It was unusually quiet and still along the chalky dirt road where I had been throwing and chasing my one little rock. It was quiet enough today that all I could hear was the tick-tick-click when it landed and rolled in the distance, followed by the rhythmic swishing of my jeans brushing against my boots as I chased after my tumbling rock before it was forever lost. Quiet enough that I paused momentarily to feel the still silence in the warm air, where all around me, puffy bright clouds were growing fatter, painting themselves into the bluest of skies. This was one of God's days.
I always thought this is how it would be if the world ever ended, no warning or anything spectacular, just an odd peaceful silence, a deep breath, and then you blink into stardust.
I glanced up, squinting at a couple pairs of sleek, elegant doves sitting motionless on the droopy telephone lines above the railroad tracks that ran along our property just beyond the long fence line. There have always been doves on these lines for as long as I can remember. The train tracks sat higher up on an embankment that rose up and stood out in contrast against our empty, flat, long, rectangle hay and cornfields that butted up against them on either side. It looked like a levy or seawall of some kind. I was at the far corner end of our fields where the tracks were only at an arm's reach away from where I stood on the gravel road, or half a stone's throw, as I had come to know by throwing a million chalky rocks at the moving boxcars and crooked telephone poles all along the way.
There’s something uniquely special about railroad tracks that’s hard to define. As much time as we had spent as kids playing on those tracks, they always seemed to be this ominous, mysterious presence, isolated and detached from the normal world, and rightly so, as actually being the longest, narrow sliver of private property on earth. They sit high and Holy, undisturbed as if a throne. There was always an innate sense of caution when nearing them, a foreboding reminding us they are off limits, yet we are drawn to them by the uncertainty and risky adventure we search out – They have a lonely, solitary existence, preserved with an independent authority of permanence and unquestionable pure strength, somewhat like that of eagles that are admired and a little feared. We learned how to listen to the haunting echo of a distant whistle and soothing rhythmic click-clack of shifting cars, which I most paid attention to in the silence of night while tucked in my bed, listening for its far away ghostly existence.
The tracks, from where I now stood, were completely hidden from view by towering vines and deep brush along the fence that had clearly flourished over the summer, growing thick and wild as ever despite the long, endless weeks of heat and drought.
I couldn’t help but admire, in awe, the expanse of this myriad of giant weeds, with a billowing, flowery girth, that now seemed tame and harmless, bursting out in this pure, clean happy sunlight with its small chirping sparrows darting in and out in playful flutter, while butterflies and bees landed delicately on its wild white climbing roses. It was colorful, pretty, and fluffy, though I personally knew of it also as a much darker sanctuary, laying like a menacing evil lair, patiently in wait for anyone foolish enough to try and cross through its thick barrier of wild Mustang vine and sharp thistle that was really an endless weave of thin rope-like tendrils, that grew wild and stretched impenetrable along the fence line way past the sprawling fields of the Swift's Ranch, and way beyond our own, to as far as you could see until it stopped in the far distance just at the base of the high trestle bridge that loomed over the deep limestone creek bed above the sharp ravine below with its jagged rocky edges that halted a dead end to anything that tried to cross below.
Somewhere hidden along this stretch, there actually were a few hollowed places where a small army of us kids, in need of new forts, had spent long grueling sweaty hours and days, sunburned and battling ticks and mosquitoes, to tunnel hidden passages through the thicket, which by now had probably since grown over by the looks of it, but other than that, and even with several intense grass fires started by the grinding of steel wheels and bouncing of flint rocks thrown up from the speeding Am tracks, nothing seemed to pose a threat to this impressive willowy thriving beast that almost appeared unmarked and to breathe at times.
I gazed down at a few small faint scars still visible on my hands and another thin, long one that ran up past my elbow that I got when caught on the barbed wire that hides beneath this river of tangled web that twists and slithers down its center like a sharp rusty spine that had once bit into me like a sea of mad rattlesnakes.
Thinking about that day, I stopped, rock still in hand, not far past the very spot it had happened not so long ago. And though the world had not officially ended back on that day, and nor would it likely end today, it was, nonetheless, a day that had permanently changed and literally scarred part of me forever for the good and bad.
