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I remember the first time my daddy took me hunting. Thirteen years old, a week after I kissed Susie Finnegan for the first time. Halfway between camp and the winding river the Indians called the Snake that Spits in Summer, we came across a dear. As our eyes locked, hunter and prey, something passed between us, then it bolted. I didn't even shoulder my rifle.
"Son," my daddy said, "You just kissed an easy kill goodbye. You're gonna have to toughen up if you want to be a backwoodsman."
"Daddy," I replied, looking him straight in the eye, "I know I already got your respect. I don't need blood on my hands to keep it, now, do I?"
Maybe if it had been an SUV I would have blown that bastard to hell, and my Daddy and I would never have reached that new level of understanding. |
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