Saturday, December 1, 2007


It's 5 am, 18 degrees and the wind is whipping the top of a hemlock out my window, making it dance against the pre-dawn sky. I know I should hunt. I want to hunt. But....the woodstove is cranking, the shack is toasty and my first cup of coffee tastes sooooo good. As I decide whether or not to crawl back under the covers, or layer up and drive to White Sulfer Springs let me give you the latest from Paris, s'il vous plait.
First there is the picture of Bird and Ray Key with the deer in the back of the pickup, that I emailed Morgane, that started making the rounds of all the haute couture back rooms and fancy shoe stores along rue de franc bourgeois. Then there is the video that one of Morgane's entourage shot at my place, that turned up on the internet. There's Morgane getting dressed. There she is again, with the gun, standing in front of the two coons I trapped, hanging on the porch. That's me and Bird, my stuffed coyote, the blood dripping from the dead coon's nose. Ooooo la la. It didn't take long before I began hearing from my Euro buds. "You're brother's the toast of Paris!" To you or I the sight of Victoria Secret wing feathers may make our hearts go pitter pat, but the French eat this American hillbilly hunting crap up. Show 'em a gutted deer, or a couple of good 'ol boys in a pickup truck and they begin to sweat profusely in those tight leather pants. Merde!
Now with his new found fame, Bird has gotten a little full of himself. Just because he shot an eight and I got squat he thinks he's a deer hunting expert. He tells me to wash my clothes and shampoo my hair and beard with unscented soap, sight in my gun, put my stand in a different spot.... And if i have to hear the story of him shooting that deer one more time. Hell, let the French have him. The wind's beginning to die down. Guess I'll take a shower and hit the woods. I'm sure that famous brother of mine is sleeping in. Bon jour.


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