It's my wife's fault I'm here, behind bars. I'm innocent! She was the one who said "A couple of fat ducks would be nice for Sunday dinner. Why don't you take Charlie hunting tomorrow?, God knows, Charlie needs the training."
"Who's Charlie?" Charlie is our black Labrador retriever, a dog with special needs. "Why special needs?" First of all, he is half blind, lost his right eye as a pup. I've often wondered if just a bit of his brain was lost at the same time. A veterinarian repaired the injury and sewed Charlie's blind eye closed. The resulting scar has a crescent shape, resembling an eye patch sometimes, a wink other times. Sometimes Charlie does an impression of Long John Silver; an impression of Liberace other times. He's a big dog, as labs go, more than a hundred pounds! Charlie has an impressive pedigree; his father is a handsome dog and is two times the Grand National Field Trial champion. Fortunately, he inherited his father's spirit, tenacity and spunk; unfortunately, not his father's intelligence nor good looks. Occasionally, he gets awfully possessive of the birds he retrieves. He has never bitten me, but I have become nervous a few times, when I've tried to pick up any birds he has claimed as his own. Charlie also has a disgusting habit of drooling copious amounts of slobber when excited. And, he likes to roll in anything that has a smell beyond seven point five on the odiferous scale. Not that he is stupid, heck no, he just acts before he thinks; like he did this morning . . . But I'm getting ahead of myself.
"Why don't you take Charlie hunting tomorrow?" I could give her some damn good reasons why not, now! Nevertheless, that suggestion was appealing yesterday.
Russia Lake, about fifty miles east of town, was our destination this morning. In the sixties, it was a prime duck habitat. Consecutive wet summers, followed by winters with heavy snowfall, flooded miles of excellent farm land, more than doubling the area of the lake. Twenty years ago, the county decided to lower the lake level and reclaim their tax base. To do this and keep the water levels low, a ten-mile drainage canal was excavated. The canal worked so well, after a few dry years, the lake disappeared. But this summer, being one of the wettest in years, the lake retained some water. Reeds and bullrushes had sprung to life and the ducks were back. A combination of shallow water and abundant reed patches provided the very best in a duck hunting environment.
The forecast was for a perfect autumn day, clear and cool, but when I left home early this morning, a fog advisory had been issued. Except for having to drive slow, I didn't mind the fog. Mallards would fly late and low in these conditions. The fog was so thick, I missed the turn to the lake. By the time I realized my mistake, the first of many I made this morning, I had driven an additional ten miles. Slow driving and extra mileage accounted for us being late.
Because the fog was so dense, I almost hit a white Jeep parked at the end of the road. Some other hunters were out there in the fog. Save for the mooing of a few cows in the adjacent pasture, the mood was serene and quiet. I put on my chest waders, loaded my pockets and hunting vest with shells, then whispered to Charlie, who was sound asleep in the truck. "Come Charlie, come." He is not a morning dog. Even hushed, my voice was irreverent in this tranquil setting. Charlie in tow, I walked to the water's edge and surveyed the scene before me. It was like entering an eerie B movie, the dead calm water reflected patches of reeds floating in the mist, beyond that . . . only an impenetrable grey wall. We were in a monotone world. I found walking difficult. The weight of the shells in my pockets and vest pushed my feet six inches into the mud. With each step the mud sucked at my waders, holding me back, pulling me to the safty of the shore. I resisted, dragging one foot then the other, escaping this supernatural effort that was urging me to return. Finally I found a sutible patch of reeds that would hid me from the ducks.
I hadn't intentionally set up directly in front of the other hunters. How could I know where they were? It was later that I realized I had situated myself only about one hundred yards away from them, right under the flight path.
Hunting in this neutral setting was fascinating. Sometimes I could hear the ducks flying overhead, but could not see them in the fog. I could also hear the other hunters as they shouted to each other.
"He missed another one." I heard one holler to his partner after I emptied my gun on a flock of phantom mallards.
A half of a box of shells later, I connected with a green head. "Fetch Charlie! Get the bird! Good boy!"
Then out of the fog: "He's finally got one."
Of course they could hear me! Those guys could tell every time I hit or missed a bird. A half of a box of shells with only one bird to show for it and these guys knew it! The thought of anyone, even these strangers, knowing I was such a poor shot was more than I could bear. Suddenly, as often happens to me, I got a great idea! They couldn't see me nor the birds that flew by me in the thick fog, only hear the shots and my commands to Charlie. What if, after I shot, hit or miss, I would command Charlie to fetch the bird and praise him for a job well done? Within minutes a large flock of mallards materialized in the fog. They were low, wings set, about to land right in front of me. Their bright orange outstretched feet, punctuated the grey background. They appeared very large, so close together the spaces between them almost did not exist. I did find empty spaces, three of them. The birds scattered, unblemished. It didn't matter.
"Fetch Charlie!" I commanded, "Get the bird!" Charlie bounded from the bullrushes, splashing about, searching for that bird. He looked back at me from about twenty yards. "Good boy! Good boy!" He cocked his head, looking puzzled he splashed back to the blind.
"He got another one!"
Ah ha! It worked. "Fetch Charlie, good boy!" "Fetch" "Fetch" "Good boy!" "Good Boy!"
"He got another one!"
"And another one!"
"And another!"
Say this was fun!
Charlie was confused. I would give Charlie the commands every time I fired. Sometimes I actually got a bird! Not satisfied with singles, if I fired twice, I would command Charlie to get both birds. Sometime triples. Once I told Charlie to fetch before I shot! No longer did that big lab cock his head, he was shaking it in disbelief.
"I think he got a double that time."
