Stalking Moby Chuck

It was another two-chuck night in the woodchuck blind last night. Hunting from the old corn crib previously described, I spied the youngster on the right who came out of the woods in the same spot as the previous two babies harvested and which offered yet another swing set shot.

Mindful of Ernie's admonition about my Defcon Level Five Attitude of Heightened Woodchuck Bloodlust, I repeatedly drew a bead on the little bugger and then eased off the trigger, not wishing to kill senselessly for the sheer Kleinmanesque thrill of the thing. If you know what I mean.

heh heh.

Twenty minutes of playing cat-and-mouse with the baby chuck came and went, with no baby chuck notch added to the Marlin. I was showing admirable restraint, if I do say so myself. When what do you know but all of a sudden I catch a glimpse of mature gopher walking UNDER my gun barrel, coming out of the burrow directly under the woodchuck blind platform.

I was beside myself. Here was a chuck not five feet away, below me! Thar' she blows!

He didn't hear me on the deck of the platform, and I crouched down so the last few remaining rays of the westward setting sun wouldn't shine off the top of my baldpate and give away my location to the enemy. When he went behind a tree, I shifted position; and when he scrambled onto the lawn beyond, I put the crosshairs on the back of his head and squeezed the triggger. He never moved and died instantly. (I later pulled out the laser rangefinder--seven yards.)

I let him lay, bloodlust level now WAY above code orange, somewhere in the neighborhood of Defcon Ten. Baby chuck came back out on the lawn minutes later, and I shot at him some sixty yards away and missed. Damn! chuck fever.

What do you know, but three more minutes pass, and the same baby chuck reemerges. This is one persistent pasture poodle! But evolutionarily impoverished, from a pure survival instinct standpoint. I resolve to remove him from the gene pool.

I gave baby chuck a few minutes to get out in the open, I took off my shoe to use as a rest on the rail of the deck, let him get past the tire swing, and let fly. He scrambled off a couple of yards, fatally wounded, and died just inside the brushline of the woods.

Here is what is so great about woodchuck sniping: it is the ultimate family sport. My daughter Sophia, who for some reason shares my enthusiasm for the wily woodchuck, especially in the dead and bloody form of that particular species of local fauna, grabbed her camera and started snapping pictures. When I examined Mr. Big Bruiser, pictured above left, I decided to pull out the kitchen scale and weigh him.

Sophie was there to catch the action. Enjoy: