Just Call Me 'Wendy the Hog Slayer'

I'm not really a hog hunter.  I'm a deer hunter that hates hogs.  They petrify me.  When I have to get out the stand and walk by myself to the truck at night, the mere thought that there may be hogs in the woods surrounding me makes me shake.  It makes me want my daddy.  I start to walk faster and faster using my iPhone as a flashlight, turning it from side to side to ward off any unwanted creatures.  The smallest noise (usually an armadillo) will make me dart off in a run until I reach a clearing.  Then I act all cool like nothing scares me.  My shaking knees tell on me, though. 





When I'm tall in an oak tree, however, nothing can touch me -- except those pesky jet-like buzzards, but that's another time and place.  Hogs can't touch me, at least.  I have all the power in my hands.  I'm sitting up high and being all sneaky so no animal sees or hears me.  When I see a deer, I'm extra careful to move slowly and not let any of my instruments clank against each other. I feel very powerful when I'm in a tall tree.  So, when a herd of hogs (is it a herd or pack or pride or gang or what?) came strolling into my corn in front of my tree, I pulled out "deer mode" and executed my motions ever so diligently. 

Again, I really hate hogs.  I wanted to take everyone of them out so I didn't have to worry about them snooping around in my "neck of the woods" anymore.  I pulled back my bow and nailed the largest hog in the bunch.  I knew I stuck it hard.  So hard, actually, that it went all the way through the hog.  I watched as it zigged and zagged through the woods and out of my sight. 

I tried to tell Tate I had gotten it so he could help me look for it.  I was not getting out of that tree and looking for a wounded and angry hog.  No sir-ee.  Tate had dropped his phone out of the stand and came to get me after he checked the message.  We had no real flashlights, so I used the flashlight app on my iPhone and Tate had a little dinky one that had been thrown in his truck.  Of course, Tate was frustrated that I hadn't already found the hog before it got dark. Again, I was not looking for a wounded hog in the thick of the woods by myself.  Not happening. 

Tate, like his dad, doubles as a blood hound.  Seriously, it's amazing.  He can spot the tiniest drop of blood on the underside of a leaf like no one else can.  It's why I love him.  I followed a foot behind Tate as he crawled on all-fours spotting blood and calling it out.  After a time, we came to an impass.  Tate couldn't find anymore blood and I was charged to sit there and keep an eye on the last blood that he spotted.  He finally walked off to find anymore traces of blood.  As we traipsed across the crispy leaf-covered ground, I shined my flashlight behind where he had been standing.  I just chuckled and said, "There it is."

"More blood?" he asked. 

"The hog," I smiled.  He just laughed and said that he felt like an idiot for standing there for so long and never looking behind him.  To his credit, it was up against a tree in a thorny vine patch. 

Tate gutted the hog on the spot.  That was DISGUSTING.  Not only were the inerds pretty disturbing, the smell was awful.  Hellacious.  That was the first animal I have ever been forced to watch be gutted.  I was forced because I had to hold the legs.  Gag. 

That's the hog story.  I hope the next story is about the monster buck I let go.