It is dark and cold and drizzling. Papaw and Gary let us come hunting with them, and we have camouflage overalls zipped up to our necks. Papaw has a flashlight on his belt and on his hat. They are carrying shot guns slung across their backs. The dogs are straining on their leashes, whining and barking. They know what's coming.
They pull the dogs close and soothe them for a minute. “Shhhh, girl. Shhh,” the grown men coo, petting the dogs' heads and trying to get a grasp on the leash latch, trying to let the dogs run free. “Go get ‘em, boys! Go on!” The dogs take off with a yelp and we hear them from what seems like miles away, barking and scratching and treeing animals we can’t see in the dark.
Gary shines his flashlight up into the tree. Big, eerie glowing eyes stare down at us from a tree branch. It’s an opossum or a raccoon. The dogs are going crazy at the base of the tree. They jump up on their hind legs and paw at the tree trunk, like they would climb right on up the tree if they could just get a good grip. Their tales are swinging so violently, and they thump each other on the backs and butts, excited beyond belief.
But it is so dark and cold and wet. My legs hurt and my eyes are heavy and I just want to be warm. Why is this taking so long? How long do we have to stay out here? Papaw, can we go back in now?
When Papaw shoots a squirrel, he lets me carry it back down the hill to the yard. It is limp and warm and so much heavier than I thought it would be. I carry it by the back legs, clenching my fingers to hold its unexpected weight. Suddenly, I feel a pulse, a heartbeat. I feel it against my thumb. I fling the squirrel to the ground.
“Papaw! It’s alive! I felt its heartbeat!” I holler.
“No, no. That’s just your own heartbeat. You can feel it in your thumb.”
“No! It’s alive!”
“Here. Press your thumb and your first finger together really hard. There, just like that. Do you feel it? Is that what it felt like?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Do you feel how slow it is? If it was the squirrel, it would be beating really really fast. “
I’m not quite convinced that the squirrel is dead, but I trust Papaw, so I hold it very gingerly between my thumb and first finger, just like he said. I have to press hard, though, because it is so heavy. I can feel the heartbeat again, but its slow like he said.
Back in the yard, he starts to skin it. I hold the squirrel, one foot in each hand. It's hanging upside down, spread-eagled. Papaw takes out his knife and runs it right along the center of the squirrel’s belly. I can feel the skin and muscles and tendons give way, the legs spread farther and farther apart in my hands. He pulls the guts out.
This is so cool.
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