Still vainly trying to fit in with this country gentleman thing (that was for you, Hammer), I am off on a pheasant hunt this afternoon, an outing I bid on and won at a fund-raising auction at the kittens' school. The leader of the expedition is a friend of mine here in town, and he hunts on a private preserve of a friend of his a bit up the Shore. The chances of actually killing anything are low, as I am told that the snow has beat down much of the cover that pheasants seem to dig. At least this is what I'm told, as I have but once even seen a pheasant in the wild.
Adding also to the unlikelihood that anything will be killed is the fact that Mudge is joining in the fun, driving up from Virginia's sliver of the Eastern Shore. Mudge "hunts" regularly, but based reporting (his and others) he rarely "kills" anything. Kinda like what they call a "cooler" in the gambling business, the guy who sidles up to your blackjack table and kills the run.
I'll try and bring a digital camera along to capture some of the carnage.
IN THE MAIL: How to Live Forever….
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2 comments:
Got the tweed jacket with the patches on the elbows? Nice $6,000 engraved Beretta over/under 20 ga.? Land Rover with your beloved Irish Water Spaniel at your side? Looking like you'd be right at home on the moors of Balmoral?
Long way from Philly ain't it Pal?
Never "walk the line" next to the retarded cousin. When going with people you don't know I would suggest positioning yourself on the ends.
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