Geezer
‘n Dog Project
July
2014
“Killing
is the natural order of things.” Honor is a uniquely human construct.
Five
hundred and sixty miles north of the Mexican border, a team of six camo-clad
shooters gathered in the cool pre-dawn dark awaiting jump-off instructions on
their first operation together. The ramrod, a leader of men and an accomplished
man-hunter, handpicked the team. Some members
were unknown to each other prior to the evening operational briefing. Five of
the team had creds for kills, and one did not but possessed excellent rifle
skills. Using local spotters, the team was advised to travel light and only
bring a rifle, ammunition and shooting sticks. Tension mounted with a high
expectation of intercepting the marauders as they retreated from the ranches to
the protective cover of chaparral.
Game on! Mounting up into two trucks and a UTV,
the party slipped off into the dark under a clear sky. The vehicles separated in
different directions traversing dirt roads that twisted and turned, ascended
coastal hills and descended into valleys. As dawn broke, all eyes scanned the hills
and scrub vegetation. The local guides exchanged messages via two-way radio. I
cursed myself for not bringing along my binoculars and a jacket to offset the
cutting wind whipping through windows reluctantly left open to improve vision. Stopping numerous times to scout the
countryside gave relief from the wind but did nothing to ward off the damp chill
of the fog now obliterating the morning sun. Huddling against the truck grill soaking
up warmth from the radiator, I shook from the cold penetrating to the core. I doubted that I would be able to hold the
rifle steady enough to make a shot.
Suddenly
the radio crackled out a message that marauders were seen and on the move. The
cold forgotten, our driver transformed into Mad Max as our truck careened cross-country
and along one-lane dirt ranch roads at up to 50 plus miles per hour. Heedless
of the danger and damage being done to the suspension of the truck, we hurtled
over the top of a hill seeing nothing but sky and no visibility of the road
below us. The goal was to get out ahead
and set-up an ambush.
Inside
our potential coffin we held on for life; no time for seatbelts. I stared in
disbelief as the tires skirted the edge of the dirt road mere inches from deep ravines.
I hoped to not be impaled upon my own rifle should we tumble into an abyss. The
guide stood in the bed of his truck clinging to the roll bar/rear window screen
with his 3 tethered hound dogs at his feet. Pounding on the roof of the truck, he
shouted the whereabouts of scattering marauders as the truck bucked and careened
around corners. Sliding to a stop at an ambush spot, the guide leapt from the
truck bed bellowing, “Get Out!, Get Out!” and then, “Shoot that Pig! Shoot that
Pig!” We remounted as quickly as we dismounted to the words of “Let’s go, let’s
go!” and off we roared with a madman at the wheel.
We
each bagged a marauder, a wild boar, in what can only be described as the
wildest hunting rodeo ever; and no one crashed.
As
to the hounds, the guide explained that he did not intend to use the dogs in
the hunt, but he brought them along anyway, just in case I suppose. Just in case happened, and the dogs were
used.
When
I saw the hounds tethered in the truck, I knew that these were not happy
dogs. They appeared, the best that I can
explain it, to be depressed. Those
hounds undoubtedly knew what was about to happen; they were going to be wildly
flung around in the bed of the truck while attached by the neck. This was not their first rodeo. Don’t get me
wrong, these dogs were more than willing to chase pigs, and they did. Two dogs
were already chasing a hog when the guide unhooked the remaining dog, picked
her up and tossed her from the truck like a sack of potatoes. The
hound landed on her feet with enough force to cause her to partially collapse
by the side of the road. She appeared to be in pain when she slowly arose just
prior to trotting off after her baying partners in hot pursuit. The hounds, fully
engaged in their natural predator/prey instinct, caught that boar and harassed
him while dodging slashing razor sharp tusks.
The
guide abused his dogs and treated them just like his truck, a piece of
equipment to be used, discarded and replaced when broken. Mistreating animals
is not in my play book. It is not the relationship that I have with my dog nor
have I ever had with my horses and prior dogs.
Though
I treat my animals well, some will declare me a hypocritical animal killer and my
killing of a wild boar as a brutal and needless act of violence.
The
subsistence indigenous peoples are said to honor the animals that they kill.
That uniquely human attribute is foreign to people who have never killed that
which they eat. Most people go to the supermarket and restaurant without giving
a thought to the animal that they consume. The fact that their steak and
hamburger was once a living, breathing animal is not forgotten, but it is
conveniently tucked away from everyday consciousness.
Subsistence
harvesting of the earth’s wild animals and plants can no longer support the
human masses. It is a shame that most
humans have consequently lost their innate understanding and connection to the
natural way of things. Any suggestion
that man should kill his own meat assaults the sensibilities of many.
I
call my wild boar “Dink” because he was the smallest boar taken that day. The guide said that he was going to be the
best tasting boar. And, he is delicious.
But, he is more than delicious to me. I see him as he was, and I
acknowledge that I took his life to provide me food. I didn’t have to kill Dink to get food. I could have gone to Costco and bought all
the pork that I wanted and for a whole lot less money. But, I do not know nor
have a memory of the swine that died to become Costco fare leaving me bereft of
a connection with store bought meat.
I
think about Dink, and I do honor him. I
suppose that is much like the practice of indigenous subsistence peoples. There
is a connection to and a reverence for nature not experienced by those who let
others do the killing.
Honor
and shame are unique human constructs. The shame is not in the killing, it is
the loss of honor. We have become too
civilized, a little less human.
(The
delectable meal is pan-fried Dink chops simmered in peaches and accompanied by home
grown zucchini, mushrooms and Parmesan cheese. I bought the Crown Royal at
Costco.)
Regards,
Geezer
Geezer ‘n Dog
Project
is intended to generally address the subject of humans and their relationships
with dogs. Specifically, I’m interested in the phenomena of old guys and their
dogs. I’ll post with no regularity, but as the mood strikes me or when my dog
speaks to me. You can’t rush Geezers.