It had been more than a couple years back, much colder than now, on a brisk, uneventful day just after Christmas on those slow Winter days that follow with the empty, quiet lull of holidays passing. I remember it being wet and colder than usual, even for any Winter I could think of. It was a dull Sunday, as Sundays are, with my whole family dispersed in different rooms, all of us disengaged and bored. My father was half asleep in front of the TV that blared enthusiastic commentary of an unmemorable football game that earlier I had scoffed at watching with him. My mom could only annoy me that day, darting as usual like a bug around a light bulb, singing boisterously from room to room, busying herself while most likely picking up after us messy kids as she would remind us every chance she got.
Everything and everyone annoyed me. I had been in a restless fuss for a while now, hating life and everyone in it that day, which prompted me to make some escape. I kind of knew days before I was going to try and sneak out with a gun at some point, and the time just couldn't be better. I was in a fighting mood, but instead of any foot-stomping march out, I decided it better to leave the house in my own silent internal protest rather than challenge anyone with mutiny and a tantrum. So despite wanting to pick a fight with someone, I more or less cowardly crept out unnoticed except by my dog Lupe, whom I regretfully made stay behind as I slipped through the side door without question despite carrying the hefty double barrel shotgun that I had just gotten for Christmas.
Since the night before and the week leading up to that day, I knew I was waiting and would find the right time to sneak out to go hunting with my new gun. This seemed like the time to go, and regardless of it being a very dreary, cold, wet day outside, it was more inviting compared to being stuck in a lazy bitter feeling house, where tensions rose up and down, with exasperated words escaped and echoed from every room. It was senseless and relentless badgering that aggravated each other at times to the extent of provoking a nearly full-out war with no one to actually blame other than holiday cheer.
Once out that door, I walked briskly as fast as I could, and hopefully unseen, while dodging under the large oaks across our property until I finally reached the far backfields, where, without second hesitation, I bent and dipped quickly through the sagging fence wire, and stepped into the empty treeless pasture on the other side. I had hurried with anxious apprehension, expecting to be halted any second by some authoritative, commanding voice screaming my name, most likely my father. But all was still and quiet on the front so far and was almost far enough out of range to be heard, or so I would say. I was most surprised my dog hadn’t found a way out of the house. It’s rare for me to go anywhere without her, and I’m sure she was back at the house, confused and pacing up and down the hall and between rooms in a panic. I thought about letting her come with me, but even though Lupe was a big, strong German shepherd, she was in no way a hunting dog and was terrified of thunder, so there was no telling how she would be around a loud shotgun blast. I had never shot one around her, and I wasn't going to take the chance she just might run off and never come back after shooting this canon.
Once I was out in the open and clear of the oaks, I stopped for a breath and was mesmerized to watch a low fog come off the tree line and drift slowly over the landscape like a sheer veiled blanket of rolling smoke, an eerie wall of mist drifting toward me in a haunting wave of silence as I blew out puffs of frost.
There was a continuous cold, gray drizzle coming down that left everything gently dripping, including drops falling from the bill of my hat and the end of my cold gun barrel.
I panned in all directions for any sense of life, and other than a lone morning dove on a distant line, it was depressing and lifeless, where nothing much stirred except for a few random sparrows that would swoop and dip and then instantly disappear into the white fog. I listened for the distinct, familiar sound of bobwhites calling out their names, but other than my own smokey breath, there was only an eerie calm and the ruffle of a steady light rain.
As gloomy as it was, though, I was intent on making my way over to the railroad tracks, where I figured I would have my best luck, if any, at hunting anything other than field mice. It didn’t take more than the first step before I realized this was going to be a lot less promising and a more laborious endeavor than expected as my foot immediately sank deep into thick, soft mud almost halfway up my boot. I sighed with my growing displeasure, already feeling a rising regret from the get-go. The last thing I anticipated was getting this dirty, but I should have foreseen it. I knew from experience that these fields could become mudflats when there's no growth on them. I had once, while mowing in this exact field, halfway sunk a tractor out here that had huge five-foot tires on it, and that was on a dry day.
