The Dead Don't Dance

The Log And The Gun

Have you ever hunted for sport. I have, it was a while ago though. I think I was about ten. I went once or twice with my granpa.

He was a brittle looking old man and every wrinkle cast a shadow on his face that made it look like his skin was sinking into the hollows of his aging body. It semed like the only time he ever left his house was for hunting. Clearly this wasn't true but those were the only times I saw him out doors. His house was larg and empty and dispite said hunting obsession had no animal pelts or heads or trophies. The home was always erily vacant and I hated being there alone.

I remember that first time hunting thoroughly. Now before this time I had shot a gun clearly. He didn't just hand me a hunting rifle and was like, "Okay ten year old child take this gun and go kill some shit remeber not to look down the beral!"

I had gone to shooting ranges with him and my dad. But If you think that the biggest difference between shooting an animal and shooting a target is that the animal moves, then your wrong.

The biggest difference is something you don't even think of tell you have your hand on the trigger, but is something you don't truly feel tell the gun is pointed at you.

This animal is alive.

I was a child, watiching a rabit hop across a log aming a gun at its small helpless frame. It seemed like the crulest thing killing this unsepecting victome. But that was nothing compared to the beastly and loathsome feeling that dropped into my stomach when it turned and looked at me. When slowly its eyes filled with recognition of the object in my hands.

And in that second, I shot. And I missed.

I wrote a lot about this but in reality it was only a couple of seconds. This is why I hate shows were the characters are ten but act like there five. When your that age your learning so much. Your figuring out your emotions, others emotions, the way you see the world. There is nothing more extraordinary like remembering a moment like this.

And somehow I wonder what would have happened if I hit it. Would we have gone home an eaten it insted of going out for ice cream. Would I have cried, would I have cared? Would I have killed it or have broken a bone then left it.

When I looked up at my grandfathers face after that he was frowning, staring at the log the bullet had impaled. When he notessed I was looking at him he turned down to me and smiles.

"You got close. Its good for your first time." I still don't know what he was thinking about.

Its almost funny I have no idea what a human much less my own family member was thinking but now years later I under stand the exact emotions of that small rabit that I just barely, missed.