Wascally Wabbits and More

About a month ago, "PA" (akin to the A-Team's "BA") and I went rabbit hunting at my wife's uncle's farm in Emmit Township. I was carrying my new gun, a two barrel over-under that I had received for my 3oth (gasp!) birthday. I brought my beagle, and PA brought his two beagles.

I had never before fired the gun, so it happened that as I kicked a very nice sized rabbit out of some brush, I pulled the trigger and nothing happened. I still had the safety engaged. However, I vowed, such an episode would never recur.

Fast forward to yesterday, January 7, 2007. PA and I (aka "Hannibal"--the guy with the plan and the stogie) arrived at that same farm for an afternoon hunt. I had forgotten to call my wife's uncle with sufficient advance notice, so he was unable to attend (and for that I deeply apologize--even moreso if he reads this).

The two track between the road and the field was wet and muddy. So much so that I had a hard time getting traction. Thank God for four-wheel drive (I thought).

Once out of the car and into the field, it was a quick trip across to the half wooded and half wild grassy area. It was in this grassy area that I had tried to shoot that rabbit a month earlier. However, as I kicked the same pile of brush, no rabbit emerged, so we moved on to a piney area to the east and beyond some trees.

It was there that I flushed out the first one. "Rabbit!" I yelled as I let loose a quick shot.

"Did you get him?" PA shouted from the other side of the grove.

"I don't think so," I answered, but that was when I saw a twitch on the ground about five yards from where I'd pointed and fired.

"Hell yes I did!" I shouted back. And so it was that I took my first rabbit.

The feeling was exhilerating. I'd been hunting rabbits several times and missed once and had to hold my fire three times out of fear that I'd kill a dog instead of a rabbit. Other times, it was PA who was faster on the draw. This time, however, I was the champion.

I posed for the picture (above) and PA and I agreed that there was still at least two hours of solid daylight for hunting.

We criss-crossed through the woods for about an hour. It was during this time that I located several good signs of deer. I made a mental note for next October's bow season.

Soon, Roofus (PA's large beagle) began barking. The sound was unmistakable: he was onto a rabbit scent.

I moved toward him a bit, and a few minutes later caught a flash of movement out of the corner of my right eye. I turned and saw a rabbit shooting across. It was moving so fast that I could not even shout "Rabbit!" I just pointed and fired.

The rabbit flipped over and flopped about--I had only wounded it with a shot to its rear leg.

Roofus was on it within a few seconds, and that's when I noticed the screaming.

Apparently, rabbits scream. It sounds a lot like the combination of a pissed off cat and an upset baby. I ran to it and pulled the dog off of it. The rabbit was wounded but nowhere near dead, and it kept screaming and flopping.

"It's leg is busted. Should I put it out?" I yelled to PA. I was admittedly disturbed by the rabbit's screaming, for I did not know that they did such a thing.

"Yeah," he replied, "but do it without shooting," he answered, so I took aim and kicked the rabbit in the back of the head. It flew about three yards, but kept screaming, so I kicked it again.

As it turned out, all I was doing was kicking the crap out of it.

"Stomp it with your heal," PA said, closer now by about twenty yards, so that's what I did.

It took two stomps, but the rabbit stopped screaming and laid still.

In this picture, you can see PA's smaller beagle, Chloe, still trying to get a piece of the rabbit. My dog, apparently, is third man on the totem pole and only watches from afar as "PA's" bullies go far what was rightfully mine.

Soon after, we decided to hunt our way back to the car. We arrived at the car about thirty minutes later, only to find that my four-wheel drive as not working. We were stuck in the mud. I tried to get out, but we were stuck. PA--a good 100 pounds lighter than myself moved into the driver's seat, and I got out to push. I pushed us out of the first hole, but we only moved for about fifteen yards before getting stuck again, with ninety yards left to go. We tried every method available to get us out (e.g. filling in the rut with dry grass and wooden planks), but nothing worked. In short, we were screwed.

We walked a short ways up a dirt road to a friendly farm house: The Woodlands, owned by Mr. and Mrs. Wood--very good people about whom nothing but praise can be said. It was, however, their sons who five or so years ago took a ten point buck that I had been tracking, but that was their good fortune and my bad luck.

We knocked on the door and were directed to the back. Mr. Wood answered, and we told him our story. We asked if he had a tractor to pull us out, but he did not have one. He scratched his head and gave us a few telephone numbers, none of which were answered.

Nonetheless, the guy drove us in his Trailblazer (his four wheel-drive was working) to my Trailblazer and tried with a tow-rope to pull us out. It did not work. While he left to find a local farmer to help, I called AAA.

About twenty minutes later, whilst I was giving AAA the coordinates to our location, Mr. Wood pulled up with the news that none of the nearby farmers were home. He invited us to his house if we got too cold waiting for the inevitable tow truck. We declined for the moment but told him that we might take him up on his offer if we needed to do so.

The truck arrived about forty minutes later. Now it was dark. We were wet and cold. I pointed from the side of the dirt road to my car, about ninety yards down the muddy two track, and he followed me to it. I explained that my four wheel-drive had stopped working, and he knew it was true when he saw that I was stuck in mud that I should otherwise have been able to escape.

After hitching me up, he pulled me out bit by bit. Finally, after about forty minutes, we were out and clear. So ended a good day gone bad.