Ericdc wrote:If you’ll remember, back in October he fetched a limit of doves for me.
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Rick wrote:They were my first game and what brought me back into hunting after a post service hiatus of a year or two when I'd lost the desire. While visiting my hillbilly grandmother, bless her sweet soul, she told me how much she missed the squirrels my (already passed) grandfather used to bring home and all but stuck his .22 in my hands and pushed me out the door. His "three steps and stop" and "sit by the hickories" came with me and by the time I'd shot whatever the limit then was, I was a hunter again.
Grandma, who may very well have felt I needed to hunt more than she needed the squirrels, ran off the porch and into the yard to meet me as I came off the hill. But then her face fell, and though she said nothing, I realized my mistake of having head-shot them. Peeled that mess of them as Grandpa used to with the help of his ancient shop vice and went back out to become a poacher.
Only that time with Grandpa's "...just through the ribs, don't waste the good parts" in my ear.
Being too lazy to clean them for our table (especially since losing the nifty little horseshoe shaped head and foot skinning jig I once had), I've not shot a squirrel since Sweet Chereaux's grandmother passed. She was a fan of the heads, too, but I can't say I was ever attracted enough to the orange-toothed skulls to eat beyond the cheeks and discover what so many of the old folks craved.
Ducaholic wrote:Rick wrote:They were my first game and what brought me back into hunting after a post service hiatus of a year or two when I'd lost the desire. While visiting my hillbilly grandmother, bless her sweet soul, she told me how much she missed the squirrels my (already passed) grandfather used to bring home and all but stuck his .22 in my hands and pushed me out the door. His "three steps and stop" and "sit by the hickories" came with me and by the time I'd shot whatever the limit then was, I was a hunter again.
Grandma, who may very well have felt I needed to hunt more than she needed the squirrels, ran off the porch and into the yard to meet me as I came off the hill. But then her face fell, and though she said nothing, I realized my mistake of having head-shot them. Peeled that mess of them as Grandpa used to with the help of his ancient shop vice and went back out to become a poacher.
Only that time with Grandpa's "...just through the ribs, don't waste the good parts" in my ear.
Being too lazy to clean them for our table (especially since losing the nifty little horseshoe shaped head and foot skinning jig I once had), I've not shot a squirrel since Sweet Chereaux's grandmother passed. She was a fan of the heads, too, but I can't say I was ever attracted enough to the orange-toothed skulls to eat beyond the cheeks and discover what so many of the old folks craved.
Da Brain! It's all about the brain!
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