Humor

---

My appetite for goose was now effectively erased. I needed to find a new type of game, preferably one that did not hang around cesspools. Yuk—oh, gross . . . that's it! Grouse! What a discovery! According to Grant's recipe book for wild game, grouse and pheasant made good eating. These birds don't have webbed feet, which means there was a good chance I wouldn't find them swimming in a sewage pond.

According to my research, grouse were simply chickens on the lam. They eat berries and seeds and are no different than a farm hen—yummy. For all I knew, the grouse could be the forefather of that familiar barnyard clucker, the Rhode Island Red. After all, what did the settlers eat when they discovered America? If grouse was good enough for them . . . then it was good enough for me. I felt like Davey Crocket, king of the wild frontier. It was back to the woods for me. All I needed now (but couldn't afford) was a coonskin hat for the right ambiance.

And I think I almost persuaded my wife as to the worthiness of this new venture. This all came about after we discovered regular chickens were being fed animal byproducts—"OH, GROUSE!" Exactly—my thoughts too. I now had a bona fide reason for my allurement to hunting: to provide all natural, wholesome, organic grouse to my family. (It never occurred to me until much later that one could BUY veggie-fed chickens at the local grocery store.)

Grant's recipe book convinced me (my wife needing a bit more convincing) that there were delicious meals just waiting to tempt one's salivary glands. Such dishes as "Tongue Epicurean," "Woodchuck in Sauce," and "Stewed Squirrel" were among the delectable entrees. And if those didn't suit your fancy, there was always "Beaver Tail" or "Sweet-Sour Raccoon." Admittedly, I wasn't that excited to try ALL the recipes, but there was enough variety to satisfy even the most discriminating of tastes.

And besides, on page 110, this marvelous book claimed that the meat of a wild duck was comparable to a T-bone steak. (WOW! What a surprise—yet the ducks Grant had given to us tasted more like liver.) If duck was supposed to taste this good, how much better a grouse which hasn't fed on effluent.

Seemingly, I came fully equipped for the task at hand. I had a shotgun, an admiring son, and a Labrador Retriever named Max, who was definitely more than a water dog. Evidence of Max's keen perception manifested one day when I saw him staring at a duck figurine hanging on the bedroom wall. He thought it was real and just stood there, his eyes transfixed on the porcelain bird. I was convinced right then that Max had what it took to be a bird dog.

Training Max to be a retriever was a no-brainer. Controlling his 88 lbs. of intense high-energy was another story. When Max got excited, he barked . . . and barked . . . and barked some more. Telling him to be quiet was like stepping in front of a speeding locomotive with a raised hand expecting the train to stop—it ain't gonna happen. And against my better judgment, I took "Mister Hyper-ball" along with us on our first grouse hunt. Max was part of the family (as my son put it), so . . . I just couldn't leave him behind—could I?

I made sure to double-check our supplies before heading out: emergency tissue, sandwiches, dog food, and lots of chocolate nutty bars. It was on these hunting trips that I first learned the value of treats (bribery for short). For when the hunting trip failed, there was always the sweet taste of a chocolate bar, which could turn a bitter event into something more tolerable. And I have to admit, I continued to "sweeten" up the deal each trip just to convince my son to come along with his dad.

We finally loaded the van, including our hyper dog, and headed down the highway. Max was drooling over every seat as he jumped about excitedly. He would stick his nose out the window, then back in, nervously drink a ton of water, pant like he was hot, constantly whine, then drink some more water. Then he would shake his head—throwing his slob around like it was the 4th of July. I didn't have to be a prophet to realize bringing Max may not have been such a good idea. However, I lived under the illusion that Max would realize his calling as a bird dog; and he would transform into a quiet, subdued beast upon seeing his first bird.

An hour and a half later, we turned off the highway onto a gravel road. The grassy fields of pasture soon disappeared into a forest as the road began to ascend steeply. There is something beautiful about being in a part of God's creation that man has not spoiled. It was so peaceful . . . everything was in perfect harmony—that is—until we arrived.

Max had to relieve himself from all the water he drank. So for the first 10 minutes, I was able to enjoy the tranquility of our surroundings. The scent of evergreens filled the air. I breathed in deep. There was a reverent hush on the forest which demanded all of man to be silent and to observe God's wonders. Even the sound of the doors closing on our van felt like a disgraceful intrusion into this world. "Be still and know that I am God" (Psalm 47:10). And for a brief moment, I was still.

Then Max let out his excitable bark—not just one—but many. "QUIET!" I yelled. The peaceful surroundings, which should have been mine to enjoy, were now challenged by my very own dog. We quickly put a leash on Max, realizing he was not likely to obey any voice commands in his excitement. My son walked with him while I toted the gun. And though we managed to keep Max from barking, he substituted the bark with a nonstop whimper/whine that lasted the entire walk. I was quite sure every grouse within a mile of us knew we were coming, thanks to my "canine alarm" who was walking beside me.

However, I did see one grouse on the trail and took a pot shot at it. And to my utter amazement—I missed. When I came to the spot where the bird had stood, I was certain I could see it standing only a few feet away by a tree. I quickly lifted my gun up again and sighted the bead right on the bird's head. I wasn't going to let that stupid bird get away. KA-BOOM! The blast from the gun sent soil and leaves flying. I charged to the spot anticipating my first bagged grouse to proudly show my son, who was standing a ways back. Nothing—absolutely nothing! It was like the bird simply vanished. As if the blast was so powerful that it sent the prairie chicken to eternity—feathers and all.