I continued on into the field anyway, despite my waning mood. I was not about to go back home, even if for my own pride. It was apparent that the only way through here was to maneuver with calculated, slow, hesitating, and tentative steps, which was counterproductive to hunting because my focus was now only on the ground at my feet, where it was doubtful I could spot any wildlife or migrating foul.
It was colder than I thought it would be. Not having gloves on, I held the gun clenched to my side, tucking the heavy stock under my arm while warming my hands deep in my pockets. This was about the time I would usually pull out a cigarette I kept hidden in my sock, but it was too much of an added balancing task for the moment, and I would risk dropping my gun into the mud. The weighted barrel was slumped downward, swaying me side to side as I tried to walk. It was just too cold for me to sling it over my shoulder, And being that no one in my family was a hunter, I had no proper hunting attire except for the thin khaki vest I wore underneath my coat that held the shiny new red shotgun shells lined in a single row inside their small elastic bands that I could feel pressed up against my ribs.
It was obvious I didn’t quite know what I was doing and had no real thought-out plans other than the desire to shoot my gun if even that. I really just wanted some space and was more looking for an escape from a brooding, angry sadness that clung to me like a wet blanket. I needed to shake it loose any way I could, even if to fight, kick, and scream out here with nature, although for the moment, it seemed like I was losing.
I didn’t even know what I was hunting for, anything or nothing. I never really even hunted in the first place other than, at times, not knowing any better, when we would shoot at frogs and lizards and a few birds with our BB guns. I knew it was still dove and quail season, as did everyone, and maybe even deer season for all I knew. I never shot a deer, and most of the deer from around here were all but gone, and I doubt I could shoot a deer anyway. It didn't make sense that I could shoot a rabbit, bird, or mouse if a life is a life. For some reason, it is easier to imagine shooting something smaller, like a dumb bird. Then, there were those around here who took hunting as seriously as if it was in their DNA. It was a macho orgy where they believed all should take part in killing something, and it was a God-given right they defended with such fury as if it's a patriotic and religious duty, having contempt for the sacrilegious communist that oppose them. And it's not that I was ever against hunting, it just didn’t flow in my veins that way. Same as I didn't like watching football with my daddy.
The few times we would take out our 22 rifles or pellet and BB gun, it would be to shoot cans and bottles off fence posts or water moccasins surfacing in our spring well just beyond our house, and though all of us boys were good enough shots to be recruited one day by any military as marksmen and snipers that could split a piece of bailing-wire or send a tin can flying in the air from 50 yards without a scope, we rarely shot at anything moving. We shot at each other at times with our BB guns. We all had bows, guns, knives, machetes, hatchets, axes, and even bullwhips from the time we could ride a bike, but so did every other kid around here. Most arsenals came from the same 'Army, Navy store,' where you could even buy a bazooka in the day if you thought you needed one, but often, the less than proud extent of shooting anything living around here was limited to armadillos so they wouldn’t dig holes on your property that livestock could stumble and break a leg in. I'm not sure if clearing armadillos quite qualifies as a heroic right of passage, though.
The oiled, blue steel barrel had beaded up in the rain but still looked dull, even while wet, compared to how shiny it had looked coming out of its sheep-lined case on the day I got it. I had already polished, oiled, and cleaned it a dozen times, although it had yet to be fired. The stock was a beautiful carved solid maple with a lacquered finish, and the silvery blue barrel was delicately trimmed and engraved in a scrolled inlay and with a tiny little brass bead sight at its tip. I was excited, yet reluctant to shoot it, knowing it was way too much gun for me-maybe too much gun for anybody. It was an extra long double barrel side-by-side 12 gauge with dual triggers and full choke. It was a canon of sorts- almost an elephant gun (as my dad claimed) with only a sliver of a rubber shoulder pad to absorb the impact from its powerful recoil. You didn’t need to be told it wasn’t a toy. Once it was in your hands, the surprisingly incredible weight of the heavy steel alone gave way to caution, feeling a little scary and dangerous as opposed to the flimsy toy-like BB guns with their thin, tinny frame.
As pretty as this shotgun was, it was, strangely, an odd, if not questionable, gift and somewhat unexpected. My Dad, being the most liberal, political, somewhat radical hippie type I knew, this big present just added to his long list of offbeat contradictions. Clearly, an internal battle he was having between his southern German Irish Catholic upbringing where he honed (by my grandfather's stern hand) his country skills as a kid on Tennessee and Kansas farms before breaking away and reshaping into his intellectual alter ego that waged his liberal war against civil liberties and human rights across half the South. Truth is, he most likely just got taken by a good salesman, being convinced he got a great deal while not really having a clue to what he was buying.
I kept moving with my best effort, laboriously plowing my feet in the direction of the tracks, but after what seemed like an eternity of drudgery, I realized I had barely made it through only a quarter of this long 5-acre pasture.
The field all around me was an ocean of wet, thick buffalo grass and dried winter fescue that sucked my boots down into the muddy underneath of dead cornstalks gripping me in a place like bear traps. With each step, the mud clots grew so thick and heavy on my boots that I could, at times, barely lift my legs from the weight, and the clay soil made it almost impossible to shake or scrape off once I pulled them free.
At one point, I actually got stuck with me teetering helplessly, trying not to fall. It was a little frightening, and for a moment, I was so immobilized to the point that I actually started to panic and wondered if I was going to be left there foolishly screaming for help. It was one of those instances that at any other time, and if I had been there with a companion, we would most likely be hysterically falling down laughing at each other but being alone, it was chilling and lonely. I stood there awkwardly helpless, balancing with this oversized gun that should have made me feel more like a man but instead made me look small and weak and wish I was home watching football with my father.
It was a sad sight as I violently struggled like a drunk to free myself-disturbing any tranquility surrounding me. This was not working out like I expected- whatever that was.
It wasn’t like I had channeled the bold hunter in me, tracking or stalking prey in the wilderness. Instead, I was trudging miserably, lacking any grace, and must have seemed harmless even with this canon in my hands. I’m sure the scarce wildlife was laughing and mocking me from their grassy refuges. It was clearly obvious I had no passion for hunting and never did and should abort this whole idea. I really did want to shoot my gun, agitating a thrilling, eager impatience in me, the element and passion for danger and uncertainty, but at the same time, I don't think I was cut out to kill anything.
I was only out here because I had no better place to be. There was no primal passion running in my veins, and I was vulnerable to my own fears and insecurities with nothing to hide behind.
I, for the life of me, didn’t know why I was feeling so angry, why my house was so angry, and now even the ground under my feet was literally giving way. I for sure wasn’t finding the answers I was looking for and looked damn silly trying to be something I'm not.
I brushed the water off my face and shoulders and could have easily cried in defeat at that point, but I was determined to keep going and would stay out here as long as I could, which, laughably, wasn’t saying much considering that I was really only minutes from my house that was barely out of sight. But first things first, and if I was going to get anywhere other than stuck, I decided it was best to move away from the center and over to the perimeter fence line, which was flanked with scraggly persimmon trees where I should have known from the beginning it would be a little dryer at the root base above this sunken wasteland. A hint of late sun peeked and glowed from somewhere in the fog but didn’t make it any warmer, yet it did give some promise of stopping this relentless drizzle. It was just enough to make me take a second breath and refocus.
I changed direction by successfully taking large stretching side steps and soon enough, without too much trouble, made it over to the scruffy, straggled tree line that led all the way down to the tracks, and although it wouldn’t provide much shelter for me, it was now easy enough to walk and most likely also used as a rabbit-run path that leads to the safety of the outlying hedge and thistle.
I breathed a small sigh of relief and claimed this as my new starting point. If I was lucky, I might even flush a couple quail along the way that might happen to be feeding on persimmons and leftover winter corn. The only dove around was the same lone one still on the line from when I got here, which I contemplated firing at and calling it a day, knowing I would never hit it from this far anyway. As powerful as this gun was, it was only good for about forty yards before the bird shot spread too far to hit anything, but up close, it could knock a small tree down or blow a hole in a wall you could walk through.
