Roving

"It's like Ibiza but, you know, country," I said, dialing up Magic Train of Remove Kebab to maximum volume. It was an Albanian bar in rural Texas and Remove Kebab just seemed right. Everyone agreed. 

"Like this song a lot, 'bout a train with guns. So where you from?"
"From England. I'm a pastor."
"Good to meetcha!"

It turns out we pretty much knew each other thanks to mutual friends and acquaintances, it's a small town; I like that, so much better than living in the plastic-sided splendor of the Metrosprawl. Then, after a quick blast of the perennial classic, Don't Fear The Reaper, I headed for home.

The streets were empty, apart from the occasional cat, slinking across the road and one or two wild dogs. They're a menace and you have to wonder at the genius of the people who abandoned them.

Back at the compound, I reflected on the town and the wisdom of the Baptists and Methodists who helped pioneer it. They cared for people and now their churches are large.

There's a lesson in that.

God bless,

LSP

Rabbit Hunter!

Unlike Satan, I try to take Monday "off". This means get up, drink lots of tea and coffee, say Morning Prayer on the porch, then think of something meaningful to do, like go for a shoot or a ride. Apparently there was a small pack of wild dogs loose on a parishioner's farm, so I opted for the shoot and my plan was simple. Look out for the dogs and shoot them with a shotgun and if they were sensibly in hiding, go after squirrels or rabbits.

Kit, note the Cloak of Invisibility, aka old Brit combat jacket...

First things first, get your kit together, namely a shotgun, a .22, and a scoped .243 in case there's a need for a longish range shot against the dogs. Then inspect your porch arsenal and wonder why you're strangely over-armed for this expedition -- why not take a .45 and a semi-auto, just in case, for goodness sake -- and drive out.

No Dogs

No sooner was I at the farm and out of the truck than there's a rabbit, at about 40 yards silhouetted between two gateposts. I quickly loaded the .22 and squeezed off a shot; one rabbit for the pot. The next step was scouting about for dogs, shotgun in hand, but they weren't in evidence, so that part of the escapade turned into a armed ramble about the countryside. There's nothing wrong with that, it's important, I think, to get out in the tree lines and fields and if you're in hunting mode you see and hear more because the senses are heightened. Still, no dogs, so I went back to the truck and there's another rabbit! Great excitement, as I swapped out guns, went into the brush and shot it. Two rabbits for the pot.

Two for the pot

That was plenty of action for me -- time to head off home to skin and gut then soak the meat in brine. I made the rabbits into a red wine based stew and served up over polenta, Italian style. Next time I think something to do with a grill might be in order, or maybe a curry.

Clean

Tasty, and all the better for being something I made for myself, from kill to clean to pot. A quantity of red wine didn't hurt anything either.

Simmer

Moral? Don't be a slacker, get out and hunt.

God bless,

LSP

Only Mad dogs and , er, Englishmen...

Union Jack

...go out in the noonday sun after two Sung Masses. Except, of course, that the "mad dogs" didn't; they were sensibly keeping their heads down while I went out to hunt them in 104* heat. You see, there's this cruel new trend here of people dropping off their unwanted attack dogs in the countryside. They go feral, pack up and attack livestock and, if they get the chance, humans. My Treasurer saw some yesterday and invited me out to "git 'em" after church. Damn good chap, the Treasurer. Evidently the dogs are black, betwixt the size of a coyote and a wolf, and six in number. Their tails are short, interestingly.

I was there, gun in hand, stealthy.

They were doubtless sleeping. I kept going, to the Valley of the Dry Bones...

Still no dogs, so I went untactical, had a smoke and shot a rabbit. They've become a menace.

Spent the rest of the afternoon shooting empty shotgun cartridges off of haybales with the venerable JC Higgins .22. Childish, but fun. Altogether a good way to unwind after the the Sunday morning biznai.

Back in the A/C now, contemplating next move against wild dog pack. Perhaps scoped AR in .308 would be sensible?

God bless,

LSP

PS. Stay tuned for linguistic philosopher GWB's Hog poem.