I am a Squirrel Rancher

March 19th, 2018

Plus Turkey Thoughts

I am learning more about hunting, which is not nearly the same as saying I know a lot about it.

Today I bagged another squirrel. With my dad’s SUV. I had to take him (my dad) to the bank to get something notarized. At the Belleview BoA we were treated to a remarkable spectacle: the only rude person in Marion County.

A lady who worked at the bank interrupted me twice when I walked in. I started to ask where we should wait (line or chairs), and before I could say it, she cut me off and told us to sit down. I started to speak again, and her kind face snapped open instantaneously to let another order fly out. I had no idea whether she knew what I was going to ask, but we sat down. Maybe I should start wearing suits to the bank.

As she was walking away, my dad called her a smartass.

Then she gave another elderly customer very bad advice concerning online banking while we waited. She was condescending and impatient. She told him he needed a smartphone to pay bills online, which is totally wrong. A PC will work fine. Telling an octogenarian to do something using a smartphone is virtually the same thing as telling him it’s impossible. Anyway, he was really mad.

There are some benefits to old age and dementia. One is that you are allowed to say absolutely anything. My dad called her a smartass from three feet away, and when she said she was doing her best, which did not appear to be true, he said, “It’s a very poor best.”

I can’t get away with things like that.

I’m not in favor of insulting bank employees, but she brought it on herself. I stayed out of it. Perhaps I should feel guilty about being entertained by it.

Back when I was on better terms with my sister, I sometimes got her to “talk to” people for me. When someone was giving me a problem, putting them on the phone with her was worse than throwing snakes on them. She’s her father’s daughter. It’s funny how useful abusive people can be, when put in harness.

I wouldn’t do that today, but it did work.

I should have had a phone tree. “To talk to Steve’s sister, press 1. To have a cup of acid thrown in your face, press 2.”

To get back to the squirrel, the road was very wet, and we were doing maybe 45. A squirrel ran out and started doing its Pixar dance, trying to knock me off balance.

Wrong guy for that game, my friend. I am the Christopher Walken of squirrels.

I maintained a steady speed, and then there was a thump. I do not swerve or brake for wildlife unless I have to. Especially annoying wildlife. I don’t want to have to tell the EMT’s I killed someone in order to save a neurotic rat that lives in a tree.

To my credit, I turned around, found the squirrel, and ran over him two more times. Once to be humane, and once for all the mangoes squirrels have cut off my trees. Stop it; I kid. I was trying to be kind. When I found him on the way back, he looked as dead as Myspace. But I made sure.

I felt bad about it, but not that bad. It’s a rat from a tree, and it was trying to make me drive into a ditch.

I deleted a bunch of Things to Do in Denver When You’re Dead jokes right here. Trying to be good.

Hunting has my head in a spin. Squirrel season, not counting the automotive version, which runs all year, is over. I have been trying to get geared up for coyotes and coons. Now turkey season is here, and I have no idea what to do.

I am asking people for advice, and my understanding is that I have to go out in the evening and hope to see turkeys landing in trees. I’m not sure if this is a cute hunting joke intended to make me look stupid (honest, the snipe will walk right into the bag, you’ll get to keep your doctor, and you’ll use your timeshare constantly), but it’s what I was told. In the morning, you set up near the trees and call the turkeys.

My area actually has turkeys, according to a neighbor, so maybe I’ll score. I was going to go out tonight to see if I could spot them, but it’s raining cats and turkeys–I mean dogs–so I don’t know if that will work. I guess they have to roost on rainy days just like dry days. It’s not like they can hole up at the Ramada Inn.

Locating roosting turkeys is called “roosting turkeys.” Just FYI. Jot that down.

The obvious question here is, “Why can’t I just shoot them out of the tree?” It’s illegal. I don’t see why it’s not allowed. The bag limit is the bag limit. If you wipe out two turkeys in one easy evening or 33 miserable days, what difference does it make to the turkey supply? None. I think the state is just sadistic.

Maybe my logic is faulty. After all, in some states, the government breeds and releases wild turkeys for hunters. If my argument is good, they should let you go to the breeding place and shoot them through the fence.

Is that a bad idea, or am I just a visionary?

I got some good news. I can shoot turkeys with a rifle. I don’t have to use a shotgun. This will double my range and make it possible to try for head shots. Hope I can pull it off.

