So I’m in the local Mobil On The Run, getting my blueberry coffee over ice. In walks a man. Head to freakin’ toe camoflage. The kind that is literally photo imaging of branches, leaves and whatnot. He gets two bottles of some kind of flavored water, that is named “Dedication”. Then, he speaks to the lady behind the counter ( who will remain nameless due to heightened security measures ).
In a voice that’s a cross between Aunti Mame and Harvey Feirstein, he declares through a mouthful of gravel, " I need some Chap-Stik and a Marboro 100 Lights ".
My jaw drops. I said, " Goin’ hunting huh? He replies, Oh yeah. Turkey. You can only hunt the toms, not the hens or the…( I can’t remember the name he used for babies. Let’s call them chicks ).
This man’s going to be smoking and hunting. Do animals have no sense of smell? Will they look in his direction, see mostly brush and leaves, smell smoke and feel they’re caught in a forest fire?
I can’t get this guy outa my head. HIS BOOTS has the photo-cammo imagery. Hat. Jacket. Pants. Boots.
Turkey season has arrived in New York State. Gobble gobble…
Maybe he was gonna smoke before and after the hunt. Turkeys are wily, and it’s no disgrace to spend a day without even hearing a turkey. I vaguely remember that turkey youngsters are called Jakes; I could be wrong.
Same in my neck of the woods. Similar to white tail deer, which are a dime a dozen.
Until the first day of hunting season, my friend, when all things huntable turn invisible except for the unlucky few that haven’t yet figured out that little trick.
That’s because they know that in most jurisdictions a hunter cannot shoot from, across, or within a set distance of a public roadway. Them turkeys know their shit!
).
