Bill Cooper
Rabbits were once the most sought after game animals in Missouri. Every farm house that had a boy or two in it, along with a couple of lop-eared beagle hounds, was sure to be the sight of Saturday morning bunny hunts. Boys that cringed at the thought of rolling out of bed during the week for school, clamored into the cold, winter darkness, by the thousands and had their bands of beagles howling merrily in the barnyard behind the farm house by first light, much to the chagrin of farm house moms. Saturday morning sleep-ins weren’t in fashion yet for moms, so they always met their half-frozen, red-faced, bunny hunting boys at the back door with steaming cups of hot chocolate and listened intently to the tales of their boys’ hunt.
Sound like a fairy tale? No, such scenes played out regularly up through the 1960’s. By then, however, farm life had begun to change. Farms grew larger. Farmers grew fewer. Clean row farming techniques eliminated lots of cover and food for rabbits and other wildlife. Fencerows were cleared to allow for a little more ground to till or more space for fescue. And rabbit hunters grew scarce as the rabbitat and rabbit populations dwindled. Deer and turkey populations were beginning to explode and many bunny hunters turned their attention to larger game.
Rabbit hunting is a social sport, and old habits die hard for some folks. The memories of frosty mornings, friends and families gathered around the tailgate of a pickup for coffee and stories and the magical ingredient, yodeling beagles, was more than some could sacrifice in the name of progress. A few beagle owning rabbit hunters have kept the traditions alive to pass on to the next generation.
My first rabbit hunt of the 1988 season proved a real bust. It occurred the day after Christmas.
The outside world had become entombed in a sparkling chrysalis of ice during the night. It was not exactly perfect rabbit hunting conditions, but I had enticed my nine year old son, Jayson with stories about my rabbit hunting adventures as a boy on the family farm. I began carrying a .410 shotgun at age ten. Jayson, therefore, reasoned that he needed some practice with his BB-gun.
A couple of other ingredients of a successful rabbit hunt had shown up at our house over Christmas. Chad Hegwood, my ten-year-old nephew, had flown in from Colorado to spend the holidays. And Santa Claus had delivered two new beagle pups to our dog pens. Santa was so brilliant back then.
By mid-afternoon, temperatures had climbed in the 20’s, and the sun had popped out. Laughing, giggling, and wrestling the whole time, the boys helped me load the necessary equipment and the new puppies into the pickup. Fifteen minutes later we pulled into a harvested soybean field on a friend’s farm near Vichy. The grain and cattle farm had historically been a rabbit haven. One corner of the farm harbored an almost impenetrable tangle of sassafras, blackberry, multiflora rose, and honeysuckle vines.
Andy Spurgeon, the farm owner, assured us of the presence of rabbits, and Marge, his wife invited us into the old farm house and offered coffee and hot chocolate. Memories flooded my mind.
Andy pointed us in the right direction and insisted that we take Lady, his old farm beagle along. Lady had a regular habit of giving chase to the farm yard bunnies for an hour or so everyday.
Electricity filled the cold, crisp air as boys and beagles piled out of the truck to begin the hunt. Lady, Andy’s old dog, immediately poked her way slowly through a honeysuckle tangle. Stubbie and Bagles, the pups, ran a few laps around us to work off some of their excess puppy energy. In short order they joined Lady to see what was so interesting about all that tangled-up stuff she was rooting through. Rabbit hunting school had begun.
I pumped the boys to near hyper-tension, as I told them every couple of minutes that the dogs were going to jump a rabbit any second. I remember my Dad saying that. Young eyes scanned the vegetation like x-ray. Thirty minutes later doubt became the better part of valor. The boys quite openly expressed their concern for both the sanity of me and the dogs. Lady obviously doubted the sanity of crawling through the tangled mass of frozen vegetation. She promptly trotted home to the comforts of her warm dog house.
While driving home and trying to ignore the powerful odors emanating from wet dogs and wetter boys drying from the heater fan running on high, I began laying plans for the next hunt. It was going to have to be a good one to resurrect my reputation. However, I knew as the season waned rabbits would become harder to find.
Late season rabbits are experts at survival. Remaining bunnies have already eluded hounds, men, hawks, foxes, coyotes, bad weather, and food shortages. The fast little fur balls learn quickly and have powerful instincts to live to continue the species. In a nutshell, Jayson, and I, and two green, beagle puppies were going to be facing the toughest rabbits around.
An old home site on the corner of a neighbor’s grape vineyard looked like the perfect spot for our next hunt. Piles of old boards, intertwined with discarded wire and rocks, all overgrown with an assortment of grasses and herbaceous cover, mad the site excellent rabbitat.
Four inches of snow fell over New Years, followed by extremely low temperatures. Rabbits often hole up to sit out such weather conditions. All we needed was a sunny day with rising temperatures. Milder weather would bring the bunnies out of hiding in search of food, as well as for preening sessions in the warming rays.
