Chasing bunnies is about as fun as hunting can get, but toss in a few buddies to tag along and the hunt turns into a laughter-filled socail afair.
My older brother, Phil, lives in Vandalia, Missouri not far from Mark Twain Lake. The area around Vandalia is rolling hills that are farmed heavily. Patches of woods still exist and woody draws and brushy fence rows are abundant. Toss in the fields of wheat, soybeans and corn and it all adds up to perfect “rabitat”.
I jumped at the invitation to tag along on a rabbit hunt with Phil and friends Rob Cassaday, Michael Graham, and J.R. Graham, all seasoned, serious rabbit hunters. I had not been rabbit hunting in so long I felt I would be a novice in the company of frequent bunny hunters. To take the heat off my rusty abilities of shotgunning for rabbits, I packed my Browning BuckMark .22 pistol with a red dot scope. Surely no one would make fun of me for using a pistol or for missing with a pistol. I am 58 years old. I should have known better.
Phil and I grew up on a cotton farm in Mississippi County, Missouri. All we had to do to go rabbit hunting was to walk out the back door. Rowdy, our old beagle, collie, and hound mix usually laid around the yard somewhere. He recognized the slam of the old screen door and I believe Rowdy could smell the oil and powder from Phil’s old single shot 12-gauge. No sooner would we be out the back door than Rowdy would be bouncing by our side as happy to be going hunting as us two boys. Our trio spent countless hours tromping the fence rows, ditch lines, cane patches, bayou banks, and field borders chasing rabbits. We were never happier, Rowdy included.
Rabbit became standard table fare at our house. Mom served the fresh meat up in a variety of dishes, but we often begged for barbecued rabbit, knowing we would pay the price. Mom made her own sauce, which had to be 90 percent something extremely hot. Ours eyes watered and an occasional tear dribbled down our cheeks as we gobbled the tasty rabbit legs down chased by quart jars of ice water.
Phil often made long jaunts from the house in search of swamp rabbits. Rowdy always traipsed along. Phil religiously returned home with more rabbits than he could carry. The limit was 10. He carried a piece of rope with him to tie them together so he could drag them. He became quiet a legend as a swamp rqbbit hunter in the Mounds community where we lived.
Vandalia is quite different from Mississippi County. No swamps, no big ditches or bayous, no cotton fields or wild cane patches, but row crop country is always good for rabbits and rabbit hunters are the same regardless of where they come from. They love to hunt bunnies and like to eat them as well.
We loaded into a couple of vehicles and headed to a nearby farm that J. R. Had permission to hunt. Gear and guns came out quickly and each hunter in turn showed off his gun and told the history of rabbits and other game they had harvested with it. Stories and comparisons of guns and gear are an intimate part of rabbit hunting. Each has his own preferences and most wouldn’t change guns if something better did come along. Tradition is solid among rabbit hunters. Or, it could be said that they are just hard headed. It doesn’t matter. Rabbit hunters are not worried about being politically correct. We were simply out to enjoy a morning of fresh, cold air, stretch our legs, catch up on one another’s lives, kick up a few rabbits and make fun of the other guys’ misses. Such social comraderie is a stress reliever to the max. No one talked about the state of the union, taxes, or social evils. We quickly became engrossed in the simple pleasures of rabbit hunting.
We hunted without the aid of beagles, so someone had to be the dog to root rabbits out of the wide, weedy fence row we were hunting. Phil volunteered to attack the tangles first. J. R. And I partnered up on one side of the fence while Michael and Rob took the other.
In short order, we heard the shout of “rabbit”. A 12-gauge roared once, twice, and then laughter broke out. Someone missed. Names weren’t being called, at least at first. I had to ask. Shouldn’t have. Created digs for myself later.
Phil continued stomping through the thick stuff. A shot echoed from the other side of the fence again. A second round of shots blocked out the victory shots of the first shooter. When all the smoke and laughter cleared, Michael and Rob had their first bunnies of the day.
The only action J.R. and I had seen came with rabbits darting into the turn row, running like their tails were on fire and darting back into the jungle of weeds and brush. J.R. took Phil’s place as bunny kicker. Honeysuckle vines made the going tough, but he soon stirred up some action. J.R. spotted a sitting rabbit and managed to shoot it in the top of the head with his single shot 12-gauge. Not a bit of good meat was lost. That is a true sign of either an experienced or an old rabbit hunter.
Phil and I reminisced about our boyhood days of rabbit hunting on the farm. A bunny bounded from the cover and made a quick escape before either of us raised a gun. We both realized the time together would be far more beneficial than any rabbits we might harvest. We laughed as the bounding rabbit made its escape. “That would not have happened back on the farm”, Phil said. “Times do change.”
Shotguns roared again on the other side of the fence. Rob had number two.
Our troop turned to cross a weedy field, when a rabbit broke and ran. Michael fired and thought he had missed. Rob and J.R. managed to knock off two more fleeing bunnies as we tromped trough the field. Michael found his rabbit as we cleared the field on the other side.
We entered a narrow, brushy funnel between two fields. Someone shot at the fleeing rabbit three times, then someone else. J.R. shot at the rabbit three times over the next few minutes with his single shot 12-gauge. Everyone caught some heavy ridicule over the amount of ammunition expended on one rabbit. And the bunny still ran free. “Cheaper to buy one at the farmers’ market”, someone commented.
I spotted the rabbit sitting between two big clumps of buffalo grass. “J.R., be my spotter”, I whispered, as I unholstered my .22 pistol. I settled the red dot on the bunnies head and fired.
“You shot a foot out in front of him”, J.R. instructed. The rabbit had been farther than I estimated. I raised the red dot two inches over its head and fired. “You shot just over its back”, came the spotters reply.
I adjusted for the third shot and fired a gain. Missed again. The roar of a shotgun toppled the rabbit. “Hey, you shot my rabbit,” I retorted to J.R.
“I was afraid you were going to run out of ammo”, he replied. Everyone had a hearty laugh and we went to retrieve our quarry.
The wind grew colder and legs began to ache. Chatter echoed back and fourth as our group headed to the trucks. Laughter and gouging continued. Phil and I knew what was coming. We were the only two in the group that had not taken a bunny.
After a few photos, everyone began casing guns and packing gear in the trucks. Someone made the comment, “hey, did anyone notice that the two oldest guys in the bunch did not kill a one of these 8 rabbits?” Before the uproarious laughter subsided, Phil grinned from ear to ear. It was as if E.F. Hutton was about to speak. Everyone listened. “Yeah, Bill and I aren’t so dumb. We don’t have any rabbits to clean!” The sage had spoken.
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