They must consider me the best shot around, a really accomplished outdoors man, the duck hunter of all duck hunters. Such respect they must have for my eagle eye, steady aim and my well trained dog.
"He must have about twenty birds, the greedy bastard."
"More than that, we should report the poacher."
Oops! The whole deception was taking a bad turn. These guys started to sound mad! Then I realized they hadn't fired a shot all morning. My enthusiasm diverted any birds that may have gone their way. Now the fog was lifting and soon they would be able to see me. I unloaded my gun, picked up my ducks and made a dash for my truck. A dash is hard to maintain with six inches of sticky mud sucking at your waders.
Nearing the shore, my dash turned into a stumble, then to a fall, face first into six inches of slough bottom. It was no accident that Charlie ran over me pushing my face deeper into the smelly muck. There was no time to worry about that now, I just wiped the mud from my face with my equally muddy sleeve. I could hear the other hunters sloshing toward me. When I got to my truck, I never bothered taking off my chest waders. I just rolled them down slightly above my knees.
I hobbled to the back of the truck, opened the canopy and plopped in my few ducks. Charlie and I spent countless hours of training to get him to understand my command, "back seat". It was a simple phrase that meant, "You ride in the back of the truck because you are all muddy and you've rolled in something." Charlie was always accommodating when he heard this command, . . . well usually accommodating.
"Back seat, Charlie!" I commanded.
"Back seat." I ordered.
"Charlie." I pleaded.
All to no avail. He just stood there in the muck, winking at me like Liberace. "Avast there matey! I'll ride up front with you." doing his Long John Silver impression.
"Oh the hell with it." There was no time to argue. I opened the driver's door. He jumped in but before curling up on the seat, shook hard splattering mud all over the inside of my truck. It didn't matter, I was soaking wet and covered in mud anyway. Besides, I wanted to get out of there, quick! I saw the two hunters coming out of the reeds. God, they looked big in the fading fog! More like NFL linemen than hunters!
"Hey, hold on a minute! We want to talk to you." One of them yelled at my truck as I retreated down the dusty road.
I wanted to get a safe distance away from the lake and those hunters before I stopped to remove my waders. I never got the chance. There were red lights flashing behind me. A Fish and Wildlife patrol truck was closing in! I pulled over, well to the side of the road, and stopped. I could see the game warden in my rear view mirror as he got out of his truck. There wasn't a wrinkle in his crisp brown uniform! He put his hat on, adjusted his sun glasses, rested his right hand on his sidearm and swaggered over to my truck. "John Wayne" I muttered to Charlie "only bigger!"
Before he got to my door, I got a look at myself in the mirror. What a mess! The mud I thought I removed from my face with my sleeve, was still there, smeared about like an abstract tattoo. I looked like a punk rocker, my hair was spiked with mud and duck weed. The duck weed gave my hair a greenish tinge. The offensive smell of slough bottom was giving way to whatever it was Charlie had rolled in! For a split second I thought about the lofty sound of the cattle early this morning.
"Please step out of the truck. May I see your hunting license?"
"I can explain." "
Just step out of the truck, sir. Your license please."
"But officer. . ." "Out of the truck!"
I started to step out of the truck, but my waders acted like a lasso around my knees causing me to stumble. The officer reached out and grabbed my arm - my muddy arm!
"What the . . . Are you drunk?" instinctively wiping his hand on his immaculate uniform. For a moment he stared in disgust, alternatively at his hand then the smudge on his slacks.
I regained a vertical but wobbly position and handed him a wet document from my sopping wallet.
"This is a fishing licence!"
"Sorry" I fumbled in my wallet, "here," I shoved some paper into his outstretched hand.
"What's this? An overdue parking ticket! Do you haaavve a hunting license?"
"Yes sir. Sorry sir. Just a minute sir, it must be here."
I gave him another piece of paper.
"Are you trying to bribe me?"
Aw no! It was a twenty I gave him.
The contents of my wallet spilled to the ground. The game warden bent over and delicately picked out my license.
As I stuffed the wad of paper back into my wallet, the officer spoke, "I got a report you exceeded your limit of ducks" "What are you, a market hunter or something?" "What are you going to do with all those birds?" "Just how much did you drink this morning?" "What is that awful stench?" "Did you think you could buy me with a lousy twenty bucks?"
I stammered some stupid and incoherent remark, "I not fremfrbody zumpphf me, sir!"
"I'd feel more comfortable if you would stand in front of your truck while I conduct a search of your vehicle. Place your hands on the hood and spread your legs. Poachers make me nervous, especially incoherent ones."
His handgun seemed to be dangling from its holster, nearly falling to the ground, just itching to be used. I imagined there was a tether holding the holster to his leg. In his apparent mood, "Slap leather poacher!" was only a breath away.
Remember what I said about Charlie acting before he thinks? He had remained calm and unconcerned through all of this. Then the officer opened the canopy of the truck! That black dog leapt through the rear window into the canopy, howling and growling. Charlie took a defensive stance protecting his ducks. He didn't even resemble a Lab. Now, he was a one-eyed junkyard dog, his fangs protruded amidst a profusion of slobber. No stranger was going to touch those birds, especially this recoiling game warden.
"Charlie! Charlie, no!" I staggered around the side of the truck.
"Stay where you are, poacher!" the warden snarled at me. His left hand extended towards me, palm first, his right hand on the grip of his pistol.
I resigned myself to the position I had seen so many times on TV. Hands on the hood of my truck, legs spread, I was frantically trying to explain the "whys" and "wheres . . ."
"I have a situation here," the warden barked into his radio. "I need some back-up! Bring the wagon."
So that's what happened; that's why I'm here in jail.
"What?...."
"Yes, I guess you're right. It's not all my wife's fault. Charlie should share some of the blame."