The cold snap broke. The sun shined brightly in the winter sky. I phoned my neighbor for permission to hunt. No sooner had I hung up the phone, than Jayson began currying around collecting long johns, bots, shells, and the pups, Bagels and Stubbie.
Five minutes later we pulled into an old dirt road that ran right by the dilapidated old farm house. Bingo! We could see rabbit tracks from the truck. Reluctantly, I assured Jayson that the dogs would be chasing rabbits within minutes.
The pups bailed out of the truck and began their usual puppy races. Jayson and I began kicking and stomping the nearest woodpile to scare out any hiding rabbits. A maze of rabbit tracks weaved in and out of every available source of cover. Fried rabbit would certainly be in our future.
The pups picked up so many rabbit trails they didn’t know which way to go. They slowly worked through the maze of weeds, brush and wood piles. A woodcock flitted up and went back down 20-yards away. Ten minutes later, a covey of quail flushed and sailed to the next rise. The pups ignored the birds. Their nostrils burned with fresh rabbit scent.
The first rabbit of the day exploded from a clump of weeds under my feet. Startled, I turned to fire at the speeding bunny. The report of my 20-gauge shotgun only quickened its pace. Jayson missed the excitement, and closed the gap between us.
The dogs howled on a hot trail, not far away. A rabbit darted through the weeds. I missed. Then another. I missed, again. Jayson made some snide remark about my shooting abilities.
The pups’ barking grew frantic. They obviously were sight running a bunny. I spotted an escaping rabbit. It stood upright to check the location of the trailing beagles. Perfect shot. Jayson gave me a high five as we retrieved our prize.
Jayson desperately wanted to get his first bunny with his pellet gun. I spotted a rabbit hunkered under a clump of thick weeds. It was a great demonstration of protective coloration in the wild. The animal blended perfectly with the weedy cover, so much so, that Jayson could not spot the rabbit, even though it hid less than 10-feet away.
Jayson strained to see the rabbit, bending left then right to change the angle of his view. Long minutes later, he saw an eye, then an ear. Only then did the whole rabbit take shape. Jayson raised his pellet gun, to ready for the shot just like he had done at hundreds of tin cans. When he clicked the safety off, the rabbit had endured enough and bounded from its hide, darting through Jayson’s snow covered feet to make its getaway.
After harvesting three bunnies, we called it a day. Jayson knew we could legally take three more. I explained that it was not necessary to take a full limit of game every time. Three would be more than enough for a fine meal for our family. The greatest reward of being with boy, beagles and bunnies had already been enjoyed. But, the best was yet to come. My wife later told me that Jayson had confided in her, “Mom, I will always have to go rabbit hunting with Dad, because he just can’t see those rabbits like me.”
Sound like a fairy tale? No, such scenes played out regularly up through the 1960’s. By then, however, farm life had begun to change. Farms grew larger. Farmers grew fewer. Clean row farming techniques eliminated lots of cover and food for rabbits and other wildlife. Fencerows were cleared to allow for a little more ground to till or more space for fescue. And rabbit hunters grew scarce as the rabbitat and rabbit populations dwindled. Deer and turkey populations were beginning to explode and many bunny hunters turned their attention to larger game.
Rabbit hunting is a social sport, and old habits die hard for some folks. The memories of frosty mornings, friends and families gathered around the tailgate of a pickup for coffee and stories and the magical ingredient, yodeling beagles, was more than some could sacrifice in the name of progress. A few beagle owning rabbit hunters have kept the traditions alive to pass on to the next generation.
My first rabbit hunt of the 1988 season proved a real bust. It occurred the day after Christmas.
The outside world had become entombed in a sparkling chrysalis of ice during the night. It was not exactly perfect rabbit hunting conditions, but I had enticed my nine year old son, Jayson with stories about my rabbit hunting adventures as a boy on the family farm. I began carrying a .410 shotgun at age ten. Jayson, therefore, reasoned that he needed some practice with his BB-gun.
A couple of other ingredients of a successful rabbit hunt had shown up at our house over Christmas. Chad Hegwood, my ten-year-old nephew, had flown in from Colorado to spend the holidays. And Santa Claus had delivered two new beagle pups to our dog pens. Santa was so brilliant back then.
By mid-afternoon, temperatures had climbed in the 20’s, and the sun had popped out. Laughing, giggling, and wrestling the whole time, the boys helped me load the necessary equipment and the new puppies into the pickup. Fifteen minutes later we pulled into a harvested soybean field on a friend’s farm near Vichy. The grain and cattle farm had historically been a rabbit haven. One corner of the farm harbored an almost impenetrable tangle of sassafras, blackberry, multiflora rose, and honeysuckle vines.
Andy Spurgeon, the farm owner, assured us of the presence of rabbits, and Marge, his wife invited us into the old farm house and offered coffee and hot chocolate. Memories flooded my mind.
