I Don't Get No Respect
I don't get no respect.
I have resigned myself to the fact that I am destined to live out my life being the butt of any foul joke the Good Lord sees fit to play on me. And I must say he has a most bizarre, almost perverted, sense of humor. At least looking at from where I stand it sure seems that way. Perhaps I am being offered up some divine lesson that I am simply too slow to grasp. The latest one goes something like this….
I have planned to go squirrel hunting since the season began and every well thought out plan has been undone, unraveled and thwarted by forces I am powerless to suppress. My wife always seems to come up with something I need to do.
No more! Today was the day. After considerable and lengthy preparations, my meticulous and well thought out plan was beginning to unfold. I loaded the back of the truck with my pack, my sleeping pad, my favorite wool blanket, my pillow and my latest unread copy of Backpacker Magazine. I tossed in an ice chest, a heater and a 5 gallon igloo water cooler. In the front end I loaded my day pack, my brand spanking new, still shiny, Diana RWS .177 pellet plinker, my Ruger Single Six and my very manly Springfield XD .45.
Pointing the nose of my truck south I was off for a day of squirrel hunting, setting a few snares, a relaxing evening in the back of the truck vicariously hiking amazing trails. Then, I would finish up hunting on Saturday. Life is sweet.
It was a beautiful fall day with temperatures hovering in the upper 40s as I pulled onto Route 31 with Morgan-Monroe State Forest a scant half hour ahead.
It must have been close to 25 miles when a gnawing uneasiness began to pester me. Traffic was light. The sun was warm. Still. Then it dawned on me. I had forgotten my fleece. That was it. Oh, well. Plenty of woolly cloth on board. Not to worry. It must have been about 40 miles when I finally realized I’d taken the wrong route. Are you kidding me?! This can’t be right? I would do that? It was about the same time that I also realized I didn’t have a map with me. What?! No map?! Of all the lame brained things to do. So I pull into a gas station and purchase an $8.00 map. It was the only map they had. But, it was a nice map. A very good map. It was covered with plastic. It was weather proof. The fact that everything was too small to see mattered not. It was a pretty map. Fortunately, I had remembered my glasses and after carefully scrutinizing the map and multiple attempts to bring it into focus, the sad realization of my hideous error was now all too apparent. Gadzooks! This will cost me a good hour, I mumbled. Undaunted, I hit the road again.
The road across country was a decent state route. Winding perhaps. Hilly for certain. About half way toward my destination I heard an almost imperceptible thump. It wasn’t loud but I had certainly heard it. The drive train sounded fine. The gauges showed everything to be in working order. Hmmm. Oh, well.
I arrived much later than I would have preferred but I was there and that was all that matter. I marched around to the passenger door and shouldered my smaller day pack along with my .45 and Ruger and slid my precious new .177 out of its case. The guttural noise was that primordial sound that all men make as they prepare for the sport of the chase. I stepped to the back of the trunk, dropped the tail gate and watched as what was left of the 5 gallons of water dripped out of the back of the truck. The guttural noise was probably gas.
That thump. Ah, yes, the thump. It must have been when the water cooler turned over. Or when the lid popped off. Or when the 5 gallons of water poured into the bed of the truck and soaked everything that I had put back there. That thump.
Not to worry. I came here to kill and by Gawrd I will kill. Off into the woods I marched. Through the aftermath of four full days of rain I marched. Into the quagmire and muck I marched. Into the depth of the…hello? What’s this? Beer cans? Who in the he….I took a deep breath. I despise anyone who dumps their trash in the woods. I loathe them. I curse their left foot. It was about then that I looked upward.
“Do you mind? Can you cut me one break today? You know how long I have been planning this. Just one,” I said as I picked up the beer cans and stuffed them into my pack. Off into the woods again. Still through the quagmire. Still through the muck. Still through the…hello? What’s this? A brand new orange baseball hat. Now. I won’t try to tell you He dropped it there but where I was no one had been. If they had, they would still be stuck in the mud. But there was that hat. Truly, it was brand new. Never having been worn by all appearances and not a speck of dirt on it. I looked skyward again.
“Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about! Thanks.”
The catch was there were no squirrels on that ridge. There were no birds on that ridge. There was nothing that breathed on that ridge except me. I spent three hours in fine silt. Three hours in nature’s finest muck.
Oh, no you don’t. Uh uh. No, sir. You aren’t getting me that cheap. So, down the road I went until I found yet another fine ridge. I loaded on my gear and out through the woods I went. This was a fine ridge indeed. A very fine ridge. There was no mud. No goop. Just a very fine ridge. And….hello? What’s this? A squirrel? Yes! Bless my soul a furry little grey squirrel bounding across the ground. I was giddy. I tingled with excitement like a school girl on her first date. The little squirrel bounded across the ground and jumped over a log.
In hind sight, I can say with some certainty, no, with absolute certainty that the little squirrel had no idea there were two deer bedded down on the back side of the log. For all I know he jumped on one of them because all I saw was a blinding blur of brown and white fur. I seem to remember a speck of grey but, then, it could have just been my imagination. Either way, those deer bolted, nay, exploded off the ground like they were titan missiles. I am quite certain it was right then I screamed like a little girl. The deer flew. I don’t remember seeing their hooves touch the ground. They could have been Santa Claus deer for all I know. Whatever the case, they disappeared down into the valley like a pair of F-22 Raptors. They floated in unison around trees and bushes. They really did.
It took me a minute to get things back together. I had forgotten about guttural sounds. I had forgotten about the sport of the chase. I had even forgotten about that squirrel. I have no idea what happened to it. It may have ridden one of those deer into the valley. I might still be lying on the back side of that log, quite dead from a heart attack.
I took a quick assessment of the days events and came to the conclusion that there was probably something at home my wife needed me to do. Some menial task that needed my expert hand. So I trudged back to my truck and loaded my gear into the front end. I paused for a moment and watched the water still dripping out of the tail gate. I shook my head and pointed the truck back toward home.
As I was leaving the woods, that squirrel was on the side of the road. He flipped me the bird as I drove by. I think it was a robin.
I don’t get no respect.
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Originally Posted by Rick
Awwwww....
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