Wheezer’s Last Stand

Some of my finest tale-telling ideas come from the deer woods. Mostly while hanging on the side of a tree in a 30-year-old climber. Not that all these strictly factual and totally straight-up narratives involve deer, however. For instance, there’s one critter that I’ve long had a love-hate relationship with.

Squirrels hate me; because I love to massacre them, and then pig out on them.

And speaking of that climber, I reminded myself the other day that maybe it has been hung on the same tree too many times when surrounding squirrels are now numbered and named.

I mean, when the whitetails ain’t cooperating—and they’re notoriously argumentative brutes when it comes to being perforated—the mind wanders…

It requires very little outlay to humor the simple-minded, and the actions of tree rats tend to keep me keenly interested. Not to mention awake.

Elevated in the stand, about all it takes to cause a heartbeat dipsy-doo is sudden movement, especially when caught from the corner of an eye. Squirrels have made a large game out of this over the years. I can just hear them…

“Yo, Skeet, see that big dummy hangin’ off the side of that sweetgum? He’s ‘bout to have an infarction. Just watch him when I skedaddle across these white oak leaves…”

Problem is, that big dummy has Slick’s number. Plus, he’s too hardhearted when it comes to tree rats to have an infarction just to please one of the mangy, would-be polecats.

I’m thinking Skeet and Slim are brothers. Or at least partners in crime. They typically emerge—suddenly—from a big red oak 50 feet due west of my tree.

There’s a third, Scairty, who hangs out with them but NEVER comes down the tree—hence his name. He’ll pop out of a hole, maybe run a few feet across a big limb, then evidently decide that the world is simply too big for him and crawl back inside his oak palace.

If he happens to be outside when this ought six goes off—and it’s going to happen—I’m thinking that’s when Skeet and Slim get to see their long-awaited infarction.

And it ain’t gonna be mine.

Besides, they’re on my list. Their names are a few numbers down from the top simply because they’re not real troublemakers; just a couple of nut cases out to have a little fun.

At the top of the list is Wheezer, whose tree is another red oak another 50 feet to the south. As you may have gathered from the name, Wheezer has a big mouth: “Look deer, on the side of that tree! See the big dummy draped in the flaming orange vest? I know you’re supposed to be color blind, but he’s also holding a big black gun and he AIN’T got your best interests at heart!”

Yeah, that’s what he said. With a low, keening squeal and a flipping, flopping tail to match. The List was created to keep up with enemies of the realm—mine—when I am abroad.

Monday, Jan. 11 happens to be the first day after our statewide deer season ends. It coincides with the beginning of assignments pertaining to The List.

Wheezer is about to discover that I also have a little brown gun, and that I have big plans for him. There will be no totin’ in a climbing stand, no going up a sweetgum, no orange vest. The game plan begins by a big dummy slipping in at first light and perching on the ground between the red oaks. It culminates 15 or so minutes later as 40 grains of Winchester Wildcat blow Wheezers’ brains out his ears—hopefully in mid-wheeze.

At this point, Skeet and Slim are on their own. If they’re dumb enough to pop out and start gawking, they’re dumb enough to assist Wheezer in becoming among the main ingredients in Hardwood Gumbo. Never heard of it? Simply put, if I can kill it in the hardwoods, it goes in the pot.

Which reminds me,,,

Middle of last month, I was on the tree on a 29-degree morning when this little 4-pointer rambled through. Wheezer wounded his throat screaming, but the brat paid him no attention and hung out within 20 yards for 20 minutes.

He had no sooner left than a larger buck with a larger rack—well, one side of it anyway—moseyed up the same trail. Hmmm…

Wheezer was trying, rather insanely I might add, to instruct the buck to catch a quick train to Texas, but this one paid him no more mind than the first had.

I, too, was kinda hoping he’d skip my part of the country, because he was certainly large enough to fill out several gumbo pots. Hmmm…

Look at those hams. Yeah, but look at that busted rack.

What about those backstraps… Well, maybe if he had the other five points to go with what’s showing.

He picked up a few acorns from beneath Scairty’s tree. I could hear the crunch and see shells dropping from his mouth. Then he walked over to a branch on a small oak, rubbing and licking all over it.

My trigger finger was awful itchy.

When he hunkered down and peed over his hocks underneath that tree, the sheer effrontery of it nearly gained him a 165-grain assault.

But in the end, following an excruciating 20-minute mental battle on my part, he got a pass. Key word, A pass. One. Next time I see him, he’s likely to leave lying down, no matter what antlers he’s wearing. And I got more immediate plans for Wheezer. He might want to consider moving his belongings over to Scairty’s!

Order your copy of Daryl Gay’s books, “Rabbit Stompin’ And Other Homegrown Safari Tactics,” $19.95 plus $3 S&H and “Life On the Back Page,” $14.95 plus $3 S&H from www.darylgay.com or 16 Press, 219 Brookwood Drive, Dublin, GA, 31021.