Phil's Hunt
In the heat of the day, when all of the
Dan, Phil and Ken were ready with the dogs, the group headed from the ranch out
into the open wilderness. The heat was exhausting, but the men and the dogs were
ready and paid no heed to the needling sun’s rays. Born to hunt, the dogs were
alive with the fever of the boar. Harnessed, they sat still in their crates,
their heads bobbing with the motion of the truck and four-wheeler. Then they
stopped along a road banking some thicket and briar. The dogs stirred in their
cages and the heat pounded down ominously on the group, the men and their dogs.
There was nothing but the stillness of the day, the shimmering distortion of the
hot air on the road and on the terrain. Hog country swelled up, honing in on the
party with eager closeness. The dogs were ready; the men were ready.
“Here’s where we release the dogs.” Yelled Dan. His words came slowly to the ears of the hunters as they curiously panned the horizon. Their eye’s straining to see movement through the thicket; to catch a glimpse of the wild ravenous beast that lurk just beyond their ability to decipher brindle briar from stiff, hot, hog hair. But the words were fast, Dan barked commands and the dogs heard it. Sharing the same language, they followed Dan's commands and were released. No longer were they dogs, they were warriors. They charged through the dense land, weaving and ducking but never letting go of the scent that lingered from the boar that had once lagged through the hot heat, permeating the air with it’s wicked stench.
The men stood by in waiting. The time was still but the moments were counted as they listened, straining their will to hear. The dogs cracked through the dry foliage that carpeted the floor and hung like drapes on the walls of thicket. Before long their ears picked up on the loosening of the brush. In the distance, the movement was heard gently. The rhythm began to cultivate a horrid rustle that made the men move in unison to a common place of view. At best guess Dan said, “Here, the dogs are back. They circled around.” In agreement, because the options that lingered in their thoughts were too much to face. The boars that secretly surrounded them, lingered just beyond…
“Yep, it’s the dogs.” Ken agreed. Then Phil, the one with duty and the knife yielded at his hip said, “The dogs have been following an old scent.” The men all nodded, still their eyes refused to hear their words and never left the direction of the growing crashing. “Probably hasn’t been a hog here in a while. We’ll gather the dogs and move further down the land.” The men nodded, again, without admission of their fears. Their eyes and ears, seeing and hearing, the approaching mythical beast. Ahead of the men and the dogs that stayed bound to their owners by their leashes, about 20 feet from the men a beast arose from the wild. A particularly nasty boar crossed in front of them and the dogs. The dogs leaped, twisting in their harnesses, begging to be released, the smell of the hog in their noses; with the taste on their lips they licked their chops. The men stood still and watched as the beast crossed the road and went down into the brush on the opposite side. Then all was still.
Shortly there after, when they had relaxed, yet, still perplexed by the nasty boar. Dan commented, “I know this old boar. He’s been all over this country, chased on hunts. He’s a nasty one and hard to get.” He gets himself into the tightest, thickest patches of briar and swims through murky, stale sloughs to get away and shed his sent. But with the night casting slowly down up on the men, the dogs dim barks were heard in the distance. Before long, they heard another rustle from the wild. Head down, nose to the ground and without missing a beat, Gunner, an experienced chase dog was hot on his trail. He was focused and concentrated, the image of the hog dancing in his head, he clenched his teeth with anticipation. Relieved to know the hunt was still on, the men waited patiently. The dogs in the distance followed the boar for miles, rehashing old terrain, as the mean old boar would double back over previous ground, his scent refreshing and mulling itself in the old, decaying scent of previous treks. The tracking collar was invaluable, always telling the men where the boar and the Gunner played their hostile game. Then from the distance, the word came clear for the men to move. They found the bay, and with the catch dogs ready, they pressed forward willing to make their hunt, aware that a beast lay beyond.
Opening into the sight of the bay, the presence of the imminent attack was packaged in with the fevered and furious guttural grunting from the nasty boar. The dogs howled and barked, their eyes fixated on their target, their tails moving playfully toward their game. The time had come. Yet, the men could not see the boar, they followed the dogs and found that the crotchety beast had borrowed itself into the most prickly bush in Texas. Without hesitation, the dogs had locked him in. For the boar, there was nothing left but to wait for certain battle.
The catch dogs were released and the end was fading in on the wild boar. His grunting grew more rapid and reverberated through the dense burrow. The men had released their most serious and precious weapon. Diamond, the toughest most serious catch dog, her beady pit bull eyes shown icy black in the faded daylight, and her partner in crime and punishment, Boogie. They two dogs zeroed in, and grabbed hold of the boar in the den. Each dog took the initiative and burrowed their way to the boar from opposite ends. There was no escape.
The men signaled to Phil. “Now!” They shouted. The commands barked
with the dogs, and smoothly and symphonic, Phil entered the lair and
plunged his weapon into the pig. The dogs unruly and refusing to
release their pray. The men pulled out the kill, dogs attached, and
the heat of the night droned upon them. Their prey lay before them
on the ground, the angry eyes of the boar shiny and mean. The night
was black and their insects swarmed like storm clouds around the
group. The men tied up the dogs, knowing that Gunner was soon to be
off into the wild to track again. Exhausted and hot, but alive and
thrilled from the hunt, the men drug the trophy away. The dogs were
returned to their places of rest, and in their dreams they hunted.
