A Saga Of Death And Love Of Animals From The Hills

A neighbor boy whose family was much more into hunting wild game than I, had been given a beautiful pump shot gun by someone in his family. He also had a banker cousin which was an avid bird hunter and who purchased a Llewellyn Setter puppy which was reputed to be one of the finest lines of bird dogs available. Together, the cousin, my friend and his father trained that dog to be an excellent bird dog. But, my friend and his father who were keeping and training the dog for the city dude cousin, also taught him to be an expert squirrel dog. The only dog I think I ever knew which excelled in both those jobs. To be an expert bird dog, they must let nothing take their mind off their work. To tree squirrels is a more natural preference for any dog. Old Mack, the Llewellyn, when taken to the open field concentrated totally on birds. But take him to a wooded area and he became an outstanding squirrel dog.

Since I was not a shotgun enthusiast, I never participated in their bird hunting. But my friend and I started hunting squirrels together when I was around 16 years old…I with my rifle and my friend with his shotgun. To shoot a squirrel with a shotgun normally tore them up badly. So when old Mack would tree a squirrel, it was my place to try and get in a vantage point to shoot him with my rifle, but if he started scurrying through the branches from one tree to another, my friend would take him down with his shotgun. When a dog trees a squirrel, the squirrel will climb high on the tree trunk and wisely keep himself on the opposite side from the dog or any person who comes up, or any noise he hears. So I would position myself on one side and my friend would go to the opposite side and shake a bush or something. Almost without fail, the squirrel would come to my side and I would shoot him through the head, which was about the size of a black walnut. It worked well and we took many squirrels.

I have told you this long story to get to the main gist of my article. I remember the first squirrel I killed. He was spread-eagled on the trunk of the tree and when the bullet pierced his head, He quivered a few seconds and then came tumbling down through the branches. I never had such a pang of conscience in my life! I was raised on a farm where killing animals was a means of survival. I had even watched my pet calves be slaughtered when they were grown into beef size. I had eaten many squirrels and rabbits, etc. but there was a difference here. I was so emotional I was shaking. I told my friend I did not think I could do this. But he assured me that I'd get over it and become used to it.

So rather than appear a weakling to my peers, I continued to squirrel hunt with my friend several times per year for perhaps 2 or 3 years. And he was partially right. I did get used to it to a degree but every time I shot one and watched him react much as the first one, I continued to get that weak and sad feeling. And I would go home remembering how they looked before they fell. So I finally decided to stop my hunting, regardless of what my peers thought. And I did.

It has fallen my lot to have to kill several animals in my lifetime and I can remember almost all of them until this day. My mother used to give me a chicken and ask me to take it to the chopping block and chop off it's head. I always did, but I always hated to do it…bad. I found one occasion when I believe my dad had such a problem as I did although you would never know it. He was the type man who, if he had a responsibility to do something, he would do it. And there were many unpleasant jobs to be done when raising animals for food in the years following the "great depression". We always killed at least 3 hogs and one steer each early winter and cured the meat for food the following year. There is an art to killing a hog the easiest and least painful way for him. There is a point midway between his eyes and just slightly above them, where a .22 rifle bullet will knock him down and unconscious when you then must cut his jugular veins to bleed him freely. My dad was quite good at doing it with no problems. But one day, he missed the exact point with the rifle bullet and the hog went wild but could not run. Dad became so nervous that he had to give me the rifle to finish the job. I did but then we were both about shot for the day.

It has been a long time since I've had to kill any animal, although a cat ran underneath my car a year or so ago and I am quite sure that I killed it even though it was night time and I could not get off the road to see. My life on the farm with all manner of domestic animals and wildlife instilled some sort of a love for them which is difficult to explain. I have witnessed enough of many different types of animals deaths to know that none of them want to die. And I believe it is a feeling of guilt on my part which makes me feel so badly when I do take one's life. I have owned a great many dogs, some of whom were frightened when it thunders and would come to me for assurance. It always made me feel so good to hug them and speak soothingly to them and I could tell they were relaxing somewhat.

Deer have become so plentiful that they are a nuisance to farmers and people are encouraged to hunt them around here. I couldn't shoot one of those beautiful and harmless animals if I was asked to. I cannot even imagine anyone driving around with one tied over the hood of their truck or something acting as if they had accomplished something great. So what if you were able to hide yourself until one of these wonderful creatures wandered into your shooting range and you put a bullet through it's heart? What does that prove?

Love is a reciprocal thing. Most animals I have ever been around for a while, seem to learn to love me and respect me. That is the way our farm animals felt toward me I think, and that apparently instilled the love I had for them. Most domesticated animals, especially dogs, have the ability to sense things that humans cannot. Most wild animals are responsive to love and tenderness from humans or other animals. Though some have inbred natural traits which make them undependable pets. Wild squirrels for instance, can be raised from birth by hand and will be very comfortable around humans and normally completely harmless when young. However, as they age for unknown reasons, they sometimes may suddenly and violently attack their human benefactors.

In April, 2000, a cat destroyed a House Finch nest under the eave of our porch roof. We found it and was about to throw it into the garbage when we found a little naked red skinned bird which was not over an inch long, looked like a red worm, eyes not opened and appeared to be dead. Our oldest daughter has had training and experience in rescue and treatment of injured or sick wild animals, so we called her. She came and took the little worm and expressed doubt that it would live. But she only gave it a drop of water frequently for 24 hours and then started giving minute amounts of a formula she had in her possession. She fed it lightly every 2 hours night and day for the next couple or three days and then she brought it back to us. You would never believe the transformation that had taken place. She was covered in what looked like hair and was sitting up with her mouth wide open waiting for food. Our daughter left us formula and instructions and within a week or ten days, she was feathered out and looking beautiful. We planned to raise her to the point of being able to fly and then release her. But by that time, she was so attached to us and we to her, we were afraid she would not make it on her own. So we raised her and she grew up to feel as if she was human. I named her "Little Bit". She would scold me when I sneezed. Sing to me when she was fed and content. I had always loved animals but to fall for a little old beautiful songbird never crossed my mind. But I never enjoyed anything more in my entire life. They reportedly do not live more than 3 to 4 years in the wild, but "Little Bit" lived to be six before she died about 2 years ago. She never heard a House Finch sing. But she could sing their song just as beautifully as any of the outsiders could. Bless her tiny heart.