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Texas Fish & Game
"Is Hawg Hunting Considered a Saturday Night Date?"
by Mari Henry

It is Saturday night…..So why am I going hawg hunting? Well,it is a follow up to the teal hunting we did early that morning. Confused? Well, probably only if you are a gurl. Males consider this very normal behavior---teal in the morning, hawgs in the afternoon. What is wrong with that? Oh and don’t forget the nap in between. That is SOP, (standard operating procedure) the perfect day/date.

David tells me, “Baby I have it all figured out. We will get home by 11 a.m., take a shower, have a refreshing nap, and off we go to find ourselves one big hawg.”

“Gee, that sounds great David.” What kind of Saturday night is this? Doesn’t he know that it is Date Night?. That means chardonnay, candlelight and sweet nothings whispered into your ear.

We arrive at the “Five-Star Camp” and it ain’t no Ritz Carleton. Rustic is one thing but the camp’s true nature is pasted, Band-Aided and glued together with scrap metal, old wood, paper and yellow linoleum; looks like rubble to me. I am trying to hide the stricken look on my face, but jeez! This place looks like something out of Deliverance! Visions of being captured and cow- tied while demented men sneer at me play in my mind. Stop it! Don’t let them know you are scared. That is when animals attack!.

The boys are all looking at me. As I smile and acknowledge with a nod, the vision becomes stronger: Oh No! The toothless one is smiling and drooling! The others are exchanging whispers!, She is sooooo purty! Can I have her, Pa? STOP IT!!!! Erase, erase.

Yep, this is quite the camp, all right. They all exchange a smile reeking of, She don’t get it! Dumb gurl! Okay, gosh-darn it!. What is wrong with a camp that has a clean bathroom---or just a bathroom? Guys never understand the dilemma gurlz have using nature as a restroom. There is the dribble effect, the tickle your derriere predicament and of course the ”Who is watching?” quandary. Okay enough of that…. Back to the Date. Lets talk hawsg.

“So Boys, are we here to hunt hawg or sit around the camp fire and sing ‘Kumbaya’? Show me to my table please!

We are escorted to our appointed spot, the deer blind---our table for drinks and dinner has a beautiful vista, (the perfect view of the feeder). The blind is first class, well appointed with two very comfortable chairs that roll and swivel. We are seated intimately and ever so romantically side by side. Gurlz love that!

We carefully set up the scoped rifle, position the binoculars and settle in. David appoints me the lookout-- an important designation….Hawg scout I affix my eyes on the feeder, looking for signs of movement.

A lovely breeze sifts threw the blind. I wonder if David notices how my hair swirls model-like in the breeze, or how the sunset shimmers on my face. Gosh, I hope I still have some lipstick on?

A low but constant nasal sound issues from the chair next to me. Whats that? You have got to be kidding.! He is snoring! Feet propped up, head tilted back and snoring!

Now wait just one cotton-picking minute! There is no napping during Date Night! And although I am no expert, surely this is not acceptable procedure for hawg hunting. I get it…… that is why I got the look out job.

Well I am feeling a bit bushed too. I prop my feet up on the lip of the window sill and begin to lean back in my chair. Yikes, The caster rollers on the chair slide to the front of the blind, slamming my knees into the wood. The back of the chair lurches back, slamming my head into the back windowsill. Holy hawg! Ouch!

David wakes up: . “What is going on?!”

“Sorry, sorry, just trying to get comfortable.”

“Well, Baby, you need to be quiet. those hawgs are very skittish.”

Right! Those dirty, snorting rooting, mud loving squealers are real sensitive!. How about my HEAD, for crying out loud!

It is 6 p.m., and the feeder has not gone off. The only activity is the lonesome deer scouting for food.

David has gone back to sleep and it is now 7 p.m. and still no corn spewing out of the feeder. Okay, well this is getting on my nerves. There is something wrong with that darn feeder. Nobody eats this late. Where is that waiter? He should have brought our food by now.
“David! David! Wake up! There is something wrong. The feeder has not gone off. Those hawgs are going to have heartburn if they eat this late.”

“Shhhhhh! Look over there!”

Oh my gosh! What the heck is that? YUCK!, that is what they look like? Gad, they are horrid looking.---not one redeeming characteristic about those animals. Here kitty- kitty- kitty.
David, whispers: “ I am going to wait and see if there is a bigger one. I am sure there are more behind him”

Yep, a third, fourth, fifth come to the feeder. It is the ugliest congregation of animals created by God.

David, patiently waits with his rifle tucked into his cheek. As I press my face into the binoculars, I struggle to keep my hands steady, my heart races and breathing sounds like a runaway bellows. What is my problem? Am I getting turned on by a hawg?. Lord have mercy! Oh no! I have the Disease! It has me by the throat!. Run for your lif!e.

Boom! Dust flies up and the hawgs scatter. I look at David and he looks at me. It is one of those very special Saturday Night Date moments when your man gazes into your eyes.
David grabs the binoculars: “Where did he go? I know I got him.”

“Well of course you did Sweetie”

“I saw him go down, and now I cannot see him. Well, let’s go get him.”

Yeah……. buttttt, wounded wild hawgs are vengeful, mean and love to eat small blond gurlz for an appetizer. Everyone knows that. It is written!

“David, bring your pistol.” ““Why?”“Cuz, it is like walking me to my car. Now just bring your pistol.”

As David struts ahead, I lag behind; after all he has the pistol. As we approach the feeder, yep there he is, dead hawg, hawg-dead, in the swell under the feeder. Man, look at the size of that honker! A real snaggletooth beauty! What is that smell? Breath through your mouth and maybe David won’t notice your disgust.

A perfect shot right through the ear. David, proud of his work says, “Grab a leg and let’s drag this guy back to the blind.”What does he mean, “grab” and “drag”? That is like asking a gurl to pick up the check. Listen here buddy, this is my Saturday Night Date and this gal is not grabbing and dragging anything. That is your smelly hawg---but the next one is mine! I want one of my own. I can do that too, you know. I can shoot a squealer in the head.

Oh No! It is happening! The Disease has penetrated my frontal lobe!. I am fantasizing about shooting a smelly, hairy, snout- snorting wild hawg! Help me! The Disease is advancing!.
Once back at the Five-Star, sipping on a lovely chardonnay served in a beautiful crystal glass, provided by my sweet David, I admire our kill hanging by its feet, and it suddenly hits me: This camp is cozy, charming, really, in a rustic sort of way. What was I thinking? This camp has everything one would need.

Oh Lordy! The Disease has now penetrated my cerebral cortex!. I have crossed over into the land of Deliverance. Of course hawg hunting is a date!.

Oh gawd------ I am one of them!

I like to give credit where credit is due.

Godspeed & a Giggle