Don't Shoot the Hog
/I learned a lesson over fifty (50) years ago that I think about from time to time and have a chuckle. I was deer hunting with a group of men and boys on a really cold morning. The frost was heavy, and ice was everywhere. The Hunt Master for the day was the landowner, an ole country man by the name of Leo, who had decided our first drive would be across a thirty-acre swamp thick with briars and shallow water. Since this group often called me "Swamp Cat," Leo asked me to go through the swamp with him. Then, the lecture began. He explained he had hogs living in the swamp, and we needed to be careful to only shoot "deer with horns on their head" and not his hogs. Several times, we listened as Leo gave specific instructions how to ensure we were hunting deer and not hogs. After several versions of instructions, the hunt began; everyone went to stands on the other side of the swamp, and Leo and I began to work through the swamp. His final instruction to me was, "Whatever you do, don't shoot my hogs."
As we began moving through the swamp, it was miserable and cold. Saw-briars and vines were thick, and it was hard to see more than fifteen to twenty feet anywhere you looked. Leo and I stayed in communication by whooping at each other several times each minute. We were about half-way through the swamp when it happened; I heard something big jump out of the brush and quickly heard Leo's old single barrel shotgun. Then, stone silence. I stood still and silent for a couple of minutes before calling out, "Leo, did you get him?" I got a very curt response, "Shut up, boy." I started to make my way toward Leo when I heard the shotgun roar a second time. I paused again and asked, "Leo, did you get him?" The answer came back more frustrated than before, "Shut up, boy."
It took me a few minutes to make my way to Leo, and as I broke through the swamp to him, he was kneeling in the water. Looking up at me, he said clearly, "Don't you ever say a word about this; I just shot my _____ hog." After a few minutes to gather himself and one more warning to me about silence, we made our way through the swamp. Everyone had seen several hogs come out of the swamp, and one young boy had seen "a big buck with a big rack too late for a shot." Leo didn't miss the opportunity, "That must have been the one I shot at. All I saw was the rack through the brush." Believe it or not, the "Swamp Cat" learned some lessons that day:
When you are the landowner of the hogs, they are your hogs.
Sometimes what other people don't know doesn't hurt them or you either.
Protecting another's dignity and respect without harming someone else feels good.
Leo was grateful. When he processed that ole boar, we got a whole ham and five pounds of bacon.
There is grace in silence. Leo (now gone) and I never mentioned that hunt again.
With a chuckle, Mike