The Thrill of the Hunt

The Thrill of the Hunt

The heat was becoming oppressive. As I climbed about the uneven terrain, all of my body parts felt moist. The day was one where the sky would never become blue, but remain an eye-squinting haze.

Mottled sea birds circled overhead, filling my ears with their anguished cries. For a second, I considered downing one, but I was interrupted.

“Behind you!” my friend cried.

I spun around, dropped to one knee, and snapped the rifle butt to my shoulder in one fluid motion, like so many times before. Life has its perfect instants, when you live only in the present; a pure sporting moment.

The beast raced straight for me. Its lips were drawn in a sardonic smile, which revealed yellow incisors. The ears were pulled back flat against the head, and the eyes were crimson.

It came quickly. At twenty feet I squeezed the trigger. “Pop.” The beast staggered sideways, and fell to its side on the littered ground.

I walked to where it lay. The limbs quivered, and a disposable diaper absorbed a trickle of blood from the mouth. I took pride in the fact that I had stopped the beast with one clean shot. It was more sporting that way. I wrapped my hand in a piece of plastic, grabbed the long scabby tail, and hoisted the beast for my friend’s inspection.

“It’s a big one,” he smiled.

"Yeah, it is. I guess it's about time to go," I said.

I flung the corpse against a mound. It tumbled half way down and came to rest against an empty Miller High Life. The sun was rising, and soon the stench would be unbearable.

The men who drove the bulldozers would arrive shortly, which spoiled the hunting. Already a truck was making a deposit at the far end of the dump. As I exited through the open gate, I pondered the nine rats I had killed that morning.