Being out here with so little sign of life made me wonder how it was that my Dad and his friends and the neighbors could go dove hunting in the sunflower patches and come back with literally large piles of countless doves that they dumped out of over-stuffed vests. I can never forget the times they would have us kids spending whole evenings and late into the night, plucking, twisting, and pulling off heads and then thumb breasting and gutting these tiny birds over a trashcan until our knuckles would bleed, and here I can't even find a single fly to swat.
I looked up, hearing the familiar sound of a lumbering freight train approaching from the North, and that’s when I caught my first hopeful glimpse of life stirring just about halfway down the row of trees in front of me. I could tell it was most likely a cottontail by its movement and was clearly too small to be a jackrabbit. I always knew there were rabbits here. You could always see them year-round from the road, especially in the spring when everything is in bloom. We had numerous failed attempts at trying to catch them the old-fashioned way with a box propped up by a stick with a carrot attached to it, like in the cartoons. Even with this cold spell, I guess it wasn’t cold enough for them to hole up in a burrow, and I had figured, if lucky, there might be a few out and about.
I watched intently up ahead, seeing if it would take off for the cover in the hedge with the train now approaching. I could tell just how close the train was getting. The first sound you hear, well in advance, when the train is still away in the far distance, is the high-pitched metallic hum, buzzing and clinking of the rails themselves as far as a mile ahead of the train that ping, snap, and pop like a steel bullwhip. You can almost gauge the speed by this echo. We used to love playing Indians, putting our ears to the rails, and listening for a train that was nowhere in sight.
As luck would now have it, I could not have timed the arrival better. Something was bound to spook and flush out into the open, and I was poised in the right spot with both barrels loaded.
The nervous anticipation was almost enough to make me turn back home. I was jittery as the train got closer. I tucked myself tight against the trees, hiding my gun while waiting for the lead engine to pass. I felt a little cheerful as it neared. This closeup, these freights are dizzying in size with an impressive, monstrous presence of towering and swaying cars and a thousand wheels, grinding a symphony of moving steel that starts with the churning engines' hollow deep drone followed by the steady click clack of rattling and thumping, mixed and faded by the deafening screech and groan of hydraulic brakes. It's a thousand different parts in a continuous mile of a stretched-out steel fortress of box cars, tanker cars, open coal tops, auto carriers, and grainer’s, all laden with different goods going to some mystery destination, followed and pushed by the happy little caboose. We had come to know most of the freights by name. There was the Union Pacific, The Santa Fe, the Northern Pacific, the Kansas City Southern, and mostly on this main line was the Missouri Pacific (Mopac), so common around here that they were even starting to build west of downtown a new highway named after it.
As soon as I stepped out from the cover of the trees, there it was, a small cotton-tail rabbit directly in front of me, scurrying down the trail lightning fast but still too far away and hugging too close to the trees for me to get a shot off at it. I could feel my heart beating faster the closer I got. I knew any second, the rabbit would break away sideways. My dog Lupe and I used to chase them for fun, and they always did the same thing. At first, rabbits will freeze, and sometimes, without realizing it, you might even walk right up on top of them without knowing it, but once they knew you spotted them, they would take off running straight and fast for a short distance before zigzagging the exact same way every-time.
It spotted me. I saw the dirt kick up as it bolted sideways like I expected and then back the other way. It was still far enough away that I was sure it would hole up before I got there. It made one more sweeping jolt before high tailing to the hedge, where it paused, frozen for a second as unsure of the giant train as it was of me, and then, in the blink of an eye, darted into the thicket just like in the “Briar Rabbit” story.
I got there just in time to wave sheepishly at the passing caboose, wondering if the engineer even questioned someone out here carrying a big gun, although I bet it’s a common sight, even if a bit disconcerting. He waved back without care, sounding his whistle a couple times in approval before fading slowly out of sight. I was glad this train was somewhat fast and relatively shorter than most. I have been out here when a mile of over 150 cars blow through here with seemingly no end in sight, taking forever to pass. I always wonder how it’s even possible for these things to stay upright, with sometimes each car looking as if it's leaning to the point of tipping the whole thing over and off its slender wheelbase.
