Creative writing: 05/04/1999

Creative Writing: Essay    The Mystery of the Duck                                   
Ms. Victoria Carlson   

Hunting has always been a big part of my father’s life. From the camouflage apparel to the extensive firearm collection, hunting was a permanent fixture within the house. In the freezer you would find packages marked as deer, squirrel, rabbit, with an occasional coffee can filled with goose and duck. The kitchen held numerous hunting hats as reminders of memorable hunting experiences at clubs throughout the United States.

The basement was a maze of hunting paraphernalia for all occasions: blaze orange jackets for deer season, rubber hip waders for duck season, numerous pack boots for cold treks, and a coat woven from straw for dove or goose season. A corner bench held two shotgun shell loaders: one for 12-gauge and one for 20-gauge.

Lying dusty in the attic were many hunting trophies: a stuffed duck, antlers, and a deer head. Among stacks of hunting magazines were countless guns, gun parts, and accessories left for my brother and me to inherit.

In my youth hunting fascinated me. My dad’s exotic squirrel and rabbit recipes were always exciting to taste, and eating duck required a cautious tooth poking about for steel and lead shot buried deep in the meat.

The moment my dad got home from the hunt with his kills I would be there, standing over the piles of dead birds watching my dad clean the animals, the steam rising from his bloodied hands. I was always eager to help clean the doves, for they required no knife. All you needed to clean them was your hands. Ripping off their wings and pulling out their breast meat with my fingers offered an intimate relationship with animals that few experience. I was still a skeptic though. I read Ranger Rick.

I asked my dad one evening why people had to kill animals. At the time
I was concerned with people killing rabbits. My dad offered his succinct reply.

“If we don’t kill them they will starve,” said my dad.

I respected his wisdom but didn’t understand why the rabbits had to starve. My father left out the fact that many of a rabbit’s predators had been killed off or left in unstable habitat due to human encroachment. Humans, with their guns and their machines of progress, are left to keep rabbit populations in check, so they will not exhaust their limited food supply. In many ways it is a justified activity.

I joined the ranks of the hunters when I turned eight. I took a hunter safety test and received a hunting license. Hunting was enjoyable at first. Missing more than I actually hit, the animals seemed like fair game. But something would change my mind.

My brother, my dad, and I went goose hunting one cold January morning. We trekked for miles out to a place aptly named the “killing fields” by my father and his friends. As the sun rose we began calling the geese. As the geese honked their replies, we lied in hiding ready to ambush. Quickly our guns were ablaze sending shot wads careening off in front of us, spent shells to our feet, and the birds to their demise. I was a lefty, using a right-handed gun, so the spent shells would careen off of my arm before falling to my side. At times I knew what it felt like to be on a W.W.II navy ship, the constant firing and the falling targets.

Since I was new to the sport, I was designated the gofer. My job was to pick up the fallen geese. Walking out onto the decoy spread was like walking onto a stage. In front of me were hundreds of stationary plastic decoys, animated windsock decoys, and giant feeding decoys, each the size of a small horse. Taking directions from the people in the blinds behind me, I would search about for dead and dying birds. I would carry these 20-pound birds two or three at a time back to the blind where we were hiding. Since the bodies were still warm I covered my boots with them to keep the penetrating cold away from my toes.

During one of the silent moments in between flocks I could hear something gurgling. One of the geese was still alive, breathing at a regular pace. I found it among the dead, blood bubbling from its beak as it exhaled. I told my dad about the bird clinging to life in the pile of dead around my feet. He responded by grabbing its head and twisting it in a complete circle, but it didn’t die. With its head dangling only by the skin of its neck, the bird's chest heaved as it gurgled blood, mocking death with every breath. I started crushing the bird’s head under my boot trying to kill it, but it fought harder to breath spreading its warm blood into the snow. Every stomp of my boot brought a queer squeak from the bird. The melting snow had prevented me from crushing its skull ending its misery.    

Up until that point, hunting was a game. The animals were like carnival targets; every hit produced a trophy. This was something totally different. A flock of migrating birds had been tricked into believing they had found a safe spot to land and to eat. Lying on my feet was one of these unlucky birds clinging to its life.

As the morning wore on and we reached our limit, we began packing our gear and game. I noticed that the goose had finally quit breathing, it had finally died. After picking up all of the dead birds on the ground, I noticed the ground was littered with pools of blood melted through the thick ice and snow. The whole experience was disconcerting, so I never hunted again.

Hunting was a big part of my father’s life. He confronted death on nearly every outing he took. He had probably killed countless animals finishing them off with his bare hands. He was comfortable in doing this, which brings me to the great mystery.

One evening my dad came home from work carrying a box. My brother and I were curious as to what lay inside. My dad told us to quiet down. He did not want us to startle the wounded duck inside the box. He took the box into the bathroom, closed the door behind him, and opened the box up. A small duck flapped around the bathroom startled by the bright light.

On the way home from work, my dad noticed the injured duck on the side of the road, a casualty of an automobile. He kept it safe from our cat. He tried to give it water and feed it. The duck was not responding, so my dad insisted on taking it to the veterinarian the next day.

The doctor looked at the duck and could see the tremendous amount of stress that it had been through. He knew it had little chance of survival. My father paid for the duck’s euthanasia and remained quiet for the rest of the afternoon. It was obvious that putting the duck to sleep had upset my dad. My dad had killed countless ducks and many other wild animals prior to this duck, but he took this wounded duck to a veterinarian to heal it instead of killing it.

My grandfather has always loved animals. When he lived in Canton, IL, my grandfather shared a home with a dog, a handful of cats, and a fox he had raised from a cub. He would come over to our house every day to talk to and play with our cat, and he has a cat of his own. He builds birdhouses that can only be called bird manors due to their scale and complexity. He feeds squirrels and calls to the birds. When I mow his grass, my grandfather warns me about hitting rabbit nests or snakes. My grandfather loves animals. My grandfather is the answer.

Stripped of his camouflage coat and boots, a steaming coffee thermos, a necklace full of calls, and his gun, my dad was just as sympathetic as his father. I have never asked how my father became such a zealous hunter. It is possible that he believes he is saving animals by hunting them. As a member of Ducks Unlimited he has helped fund the restoration of millions of acres of wetlands throughout the North American flyway that many waterfowl travel, and he spreads this information to his kids, enriching them. By renewing his hunting licenses each season he ensures conservation funding. And by hunting animals he delivers them from possible starvation and relieves the stress on their habitat. My father the animal savior, donning his camouflage, gripping his rifle, and employing his wits to deliver animals from their uncertain futures. Outside of that context he is not an animal killer but a sympathetic human being like my grandfather.