Andy pointed us in the right direction and insisted that we take Lady, his old farm beagle along. Lady had a regular habit of giving chase to the farm yard bunnies for an hour or so everyday.
Electricity filled the cold, crisp air as boys and beagles piled out of the truck to begin the hunt. Lady, Andy’s old dog, immediately poked her way slowly through a honeysuckle tangle. Stubbie and Bagles, the pups, ran a few laps around us to work off some of their excess puppy energy. In short order they joined Lady to see what was so interesting about all that tangled-up stuff she was rooting through. Rabbit hunting school had begun.
I pumped the boys to near hyper-tension, as I told them every couple of minutes that the dogs were going to jump a rabbit any second. I remember my Dad saying that. Young eyes scanned the vegetation like x-ray. Thirty minutes later doubt became the better part of valor. The boys quite openly expressed their concern for both the sanity of me and the dogs. Lady obviously doubted the sanity of crawling through the tangled mass of frozen vegetation. She promptly trotted home to the comforts of her warm dog house.
While driving home and trying to ignore the powerful odors emanating from wet dogs and wetter boys drying from the heater fan running on high, I began laying plans for the next hunt. It was going to have to be a good one to resurrect my reputation. However, I knew as the season waned rabbits would become harder to find.
Late season rabbits are experts at survival. Remaining bunnies have already eluded hounds, men, hawks, foxes, coyotes, bad weather, and food shortages. The fast little fur balls learn quickly and have powerful instincts to live to continue the species. In a nutshell, Jayson, and I, and two green, beagle puppies were going to be facing the toughest rabbits around.
An old home site on the corner of a neighbor’s grape vineyard looked like the perfect spot for our next hunt. Piles of old boards, intertwined with discarded wire and rocks, all overgrown with an assortment of grasses and herbaceous cover, mad the site excellent rabbitat.
Four inches of snow fell over New Years, followed by extremely low temperatures. Rabbits often hole up to sit out such weather conditions. All we needed was a sunny day with rising temperatures. Milder weather would bring the bunnies out of hiding in search of food, as well as for preening sessions in the warming rays.
The cold snap broke. The sun shined brightly in the winter sky. I phoned my neighbor for permission to hunt. No sooner had I hung up the phone, than Jayson began currying around collecting long johns, bots, shells, and the pups, Bagels and Stubbie.
Five minutes later we pulled into an old dirt road that ran right by the dilapidated old farm house. Bingo! We could see rabbit tracks from the truck. Reluctantly, I assured Jayson that the dogs would be chasing rabbits within minutes.
The pups bailed out of the truck and began their usual puppy races. Jayson and I began kicking and stomping the nearest woodpile to scare out any hiding rabbits. A maze of rabbit tracks weaved in and out of every available source of cover. Fried rabbit would certainly be in our future.
The pups picked up so many rabbit trails they didn’t know which way to go. They slowly worked through the maze of weeds, brush and wood piles. A woodcock flitted up and went back down 20-yards away. Ten minutes later, a covey of quail flushed and sailed to the next rise. The pups ignored the birds. Their nostrils burned with fresh rabbit scent.
The first rabbit of the day exploded from a clump of weeds under my feet. Startled, I turned to fire at the speeding bunny. The report of my 20-gauge shotgun only quickened its pace. Jayson missed the excitement, and closed the gap between us.
The dogs howled on a hot trail, not far away. A rabbit darted through the weeds. I missed. Then another. I missed, again. Jayson made some snide remark about my shooting abilities.
The pups’ barking grew frantic. They obviously were sight running a bunny. I spotted an escaping rabbit. It stood upright to check the location of the trailing beagles. Perfect shot. Jayson gave me a high five as we retrieved our prize.
Jayson desperately wanted to get his first bunny with his pellet gun. I spotted a rabbit hunkered under a clump of thick weeds. It was a great demonstration of protective coloration in the wild. The animal blended perfectly with the weedy cover, so much so, that Jayson could not spot the rabbit, even though it hid less than 10-feet away.
Jayson strained to see the rabbit, bending left then right to change the angle of his view. Long minutes later, he saw an eye, then an ear. Only then did the whole rabbit take shape. Jayson raised his pellet gun, to ready for the shot just like he had done at hundreds of tin cans. When he clicked the safety off, the rabbit had endured enough and bounded from its hide, darting through Jayson’s snow covered feet to make its getaway.
After harvesting three bunnies, we called it a day. Jayson knew we could legally take three more. I explained that it was not necessary to take a full limit of game every time. Three would be more than enough for a fine meal for our family. The greatest reward of being with boy, beagles and bunnies had already been enjoyed. But, the best was yet to come. My wife later told me that Jayson had confided in her, “Mom, I will always have to go rabbit hunting with Dad, because he just can’t see those rabbits like me.”
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