I was a little disappointed but relieved that the rabbit ditched me. I could be satisfied that there had been just enough excitement already to forget how bad I had been feeling, and I felt the relief warmly flow over me. The lust was lost on a prayer and a desire to really go back home, regardless of admittedly being rebellious at any given window of opportunity, but once it passes, I'm kind of empty and missing my dumb brothers.
That stupid dove was still on the line, and I was now close enough to shoot at it, but I even left it alone. And besides, it’s against the law to shoot them on a high wire, which I’m not sure if that’s written as a sporting law, or so you don’t blow a line in half and knock out telephone service or electricity in half the county.
I figured I would head on back even if I still hadn’t taken a single shot. I decided I was going to just shoot it in the air to see what it was like. First, though, before I shot, and since I had come this far, I had to take a peak inside this huge hedge even though I was pretty wet and all but done with this place by this time. It was starting to rain even harder, but curiosity got the better of me, and what could another minute hurt?
I inched my way up and leaned close enough to get a glimpse inside the cavernous, dark, camouflaged mesh of vines and leaves. I couldn’t see anything but could hear leafy scurrying. I backed away timidly, getting a fright all of a sudden, fearing the possibility of walking into a pile of rattlesnakes that we had heard stories of dens around here with big fat six-footers being pulled out of, and where there are rabbits or mice and small birds, there’s going to be snakes.
I felt myself getting cautious and jumpy, and just as I cowered back, I was instantly startled when a rabbit that I must have spooked popped out on the other side. I watched as it scampered halfway up the embankment leading up to the tracks before it stopped and stood frozen in place like rabbits do.
I was now shifted into a state of instant, nervous confusion in the face of this new situation that now presented itself right before me- it was almost too easy. I was dumbfounded and bewildered. I froze, just like the rabbit. We might have been staring at each other. What was I going to do now? I waited for it to take off, but it just sat, not moving a hair, so I instinctively raised my gun and then put it down again, thinking it would for sure run when I moved. I kept hearing myself say rapidly over and over in my head, “What do I do, what do I do”? I could just blast up in the air. I felt my fingers on the cold trigger and slid off the safety with my thumb and then just stood pointing this gun for what seemed like the longest time. I could feel myself shaking from the cold and adrenaline. I quickly went through a dozen rapid, indecisive scenarios and possibilities in my head. If I shot at it, I don’t think there would be much chance of hitting it anyway with as much brush as there was in the way, but I just didn’t know for sure. It was now or never. I kept pointing in the general direction and probably even closed my eyes. I had lost all my nerve-if I had any, to begin with.
It was an unlikely, even impossible, shot, I thought as I shuddered, but like that, I pulled the trigger anyway, shooting blindly into the hill.
To my surprise, it was a mind-blowing, astounding shock to all my senses. I was instantly blindsided hard and was in no way prepared for the sheer force and earth-shattering and world-deafening blast of power and thundering BOOM that sent me reeling backward, causing me to scream out in intense pain as the kickback from the recoil slammed into my shoulder like sled hammer knocking me flat on my ass. A mule might as well have kicked me through a barn wall. I had never felt that kind of violent brute force or pain in my life, and I was sure my shoulder was broken.
I forgot everything for a brief moment. I lay there shaken and dazed, but regretfully, before I could even gain back my focus, I looked in dismay just in time to frightfully see the rabbit spring straight up into the air doing a spinning full cartwheel so high I could still hear the echo of the gun blast bouncing around in the canyon walls of the creek hollow before the rabbit even fell back and hit the ground. I was more shattered from witnessing this than my shoulder ever could be.
“NO, NO, NO! What did I do? What did I do?” My voice escalated as I heard myself yelling this out loud, still hoping I didn’t hit it, but certain I had even though I watched him land and bolt out of sight just over the hill. Maybe I just grazed him, I thought. He took off awfully fast to be hurt too bad.
