I submitted a short story to the Atlanta "Urinal/Constipation" [AJC] a few years ago. SURPRISE! They don't publish hunting stories of any stripe! Here it is FWIW....
Pig Tales
"Them hogs will hook ya", explained my Dad. "They'll rip ya with a tusk from ankle to crotch, and then chew on whatever they find there."
I listened with rapt attention, horrified to think of it. Of course, when you're three years old, what the hogs would find wouldn't make much of a meal. Even now, the memory and the chills inspired by this bedtime story of my younger years reduce the porkers' repast to not much more than a snack.
And the way I figured it, my Dad would know about hogs. He used to regale my brother and me with pig hunting tales from before we were born, when he hunted to put food on the table for our three older sisters. Since he worked construction, a rainy day meant no work - but rainy days (as we all should know) make for the best hunts when you're looking for pigs.
Dad ventured into the great, unknown, wild regions of middle Georgia swampland around Dublin with naught but his trusty Remington .22 automatic and his five inch Case skinning knife. These finer points of "minimalist" hunting were not lost on me. Some of the pigs Dad talked about required him to "cut them in half and tote out each end." We're talking 250 - 300 lb feral hogs. You've got to eat a lot of groceries to get to be that big. Or eat a lot of little boys, as I saw it.
My mind kept coming back to the subject of pig hunting equipment later on when I saw just what a "stopper" a .22 rifle is. Now, it's true that I was raised to put the bullet in the brain of whatever I was hunting; squirrels drop like a rock when thus hit. But sometimes Dad would mention phrases like "get it in the ribs and that pig won't go far" or "I hit it good just behind the front leg so I saw no need to waste another bullet" and, as you can imagine, my respect for my Dad rose almost as much as my doubt of his sanity. Wild, crazy and VERY dangerous are words that I grew up associating with pigs and, guilty by association, my Dad.
My first pig weighed around 150 lbs. The sow took a 300 grain .44 caliber slug through the ribs just back of the front leg and, as Dad had said, she didn't go far. It's the direction she didn't go far in that concerned me, as I was still-hunting through tall grass when I popped her from about 12 feet away. She covered the distance between us in something less than three seconds as I stood frozen (later described as "coolly observant") just off the bee-line she was making. She stopped a more-comforting 20 yards away from me where she stood, breathing hard and snorting like, well, a pig.
She was staring with her beady little eyes directly into my less-than-beady little eyes. She was directly downwind of me. She was not bouncing jauntily away like several deer had done prior to expiring from identical hits.
After taking careful aim (and not really sure whether in self-defense or not) I repeated the shot with identical placement. She just stood there looking at me. She didn't even flinch. She snorted again and got me to flinch instead.
"Well, old girl, I'm in no burning hurry to run over there and shake hands with you." She listened attentively and gave a noncommittal grunt in the way of a reply. I discreetly examined the surrounding vegetation here in the dry part of the swamp in the middle of God-alone-knows-where. "Hmm, that pine is a little poor for climbing. That other one way over there, however, seems to be ideal. What do you think? Want to race?" Her expression clearly expressed doubt that I was going to beat her in a foot race. But then again she hadn't seen me in motion - yet. Plus, as my Dad would say, I'll be running on dry ground - which she won't.
I next thought to try diplomacy-through-bluffing like we did in the Cold War. Perhaps if I stood here pointing this gun at her long enough she'd just go away? I thought to check my ammunition - did I load the blanks by mistake? Wait a minute. Whoever heard of 300 grain blanks? I've really got her scared out of her wits now. Look at her - she's so confused she's rooting around there in front of her a little bit! She's probably waiting on me to make the first move toward her so she knows which direction to run away in.
Just then Ms. Piggy was polite enough to quietly expire, simply sitting then dropping onto her side.
My brother was with us that day, and, after examining the entry and exits, remarked that “Dad would give you all sorts of **** for wasting that second bullet.” Yeah, well – Dad doesn’t believe insurance is a good idea. That’s what that second shot is called – “insurance.” I was glad I was in a position to purchase that particular policy….
