#51 Squirrel Hunting

by Bruce Roush

Dad and I moved across the newly harvested corn field toward the coolness of the woods. We each cradled a shotgun. Mine was a brand new .410, my 11th birthday present.

Taking positions about ten feet apart, sitting on the ground, our backs rested against tree trunks.

Gazing beyond my rubber booted feet, past the twigs in front of me, I focused on a shag bark hickory 60 yards away where the cloudy blue sky seemed to dive to the dark forest floor, illuminating the tree.

On a branch about twenty feet from the ground was a grey squirrel. Heart racing, I quietly watched as the squirrel sat on its hind legs, holding a hickory nut to his teeth with his front paws.

I slowly moved the gun to my shoulder, trying to remember all that dad had told me.

Move your gun slowly, no sudden movements

Sighting along the barrel, my gaze fixed on a spot just above the squirrel’s head.

Farther away your target, the more the shot’ll drop

I slid my index finger onto the trigger, took a deep breath and slowly let it out.

Squeeze real slow boy, don’t jerk it

Shot flew from the .410, a tight pattern of pellets enveloping the squirrel, dropping it from the branch like a stone.

Picking up the warm, lifeless body, elation changed to deep sadness for the dead creature. I wanted to cry but couldn’t in front of my dad whose face wore a proud smile.