I moaned, getting up. My shoulder and arm hung limp, and I used the gun to steady myself back on my feet, and without a thought, I rushed into the heart of the thicket, where I was immediately slapped hard in the face. Bushy limbs lashed at my face and eyes like whips as I plowed headfirst into it like a linebacker using a gun for a battering ram. The bow-like sinewy branches only bent to the ground, causing me to fall forward-pulling me with them deeper in this tangled web. I pulled myself up fighting the snapping twigs that were poking me like small spears from every direction. My legs were ensnarled, stuck painfully pinched between small saplings that got tighter as I tried to move forward. I raged and kicked and screamed with all my might. There was no way I couldn’t get through here. I reached for the gun that had been ripped from my hands. It really was as if this thing were alive and devouring me. I began to panic and believe I could be left here tangled up for dead. Breathing hard and sweating, I lunged hard and upward, straining to try and get above the willowy thin top, but then I felt this sharp stabbing pain in my hand. I couldn’t even see the barbed wire that sliced into my palm. I grabbed and squeezed my wound, fearing it worse than it was. I was now in full panic. Panting, I searched for a way out. I decided I would go up over the top of the wire. I held onto the gun, knowing if I dropped it, it would sink down into the underbrush, and I might not ever get it back. I searched and grabbed the top wire with one hand, the other holding the gun, and then I stepped on the middle wire, pushing with all my might to lift up through this jungle that pushed and fought back with its full force and bulk pressing down on my back. But as soon as I stood tall- almost roaring in triumphant agony clearing my head above, my foot slipped out from under me on the wet slick wire, slinging me off balance with the weight of the gun reeling me over, and with no way to grab hold, I spun sideways into the rusty steel post that tore into my flesh from my wrist up to my elbow sliding under my coat and hanging me there like a tattered scarecrow. I was now enraged more than scared. I grabbed the post hard, sunk and clipped both my heals secure on the wire before lifting and prying upward and then viciously, like a wild bull out of a shoot, brazenly, I ferociously dove forward, heedless and blind with my head guarded and tucked. I crashed and fell through to the other side, twisting my body like a mean tornado, all the while viciously yanking the gun behind me last. I fell again and lay now out in the open, drenched, scraped, and beaten on every part of my body.
This onslaught was not over yet. I quickly got on my feet, but though I was through to the other side of the thicket, I now had to jump the water-filled ditch, running along the base of the hill to get on the tracks. I misjudged my jump, sinking knee deep into the marshy growth and nearly face planted into the slope that my chest and hands lay slammed against while still holding onto my gun with its barrel end sunk and packed with mud. I forcibly pulled myself up and out, gripping onto the long sharp Johnson grass.
Once up, I couldn’t slow down, I still had to make it up the steep embankment, which had not been kept up by the railroad in years and was covered by the dry thick thistle and sharp spiny hogweed, hooked cockleburs, and mostly the towering eight-foot ambrosia stalks we used to uproot and throw like spears hurling their mud tips in the air. I scraped my way upward, breaking through the coarse hairy stalks like a madman, snapping and trampling them like twigs.
Once on top, not slowing for a second, I took a running leap, trying to clear the width of the track bed, only to clip my heel, sending the gun flying in the air and crashing solidly into the far rail while my knees drove hard down into the sharp granite ballast and railroad ties only to slip twice more on the rain-slick creosote oiled ties. The steel rail was freezing cold, wet, and rusty, that I pulled myself up in an attempt to crawl on hands and knees to the other side.
Coming up the hill, I had already seen small tufts of fur and blood and more now visible on the rocks and rails.
Thankfully, there was almost no slope on this side, and it didn’t take me a moment to spot the wounded rabbit. I quickly slid down the loose scree of coal and rock and hastily hurtled the gully, clearing it this time by a long shot.
