Boy’s First Rabbit
By Steve Eberling
On an early winter morning, golden bright sun shines from opulent blue sky casting threatening rays on small patches of dusted, grey snow left scattered across the prairie, freezing cold being only salvation they receive. Even breezes blow gently across it dispersing rhythmic puffs of steam floating from a young boy’s tight lips, long strides offset by a shotgun hanging loosely in his right hand swaying with motions of gait. Brown leather gloves lined with silky, grey fir do not prevent this hand from being numb gripping and protecting the gun. His left hand remains snuggly tucked away in a pocket of a thick tan nylon jacket. Soon it will be time for shotgun to change sides.
Hunting started shortly before sunrise and early morning cold deposited then seems unaffected by mid-morning sun. Covering of lined Wolverine boots feel not there but his feet are insensitive to amplified, constant dull pain inflicted by infinite dead frozen mounds of grassy tufts that must be stepped on. Thoughts and desire to return home are frequent but quickly blot out by stubbornness and persistency to shoot his first rabbit.
Not his first time hunting. Started seven years old. At least hunting was thought of then. Simple armoires included spears made from small willow branches and rocks found down by spring creeks running through gully bottoms. Never killed a rabbit, but the thrill of seeing these creatures bolt from behind sandstone boulders and yucca or prickly pear cactus chasing them wildly throwing these rocks and projectiles carried in pockets or belt until the animals reached and scurried through holes in gully walls excited and fascinated him. Didn’t seem to mind long, tense hours waiting for those rabbits to come out which they never did. He loved the hunt and hunted every chance he got.
Thinking about past hunts invaded and eased day’s discomfort. Youthful innocence he now finds amusing forcing tight lips to smile despite cold, dry air. Walking alone on still prairie gives chance to think uninvaded thoughts of lofty dreams. Twice morning day dreams were abruptly startled as rabbits scrambled from dry bush crashing through brittle, dead leaves throwing puffs of grey dust from back feet bound for sanctuaries down holes maybe three or four feet high located in brown, sandy cliffs of ravines. Both times loftiness makes him slow giving just enough time for them to duck into these holes followed by sighting along stained barrels of the double shotgun. Both times lad grits teeth, lowers gun and kicks brush only a few feet away ejecting these rabbits but avoids surrounding cactus. Learned not to wait for them to emerge and better to keep moving.
Thoughts again transcend, remembering dad talking about trips hunting. Always used to hunt going weeks at a time, leaving the boy with mom for what seemed years to come back home. Praying each night pa would get a buck. Venison was only game hunted since he can’t remember dad going after rabbits. Two days before his fifth birthday begged him to go hunting as well, promising it would be the only present ever wanted. Pop smiled saying his son was too small, left the room for a moment and returned carrying a small cardboard box not yet wrapped. Handing it to his offspring explained it was meant to be his birthday present. A fairly large pocket knife appeared when the carton opened with delightful gasp. Finally thought a hunter tears choke back when hugged.
Couple days later on the birthday he was shown how to oil that knife and make its blade sharpest by gentle grinding on a wet stone. Few days after dad left for the year’s hunting trip but can’t recall minding, knowing one day getting to go for deer now thought a hunter and occupied those days oiling and sharpening the knife. When the pick-up returned with a six-point buck tied across the white canvass covering equipment in back he could hardly run fast enough to reach his father’s arms with joy.
Roy takes a deep breath of cold, draught air which snaps him out of this trance and reaches into faded jeans to feel the pocket knife’s smooth surface even through leather gloves and pulls a black stocking hat further over his ears. Noon approaches while sun rises higher in southern sky but it is very cold and dry prairie finds him thirsty regardless of chill. Eating dusty snow only lessens his thirst and breaks off a small dead twig to suck on from a dark green pinon tree.
Getting the knife was the last birthday had in their small, town house. Father offered a much better job in a bigger city where they purchased two acres of land by it the boy thinks as perfection with abundant prairie right outside the fence. Here he finds freedom and first began to hunt, seek excitement, and loved it. Waited for father to go hunting again. Surely of age now and could go with him. He had shown how well to care for the knife. Except for the blade’s slightly receding from constant sharpening and case’s further smoothness from use, it was perfect as the day he gotten it. Father must take him hunting soon.
But dad did not go hunting again, not even by himself and come from work tired and on weekends either return to the office or play golf at the country club. Offered to teach him to play the game, even received a bag of clubs. Enticement of clubs only turned him further against golf and ran to the prairie for solitude. Pa no longer had time to take off work for hunting trips, being told that many times. But this year he pleaded. Twelve years old soon and to go hunting was all he wanted this birthday. Good for dad to go, but just looked in the eye without much said.
For his twelfth birthday, he received the Savage double barrel shotgun packaged in a brown box wrapped with blue paper and yellow bow. As he opened the present pieces were found neatly laid in order with an instruction sheets safely tucked under one section of the gun. Nice as could be bought. Looking up dad was smiling. But he could not smile for dad wouldn’t ever go rabbit hunting with him.
Two weeks he waited help putting the shotgun together hoping dad would be there when it first fired. But father said he was now old enough to do it himself. That was why he bought it, his son was old enough now.
Lad stayed in his room leaving only for meals and school. He had to go to dinner, ma and pa thought it best that way. He loved that meal. Mother came to his room several times, seeing sadness in tired eyes and knew she could sense what he felt. She consoled him and told him he should find more friends his age and that hunting wasn’t everything. Didn’t know what to say. Most other boys didn’t like to hunt, couldn’t understand the excitement and their parents thought they were too young anyway. Mother would leave sometimes without much said. Sometimes he knew she was not feeling sorry for him.
Roy’s walking most of the day now. Soon it would be getting dark and must be home for dinner. Getting colder as midday warmth quickly drains into evening chill. Twig in his mouth turns soft, splintering and expel in small drops of spit. Deciding to exchange the stick for snow found a boulder to lean the shotgun against, setting hands free to scrape dusty, icy shell off a bank of snow drifted behind the rock. Snow tastes cold and wet knowing he would not stop eating it. Peaceful prairie makes him weary. Thoughts soon become incoherent and will return home without thinking of direction. He would have to go home without a rabbit. Always returned empty before, but today is different. He now has a gun and wants so much to return with meaning for the hunt.
Forcing a smile and picking the gun up by the barrels throws last bits of uneaten snow at a bush. It explodes upon impact from the snow. Two rabbits streak out compelling his heart to jerk. Both animals head up a bank only twenty feet away as he raises the rifle once leaning on the boulder by reflex. One rabbit soars up the cliff and flings itself over the top, leaving the other partially behind. Second rabbit also bounces up but soft dirt crumbles at top making it fall back to gulley bottom. Kicks and stays squat, black eyes watching hunter in terror. For a second Roy stares back. Braced against his shoulder the gun roars by itself. The animal flips in a cloud of dust and lands quivering on its side with intestines sprawled across the ground, steaming in dry winter air.
Roy can only watch. Hands tremble letting the gun lay on the sand. The rabbit has no expression on its face, only a bland innocent stare. Remaining still now Roy’s stomach begins to knot having not killed before and never pictured a rabbit laying in guts, steaming, with open black eyes staring as if watching.
He pulls the knife slowly no longer aware of its smoothness. Head flushes with heat. He kneels over the dead animal sticking the knife slowly into its carcass, sobbing silently cleaning it. Hands shake as grit and blood ooze over his fingers.
