The cry of a dying rabbit echoed through the small valley. The highway to Northern Arizona ran behind us, just to the west, and a small neighborhood was nestled into the hills to the south. We fixed our eyes to the East, hoping to see something that would find the repulsive sound of a dying rabbit not so repulsing.
It was not quite freezing, but it was still cold. To think I had almost worn shorts; luckily I opted for the long johns and a pear of old jeans. Still, the cold was numbing on both sets of cheeks. I sat Indian style behind a dry, dead mesquite bush; trying my best to stay both concealed and comfortable. But with each passing minute my legs became more stiff and more painful. I squinted into the bright, yellow sun to see if I could discover anything moving in our direction. Nothing.
My eyes quickly wandered to the hot air balloons rising as silhouettes against the morning sunrise, and to the long plume of white smoke that stretched across the sky. Passenger jet. I couldn't help but explain to myself the science behind the cloudy trail a jet leaves in the sky. Like I really have a clue. Its hard not to let my mind wander. I'm supposed to be fully engaged in this Saturday morning activity. I've got my Montgomery Ward 12 gauge, with three rounds of buck shot in the chamber, set across my legs. I'm hunting. Coyotes.
Kenny was the one blowing the rabbit call. I thought to myself, "I've never heard this sound before, how do we know any coyotes have?", but I've been told the coyotes hear it and come running. This was the second spot we had tried. The first spot I also saw nothing. Kenny claimed he saw two small, cat-like animals stocking towards us. When he got one in his scope it dropped behind some mesquite and didn't show its face again. "Probably a mountain lion", he says. I don't believe him.
There are plenty of names for mountain lions. Such as puma and cougar. We'll just say mountain lion, so as not to offend any middle aged, single women. Now, mountain lions do live in the desert. In fact they are quite common. I just can't bring myself to believe that Kenny saw one. He's a nice enough guy. I had just met him. He came across as the kind of guy who really knew his way around a dying rabbit call. On the way to our hunting spot we stopped at a gas station. I chose not to make any purchases, so Kenny bought me a sandwich and said, "You'll need that later".
Thanks, Kenny. I wasn't really all that grateful, more annoyed than anything. Him buying that sandwich for me without me asking made me feel like a little kid, and I'm not a kid. I'm 27. Sheesh.
As I stared towards the East, the rising sun made it increasingly difficult to see anything that may be responding to the rabbit call. I pulled my hoodie down a little to block the sun; thinking to myself, "I should have brought my baseball cap. The black one. I like the black one." There was still no movement, except a desert bird that perched itself on top of a bush. It began to call back to the dying rabbit, as if it was saying, "Knock it off! You know who will hear..."
My mind began to wander again. I began to think about things like, how did chihuahuas possibly survive in the desert pre-domestication? And, about my fear of hot air balloons. Kenny layed into the rabbit call one last time, and then I saw Junior stand up to my left. Apparently, he too had given up on the idea of actually shooting a coyote this morning. That's when it struck me, coyotes must know the sound of a dying rabbit, because they had heard the sound before. Maybe when they were killing one.
We hiked the area for the next hour or so. We gave up on the coyotes and switched to some smaller bird shot in our shotguns. Maybe we could at least blast some rabbits. Nothing. It got hot, and I got hot. Why does it always seem like everyone else is not done having fun, and you just have to wait out your misery? Back at the truck I ate Kenny's sandwich. It was pretty good.
Behind the local Walmart we found some more state land and started chasing doves up and down a wash. Finally we got to shoot something. We began to pile up the doves and I imagined a feast of dove breast roasted in butter and garlic. Before we drove off Kenny threw the doves under some bushes and jumped in the truck. Well, at least we got to kill something.