I was still scouring the empty spot when my son strolled up. "I know I hit the bird," I said to my son excitedly. "It was right here!" Of course, my son believed me, but I couldn't find a shred of evidence to prove it. I literally scoured the ground until it was too dark to see, trying to find a feather or something to redeem myself. Needless to say, the nutty chocolate bars became my only consolation on the trip back home. "That stupid dog is not coming with us on our next trip!" I said to my son. "Max spoiled everything!"

I was so upset. The hunting trip had ended up a misadventure. I just wanted to blame someone, and the dog was the easiest choice. Again, I was humbled by this experience—but not so humbled as to learn any lessons from it. And that's the point—I just didn't GET IT! These hunting trips should not have been about me. They should have been about spending quality time with my son . . . developing our relationship. Instead, these expeditions had turned into ego trips—trying to prove myself—trying to be somebody. My poor son had simply become a tagalong. No wonder he lost interest in his father's hunting career. Ouch!

True to my word, we left Max behind on our next trip. But I have to honestly say, I felt like I had stabbed my best friend in the heart. For all the weaknesses one could say about Max, I truly loved him. And of all the dogs I had ever owned, Max was my favorite. He was a big goof—but he had a heart of gold. And I knew I broke his heart the morning I left him behind. Yes, we did manage to bag some grouse on the next two trips. But each trip got harder to take when I knew I was leaving my best friend behind. So, I'm going to fast-forward those trips to the day we decided to take Max again.

I was under no illusion this time out. Max was not a bird dog, but he definitely had value. They don't call dogs, "Man's best friend" for nothing. Max was my friend (and that's a whole story in itself). I made up my mind to give Max the opportunity to be what God created him to be—a retriever. Of course, Max was overjoyed to be in the hunting party this time and did his usual drool routine inside the van—but the mess didn't seem to matter to me anymore. Even my son was ecstatic when he knew his "play buddy" was coming along.

We reached the beautiful forest about ten o'clock in the morning and parked at the top of the hill. The trail went left and dropped down into a valley. It then circled through the woods and returned to where our van was parked. One could drive the trail with a 4x4, if one happened to own one. I didn't and so we walked. Max seemed eager to be on his best behavior. It was almost like he was trying to prove to me that he could control himself. My son walked the dog as usual while I walked ahead.

We managed to bag a grouse just before a guy in a 4x4 pulled up alongside us. A pleasant sort of fellow to be sure, but I recognized him as a hunter and that meant competition.

"How's the hunting?" the man asked.

"Not that good," I replied, not wanting to give him any incentive to stay.

"Have you seen any grouse?"

"Not many." I was hoping my short answers would dissuade his probing questions.

Then the man noticed my son holding our shot bird. "I see that you bagged one."

"Yeah," I shrugged, "we did manage to get one."

"How do you like them?" he asked, his eyes lighting up like a Christmas tree.

"They're pretty good," I replied.

Then he exclaimed, "Man, aren't they good eating? So delicious—just like candy!"

I nodded my head, smiled, and thought, "What world is he from?" Our family had already eaten the four or five grouse we had brought home in previous hunts—and none of them tasted like candy. In fact, if my wife had not smothered the birds with sweet marinades, we may not have eaten any of them. Maybe that's what he meant. The meat tasted wild without the sugary coating and besides—there was very little meat on them. We wished each other well, and thankfully, the man left.

A short time later, I spotted another grouse on the trail. This one didn't stay put for a shot but took flight into the woods. My son waited for me while I attempted to track it. After a short time, I managed to locate the bird standing by a tree and blasted it. I was excited but for a different reason. I wanted Max to have the opportunity to fetch this bird. So I left the bird there and came back onto the trail where my son and dog were.

"Fetch," I said to Max, pointing in the direction to where the bird was. Max suddenly became alert and tensed up. He was ready to fetch, sure enough, but kept looking at me—waiting for me to throw the ball. You see, I had forgotten. The only time I used that command was when I told Max to fetch a ball or a Frisbee. Oops—it looked like I "dropped the ball" this time. I realized I needed to guide my friend to the location. Max gently picked up the bird and brought it back to the trail. My son and I praised him ecstatically for doing such a good job.

A short time later, we were heading back home in the van. My son and I were enjoying our chocolate nutty bars in the front seat. The hunt had gone well and for the first time in a long time, I was enjoying myself. I noticed Max seemed to be awfully quiet in the back. "He must be sleeping," I thought, as I looked in the rearview mirror. "OH . . . NO!" Max was happily gobbling down one of our two birds. It was my fault for deciding not to bring dog food on the trip. We had to laugh. Perhaps Max was rewarding himself for his hard work that day. "You shall not muzzle an ox while it treads out the grain" (Deuteronomy 25:4).


Blessings in Christ Jesus,
Paul Janz
(All Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New King James Version.)

"The Wannabe Hunter Within (Part 3) OH, GROUSE!" Copyright © 2010 by Paul Janz.

Paul Janz is a mature aspiring author whose writings are based on personal experiences and issues that the Lord has laid on his heart. His wit, humor, maturity, and ability to tell a good story make him an ideal writer for any Christian magazine.

Contact him directly through his website: Heaven Inspired Movies

---

PLEASE ENCOURAGE AUTHOR BELOW LEAVE COMMENT ON ARTICLE