Although I never was asked to join in the hunting experience, my Dad and brother were very excited when duck or pheasant season was about to open. What they ever saw in sitting in the reeds with rubber waders up to their neck, waiting and waiting until this water fowl called a DUCK flew their way, is beyond my comprehension. The way they talked, I almost thought the ducks were smarter than the hunters.


On opening day they would get up about 4:00AM, eat a large breakfast, put on their gear, there was a lot of it, then head out to the lake. The moon was still in the sky, yet they sat in the dark, cold and damp...waiting. As early birds they had their choice of a perfect spot in the marsh, plus if any rookies arrived they tried very hard to discourage them from staying.  Had I been asked, I would have been a rookie but worse, a women invading a male dominated sport.  I think most hunters are like a secret club, they probably have secret rituals and rules. Most have hunted together year after year.  They know the area, dogs and the type of gun each man prefers.  This has to be a male social gathering.  Why else would someone sit in the mud shivering, waiting for a dumb duck?

More hunters with their dogs, guns and duck incentives start to arrive at sunrise.  Each hunter would scope out a spot, get his gear and dog and,.you got it, wait.   Apparently, the duck or ducks would circle the lake but not land. They seemed able to sense something was lurking in the weeds waiting to do them bodily harm. "Ducks get smarter during the hunting season." Dad said. "It's because they have been shot at so much." I did some research, the real reason ducks become very cautious is, on warm, still, and cloudy days, ducks can see every detail on the ground, not because they're shot at.

The Hunters place decoys in the lake. They are used to fool the ducks into thinking they're safe. As the ducks circle the area, one, a scout, will begin to decend to join the "dummy decoys," thinking they are cousins. If decoys aren't bad enough, the hunters also bring duck calls.  They look like a kazoo for grownups. Dad said "It's so they could talk their language."  I just rolled my eyes. I always thought it was a dirty trick and kind of unfair to the ducks.

As my Dad and my brother got ready for the kill, they knew exactly where the other hunters were located. Everything needed coordination, or you might get shot or jump the gun.  An example of this is the Dick Chaney fiasco of 2006.  The United States Vice President, Chaney, was quail hunting when he accidently shot Whittington who was retrieving a quail, a mere thirty feet from him.  He claimed he didn't know he was there. I can guarantee this would not have happened with my Dad's hunting group, RULES, and everybody followed them.

All the hunters agree not to shoot at the first duck coming in for a landing, remember he is the scout. Soon the rest of the flock began their decent, wings up, webbed feet down, quite the acorbat, before hitting the water and ending in a raft of "dummy" ducks. Right? No! Guns have been aimed and shots fired! The dogs jump into the lake, retrieve the poor bloody bird, bring it back and lay them at the feet of the great white hunter. This happens again and again, until the Hunters get their quota. Then like Cinderella, their waders fall off, their gun becomes a sling-shot and the retriever turns back into one of those little yippee dogs that everyone loves. As their outing comes to a close, the hunters start to pack up the gear, dogs, and ducks, while bragging about their marksmanship and their dog's performance that day. However, on this particular outing, my Dad's dog made a blunder..wrong duck to the wrong hunter. I don't know how that happens, but there was enough cussing and swearing by the two hunters in our house after their arrival.  I thought the neighbors might call the fire department to clear all the billowing blue smoke spewing from the windows and doors.  As for Lady, the retriever with them that day, she had a few more lessons retrieving the training dummy. Dad was set on her "making the grade".

They arrived home about two in the afternoon, unloaded the vehicle and the ducks were given to Mom. They needed to be cleaned and dressed for the upcoming meal, and I am not talking about a tux or formal dress. In those days a male had the caveman mentality.  I hunt-she cook and clean. She appeared to accept it without question.

 Mom was a wonderful cook and loved duck meat. I had not eaten duck or anything "wild"before this meal, but she assured me it would be wonderful. First, she put the ducks into a pan of scalding water and then plucked the feathers.   Next, she chopped the heads and feet off, open their bellies and clean out the insides. DISGUSTING!  I totally understood why my Dad wouldn't do it.

Later that day, we sat down to eat the wonderful duck meal. She had made potatoes, a vegetable, and a sweet dressing made with apples, raisins, dates, and the livers from the birds. We all thought it would be a dressing like you stuff in a turkey on Thanksgiving. NOooo. This was a special dressing, so special, she was the only one that would eat it. The duck looked appetizing, but it tasted funky, you know,  a"wild" off taste, yet I continued to eat it until I bit into a piece of metal.  It hurt my teeth and I spit it into the napkin. I must have had this awful look on my face because everyone was looking at me."What is this?" I asked as I spit out the small bebe. Dad and Mom started to laughed. Mom said she must have missed it when she was cleaning the duck. Needless to say I did not finish the meal, nor have I eaten anything "wild" that someone has shot since. I buy my meat at the market.

My Dad raised labrador retrievers. According to him, until they were trained, we were not allowed to touch them.  "They are not pets...they are hunting dogs.  Until we got the green light from Dad, the phrase, "DO NOT TOUCH" was understood by all in our house.  Prior to dinner, on this particular day, I was allowed to play with the dogs. I would throw a ball, run or just plain rough house with them. I would give them snacks and some table scraps.  If Dad caught me doing this, especially in hunting season, I would have been in BIG trouble. After all they were fed premium dog food to keep them in tip top shape for this grand ritual. We had several dogs through the years, not all at once, and some were better retrievers than others. Coot Haverhill Rail was a great retriever and my Dad's favorite. Tammy had a nose that could smell out any duck but she couldn't see well. Dad still loved her and she made the grade. Lady was my favorite. As you learned previously, she had a poor sense of smell but keen vision. She would jump in the lake, go the right direction, but to no avail she just couldn't find the duck. Dad tried and tried, but she never "made the grade", as he called it. Other hunters did not mince words when they spoke to my Dad regarding Lady.  He considered getting rid of her, but I had become so attached, he decided I could keep her. He made it clear that I would be totally responsible for her care.

Lady and I traveled together everywhere in the small community. She was a gentle as a lamb, golden in color, and a great pet.  She loved fetching rubber balls, running beside me, licking ice cream off my face or finishing the cone in my hand. She was my friend...my companion. One day when I got up she was not by my bed. She didn't come when I called her and I got scared. I went downstairs and started for the door but my Dad blocked my way. He told me that Lady had been hit by a car. She lay in the ditch by our house and I was NOT to go out there. I stayed home from school that day and cried.  She was my best friend. Why did it happen?  I learned later that some boys had deliberately run her over. My Dad didn't say who, but he assured me that they would be punished. I still think about her every so often. Every time I see a labrador retriever, it brings me full circle.  The days of hunting and the memories of Ducks, Dogs, and Dad.