Gun Girl

       I’ve never made a secret of the fact that I come from a long line of hunters.

My darling Grandpa … and a dead bobcat

Well, at least that’s what I’ve always been led to believe, and growing up in close proximity to my dear old Grandpa, this fact took on a mythical quality. Many an evening was spent at Grandpa’s feet, listening to tales of his glorious hunts in the mountains of New England, his time spent in Alaska, the city slickers from Boston or New York who paid him to guide them to bears and mountain lions and lynx. Grandpa could spin hair raising tales of pulling the trigger in the face of a charging bear, and dropping moose and wildcats as easy as buttering toast.

As we listened, we grandkids chilled out on a big bear rug, skull intact and features set to a snarl. I used to wonder at the bullet hole I could still feel behind its ear. Grandpa had a closet full of pelts. I know. There is something vaguely “Ed Gein” about that, but when I was growing up, it was no big deal. Totally normal.

My brother Bill, who bagged himself a lovely buck

Grandpa wore a green John Deere cap with the logo torn off (he couldn’t see the sense in being someone else’s free billboard space) and he usually wore a red and black checked flannel coat.

He was a hunter first and foremost, and quite possibly husband and family provider second… but that is another story for another day, eh?

Cousin Christine and a gorgeous tom… yummy yummy!

Quite a few of my relatives have obviously inherited his “hunting” genes.

And until a couple days ago, I figured the only gene I had inherited from Grandpa was my ability to spin a good tale out of the ordinary. But that was before my latest rat infestation…

Niece Ashley at 39 weeks pregnant  with baby #5, getting one last doe to fill the freezer before going into labour. Yep. You are right. She is super hot.

Followers of this blog will be aware that rats have been my continual nemesis these past 5 years. Also foxes, but more on that in another post. Suffice to say, I am sick to death of the egg-sucking, rabbit-food-stealing, disease-ridden rodents taking over my little patch of paradise.

And so, after experimenting with my son-in-law’s ancient Webley Mark III air rifle, old, rattly and with a heck of a kick-back for an air-gun, I have cracked open  my wallet and invested in my very first, very own Remington Express Compact .22 gauge air rifle. With scope.

Ok, you may argue that it is a glorified BB gun. But I’m telling you… this sweet little beauty is BLINKING AWESOME!

Oh yeah. This morning, I made my first kill. I am now among the hall of family fame, walking tall and feeling ready to break out the cammo. If I could find a way to smear on green paint without smudging my eyeliner, I would totally do it.

I’ve already got dreams of investing in a proper rifle to track down and blast the fox or foxes who have taken not one,  not two, but 55 chickens this year in five separate raids, two of which were in broad daylight…

This is one ticked-off Mother Hen!

And so, without further ado, I feel I now qualify to add my picture to the family wall of hunting fame.

Mother Hen Bags Her First Rat

Ok… so maybe I exaggerated a whisker or two.

I am now an official huntress. I could so get used to this…

Mother Hen

rat infestation photo courtesy of Quick Catch. Honestly. It looks just like feeding time in my rabbit run. Ain’t nobody got time for that!

Special thanks to my awesome relatives, Bill Kangas, Christine Stewart and Ashley Simpson for their permission and kind donation of photographs to aid in my silliness. Love you all, my fellow hunters!

© 2018, all rights reserved.

Categories: family, humor, memoirs

Tagged as: , , , , , ,

4 replies »

Cheep, Cluck or Crow... Just Make Some Noise!

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s