Attribution: Photo by Doncoombez on Unsplash
By Bill Stokes
Kickass, the doorstop dog, notes his and the keeper’s retirement from hunting as the past weekend marked the opening of the Wisconsin pheasant hunting season, an activity as propped up as a shotgun wedding.
The hunt involves a chicken-sized exotic bird with spectacular colorful plumage, raised by the state by the tens of thousands, and starting just before the designated “hunting” season the mature birds are released on public hunting grounds in a method calculated to spread their kill among as many participants as possible.
The setup is among the more extreme game-playing that goes on as humans grapple to cling to their predator identity. It differs from raising chickens for the table only in that it involves a shotgun.
As a long-time ruffed grouse hunter, the keeper arrogantly held that hunting the wild birds put him a step above those chasing the state-raised pheasants. Of such distinctions are bar-room discussions born and thankfully promptly forgotten.
The keeper gave his shotgun to one of his sons many years ago, and it may have been out there last weekend on a pheasants hunt.
That’s okay. There is a lot of pretending in hanging onto predatory genes.
The keeper, once an avid deer hunter, is already on his deer stand even though the season is a month away. His stand, of course, closely resembles a comfortable recliner in the living room and it is within earshot of Phyllis with the coffeepot.
Old hunters never die, they just pretend away!
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