My brother and brother-in-law took T and his (boy) cousins hunting yesterday. From what I understand, it took my kid approximately 2.5 seconds to fall into a creek. Okay, that might be stretching it a bit, but he did, at some point, fall into a creek. He also watched my brother 'murder' a bird that didn't quite die the first time, and "got a little blood on my hands but it didn't quite matter because I already had a lot of dirt on them, momma."
He loved every minute of the man time, watching the dogs work, and I think, is finally ready to acquiesce; add some proper Carharts and hiking boots to his wardrobe. His swanky Nike Airs are a special shade of brown, smell of manure, and the sweatpants and hoodie he wore are largely retired. For hunting purposes at least.
My favorite of the 57 stories I've heard thus far is about how he "held the heart of a pheasant right in the palm of my hand." T described in intricate detail the size, chambers, and such. I was impressed with my brother that he took the time to give a biology lesson during the gutting process.
T also told me about the pheasant's balls, which could have been easily confused with his liver, but they couldn't be sure which part was which. They're teeny tiny little bird balls, he said.
Apparently they are also very difficult to differentiate from a liver.
Apparently they are also very difficult to differentiate from a liver.
No comments:
Post a Comment