I was out of breath and hurting with bleeding, splinter-riddled hands, and deep cuts on my arms, but all I could feel was the panic and horrible pangs of guilt, fearing the truth and wanting to turn and run, pretending it never happened. I had hoped he had run away, but it was lying there in front of me, mortally wounded. As I approached, it let out a high-pitched shrill in fear while lying on its side frantically kicking with its back legs, trying to escape, but only desperately sliding inches in a half circle, leaving a glistening streak of crimson red blood on the wet grass. The reality was upon me with a weight of sadness I could not have ever imagined. I didn’t even know rabbits made sounds, and now it was a sound I would never forget.
What had I done and why? I cried and cursed as I fell to my knees to pick up the wounded rabbit. My heart was in my throat. To no avail, I had been bargaining with God the moment I pulled the trigger.
He was much smaller than I thought, a little more than just a baby. Everything intensified and became vivid and magnified, lucid and so real. I could see clearly everything that had been precious and beautiful. I stared through the gray-tipped fur with its fluffy white undercoat against the warm pink flesh, where I could even see the tiny, delicate, blue veins under the translucent skin. Beads of cold dripped off the little black nose that snorted out puffs of frosty vapors. I watched its bottom jaw softly quiver, and I could see the tips of two small top teeth each time the mouth opened with a gasp for air. The ears were so delicate and pulled back in fear, blending into the fur. I held his legs from kicking; the tiny nails were sharp, and the paw pads were velvety soft. I could still feel his heart racing. The blood was warm on my hands. Little wispy balls of fur were sticking to me and blowing away in the faint breeze. I screamed as loud as I could to God and no one.
The small rabbit fixed its stare on me. They held no contempt-just confusion. Its innocence was as precious as heaven itself. Scared and alone, we were as one.
I saved any wrenching self plea i might make to God. I was here in all of mother natures Glory and strength that I could feel looking me dead in the eye with judgement and pitying condemnation of my soul. It was too late for me to plead or beg. I couldn't take this back. I could only cry shaking my head in deep disbelief and sorrow.
It was just a stupid rabbit i tried to tell myself. I now knew what real cruelty looked like. "Come on", I kept fighting,”it’s just a rabbit for Gods sake”. I was seeing the thing I hate the most in anyone. I was making deals with my conscious and begging to turn back time after the fact.
Was it curiosity? What was my cruel pathetic excuse now? My sad self-absorbed pity that thought the universe, God and my family was mounting an assault on me? So damn stupid! I was no victim and this was senseless and mean. It’s now dying painfully in my hands but all I am aware of is my own fragile mortality as if I sacrificed this poor thing to find my soul and it’s pain. A shameful means to any end and an awareness of perhaps all of our arrogant, selfish and pointless desires. And now, to make things worse, I have to even finish it off before it suffers more. Or was I even too weak in my own suffering to stop its suffering? I didn't know if i could.
I was left with no choice. I got up to go retrieve the gun. There was no way I could crush it or break its neck with my hands so i was going to have to cowardly shoot it again. Then just as I stood up, it was as if in an ironic sad twist of fate happened, I was given a small gift of forgiveness if not mercy, when its tiny heart stopped beating while still holding it.
Life as I knew it had also drained away from me as I placed him gently on the only patch of green grass I could find. I didn't feel welcomed to give any ceremonial ritual, so I shamefully turned without looking back and climbed up to the track.
I was beyond exhaustion and never looked so broken and battered. I winced when I saw the condition my new gun. I would pay heavily for that.
I decided to walk the extra half-mile up to the blacktop at the crossing and then back onto our dirt road. Sometimes the long way is the fastest way home.
It was just at that moment I looked out below and across the fields where I could hear the familiar barking of my dog Lupe. I stood and watched her running at full blinding speed in my direction as if floating over the mud fields. Tears welled up in my eyes at the sight of her running to my rescue, running as though she heard me cry out in need....
That dreary awful day now seemed like a lifetime ago. The small scars on my hands are now almost as faded as that day, forever a gentle reminder of the fragile world in which we live. I brushed off the pearly chalk on my hands and pocketed my rock. It was a beautiful, warm day. Before walking on, I waved a humble salute to the row of silky doves that were watching. I felt joyous. It was a perfect day. So perfect, it just might end.
