I have had the grand privilege of enjoying the thrill of hunting seasons for almost fifty years now. When I was a lad of 10, my mother trusted me with a .22 rifle. I fell instantly and incurably in love. I am unable to help myself. I twitch, turn, tumble with joy. I fail to hold a demeanor acceptable in social circles ...mutter, mutter. I never tire of the anticipation. My stomach is churning with butterflies as I conjure the thought of yet another trip through the fields. I simply cannot get enough of this feeling. It is an elixir; a giver of one of life's greatest pleasures. It cures most ails. It defies all that is wrong in the world. Certainly, it is God's intention that we hunt. I dearly feel sorry for those poor and lost souls who fail to see what I see. They are forever lost in the den of the ignorant. Mutter, mutter. The fever gets worse ... my little darling, Stella sits by me even now. She nuzzles me as if to say "Dad, how long? How long 'til we hunt again for real?" How long until I flush grouse and pheasants; swim out to fallen ducks and geese; smell the gun oil? Not long now, Sweetie. Stay near. I won't, I can't, go without you.   Ah yes, the hunt. That effervescent deity bestowed upon us by a higher order. Have you ever wondered what it would he like to have missed all this? I cannot Fathom it. I cannot begin to understand how to could get along without it. But alas, I must be off. It is only a few weeks away. I have much to do. My goodness, what if I forget something? What if? What if? Mutter, mutter, mutter. Which gun will I use this year? By gosh, I have a few new ones. Oh, but what if I scratch one of them? I am not able to decide! What will I do? Mutter, mutter...
Jim, oh Jim, wake up. Come to your senses. You are talking in your sleep. You are breaking out in a sweat. Your heart is racing. Long live the hunt.
Mutter, mutter mutter.

By Jim Sarkauskas
The Muttering Hunter