of a wild pig screaming, spewing blood with an arrow stuck in its throat. Such is my graphic lack of confidence in her abilities with a bow and arrow. See, to my knowledge she’s never used one. So, this idea that she’s going to arm herself with latest in compound bow technology and aim it at some moving creature baffles me. She can’t consistently pitch trash into a basket, but at least if she misses the basket it isn’t going to run screaming from a paper wad blow to the rim. And quite honestly, I’m simply not the person to share these stories with.
It boils down to the fact that deep down inside I’m not a hunter. Now mind you, I fully accept that I’m a carnivore or omnivore or whatever vore it takes to get a nice rare steak. I also appreciate that there are people out there that do the dirty work that gets the cow and chicken bits to my freezer. However, I know myself. I know that I’m not made of the same pioneer stuff that brought about Manifest Destiny. Were I part of the ill-fated Donner Party, I would have been Donner Party Snacks. I’m sure I’m the shame of many an ancestor who helped forge ahead and shape the world.
Needless to see that this weekend, I’m going to be rooting for the pig.