Here Ducky Ducky

I was watching some ducks on a pond the other day. And, my wandered back to a hunting trip I had in my dating years.
I didn’t really grow up in a hunting and fishing kind of family. For some reason we just didn’t get into those kinds of sporting activities. The height of our sports entertainment centered around watching the grass grows in Frog Not, Texas. Now, that’s another story.
Basically, my fishing experience came in the form of tying a piece of bacon on the end of string and ever so smoothly dipping it in and out of a crawdad hole. As for my hunting experience, it was just, well, let’s just say I don’t get asked to the deer lease.
But, when I started dating this guy who really enjoyed hunting, I decided to give this huntin’ thing another look. Really, this guy was pretty good looking and I thought it behooved me to impress him. And, I did.
I started practicing with a .22-calliber rifle. I shot cans . . . I shot bottles . . . I shot the dirt. Soon, no can or bottle was safe around me. But, I wanted more.
One day, I was standing on the back porch with my “22” (that’s how they say it in gun-talk) when this big, ugly, black and hairy tarantula ventured into my backyard, and, low and behold, across my path.
“Wonder if I can get him with my 22,” I thought.
I did. As a matter of fact, I blew him to smithereens. I was so proud. This kill made me hunger for bigger and better game. I was ready.
So, I did what any woman of the modern age would do to get her man to take her hunting. When, begging didn’t get me anywhere, I cried. You women know the routine.
“You don’t love me or you would take me hunting with you,” I sniffled.
No man can take much womanly whimpering.
He caved in.
I got dressed up in my camouflage pants, my camouflage shirt, boots, and hunting cap. You know, the ones that have furry ear flaps you can pull up and tie on top of the cap. Out the door I bounded with my double-barrel 12-gauge shotgun. Looking back, I think I kinda looked like Elmer Fudd.
“What are you doing?” my guy friend quizzed.
“I’m going duck hunting,” I proclaimed. “No duck is safe around me.”
Somehow, I should have known this was not going to be my finest hour. Subtle hints plagued me all day. But, I was a trooper.
Upon my arrival at the hunt site, I flung open the door of the pickup, stepped out on the running board and fell, rolling all the way to the bottom of the hill. And, much to the delight of the males in the hunting party. That first step was a doozie.
We walked to the dam of the lake and proceeded to crawl up the backside of the dam in an effort to position ourselves where we could see the ducks, but they couldn’t see us. I found my spot. I’m sat there perched behind a little bush. The double-barrel shotgun ready to go.
The ducks were in sight . . . About the time I pulled the triggers, someone yelled “don’t pull both those triggers at the same time!”
Too, late.
The shotgun kicked me backwards, and with such force I fell head-over-heels, back down the dam embankment.
I was hurting like the dickens and totally incensed, but I was not willing to give the guys the satisfaction of a good laugh. I got up, dusted myself off and asked, “did I hit any?”
“There’s one lifeless duck on the pond. But, I don’t know whether it’s been shot or just died of a heart attack from all the commotion,” someone giggled.
That pretty much ended the hunting in my corner of the world. I figure animals should be looked at and not shot at. . . By the way, I’ve been kicked by horses that hurt less than that shotgun.