Our friend Ben up on the mountain got his moose this year. Last year all he got was pneumonia, so this was a much better outcome. Reminding me of a story:
Years ago in West Gardiner, Maine, outside the Rod and Gun shop, a protest sign read: “Hunting is no sport.”
A local commented: “Course huntin’s not a sport. If it was, we’d give guns to the deer.”
Alternatively, we could send the deer hunters out into the woods naked and unarmed: “Go get ‘em!”.
Which reminds me of another story:
Up in the blueberry barrens near our camp in Franklin, Maine, the dogs and I were walking. It had rained the night before, then gotten cold, so the water frozen in the ruts and pot holes creating skims of ice.
About a mile out we heard roaring, revving, and crunching. The ice in the ruts and holes was cracking under the big tires of a vehicle driven way too fast on this rough, narrow road. And around the corner came a big-ass four-wheel-drive pickup truck. The truck pulled up beside us. I could see the two men inside. They were wearing blaze orange and had their rifles on the seat between them.
The driver rolled down his window. He put his finger to his lips, winked, and whispered: “You didn’t hear us coming, did you? We’re deer hunters.”
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