I got some other good news. At least SOME people say wild turkeys don’t taste disgusting. The only one I have personally experienced was smelled, not consumed. A friend’s mother roasted it, and when I walked in the house, it smelled like someone was frying a bum. Her explanation was that she hadn’t gotten all the pinfeathers out. I don’t know whether that’s right. Many people on the web say they’re tasty.

It’s hard to judge, because we’re talking about turkey. It’s one of the easiest things to cook, and one of the things almost no one cooks well. It’s very hard. You put it in the oven at 200 degrees (less, if you’re brave), wait for the internal temperature to get close to the safe mark, and then turn the heat up to brown the skin. Throw some seasonings on it first. That’s the whole secret. But it’s too much for most people. They roast at 325 and get dry turkeys that taste like golf ball cores. Turkeys that bounce.

If wild turkeys were the greatest eating animals on earth, most of the people who tried cooking them would say they were awful, because they would ruin them.

Real turkeys (the kind you buy wrapped in plastic) are supposed to be the dumbest terrestrial animals on earth, apart from swing voters. Stories of their stupidity are legendary. But somehow, wild turkeys are brilliant and hard to hunt. This is what I’m told. They can see like the Hubble telescope, they can hear ants cough, they have x-ray vision and freeze breath, and they can read your thoughts.

When you spot them and draw a bead, they can get out of it by waving a wing and saying, “These aren’t the boids you’re looking for.”

I think that’s the whole list of turkey powers, unless they also do telekinesis. Pretty intimidating. I can’t believe anyone ever gets one. But people said squirrels were geniuses, too, and they let me walk up and fill them with lead. “Who do you think you are? This is my tree! Bark! Bark! Bark! OW!”

People say squirrels are harder to hunt than deer, and if that’s true, I’m going to be up to my keister in venison this fall.

Why is it called “venison” instead of “deer meat”? It doesn’t come from a ven. Why doesn’t it have a nice short name like beef? I know! We should call it “deef.”

I have two new squirrel feeders. I was going to hang them today, but it’s too rainy. I’m going to put one in front of the house and one in back. When squirrel season rolls around again, the rats will be addicts. They’ll scurry up to get their fix, and then they’ll pay the piper for all those “free” nuts.

It should be a great way to practice marksmanship, and it will ensure a good supply of fried squirrel. It will allow me to keep my shots low and safe, which is also nice. I told someone I know I was keeping my friends close and my enemies closer.

I could also get a deer feeder.

Interesting thing: in Florida, I am only allowed to shoot “gobblers and turkeys with beards.” A gobbler is a man-turkey. Gobblers are supposed to have long projections of hairy feathers on their chests. These are called “beards.” Evidently, there are some confused transgender hens out there, because some hens have beards. I think they had to include them in the list of eligible turkeys because it’s unreasonable to expect a hunter to know the difference between a man-turkey and a turkey tranny. It’s the same kind of confusion that has resulted in a lot of hurt feelings after Tinder dates.

Turkeys are way ahead of us in the gender-confusion game.

Maybe trans-turkeys sued to get on the list. “Caitlyn Turkey Doe v. Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission.”

I can’t shoot a turkey within 100 yards of a game feeding station, if there is feed in the station. I wonder if that means I have to clean out the squirrel feeders when I hunt turkeys. I can see the little squirrels, circling the feeders, shivering and saying, “I NEED those NUTS, man.”

That would make them cold-turkey squirrels.

It’s still pouring, so I guess I’ll make a PBJ and give the turkeys a day of mercy. It’s too late for the squirrel pedestrian, however.

Boat drinks, my friend. Boat drinks.

4 Responses to “I am a Squirrel Rancher”

  1. John Bowen Says:

    Oh my. I eagerly await your tale of triumphantly roasting your first wild turkey.

  2. Juan Paxety Says:

    I thought it was a requirement that BoA employees be jerks.

  3. Steve H. Says:

    Juan, this is where they send the people who fail their training. The lady who set my account up is crazy nice.

    Of course, I used to live in Miami, so it may be that people here are vile cretins, and I haven’t noticed because it’s such an improvement.

    John, if I can kill it, I can cook it. Killing it is really the bottleneck in this operation.

  4. Ruth H Says:

    We watched turkeys get to the tallest trees to roost in Big Bend National Park. They have to have a very long running takeoff, I would assume that is when you can get a really good shot off on them.