My Vet is a Vet

Just the other night (back in 1979) I was sitting by a large campfire sippin’ on a hot cup of coffee as the boys discussed the day’s deer hunt. Now, I’m a redneck and I hunt with rednecks, so ya know the conversation was pretty deep, or something was deep anyway, if you know what I mean. The air was cool, but not really cold, and while all of us wore hooded sweatshirts we didn’t really need ‘em. But, as I glanced around I noticed most of them had been given away by local feed stores or farm tractor companies. One, which had a nice oak camouflage design, had Lort’s Feedlot and Bridal Supplies stenciled on it with black ink. Of course each hunter had a matching hat; after all we do take our hunting attire seriously.

 “I want a trophy and by golly, I’ll have one this year.” Bobby Dale stated brusquely as he poured a cup of coffee.

“Only trophy ya’ll get ‘round heah is if ya join a good bowlin’ team,” Bubba said and then added,  “I only had one shot all day and, I would’ve got it too, ‘cept at the last second I realized it was a mailbox and missed it on purpose.”

Uncle Ben gave a sad moan and replied, “Uh-huh, I know the feelin’ well. Last year I saw mailboxes with horns, fence posts with horns, chickens with horns, and even an outhouse with horns. Every dang thang I saw had horns on it!”

“But ya got yer deer Ben.” Bobby Dale said in confusion.

“Yep, he shore did, but only because the thang woke him up as it moved through where he was sleepin’ late one afternoon,” Burrhead said and then gave a loud cackle.

“I twernt sleepin’, I was restin’ mah eyes.”

“Well, if-un that’s the case Ben, ya sure rest ‘em loud. I’ll bet ya I heard ya restin’ them eyes a good hun’ert yards off in my tree stand to boot,” Willy Eugene spoke, picked up the coffee pot and as he poured a cup, he added, “’Cept it don’t make no never mind. As long as ya fill the tag, legal like, it’s a deer to take home.”

I’d been listenin’ to the conversation, but I’d not said a word. See, I like to see how the conversation is goin’, then stir the pot a bit. I pushed my hat back on my head and asked, “What about all them folks that don’t believe in huntin’ or eatin’ meat? Don’t y’all think we should corn-sider their feelin’s none?”

Burrhead looked at me, blinked his eyes a couple of times, and replied honestly, “Nope.”

“Bunch of fools is what they are. Do they think the chicken they buy in stores is born wrapped in plastic and sitting on Styrofoam?” Uncle Ben asked and pulled his old pipe out of his shirt pocket. He had quit smoking years before, but he enjoyed having the empty stem between his teeth.

“And, do they consider how in the world it got plucked too?” Burrhead asked.

“Most of ‘em ain’t got no idea where food comes from.” Bubba said and then grinned as he added, “And, if they had to butcher their own meat most of ‘em would become one of them veterinarians.”

Willy Eugene shook his head slowly and said, “That’s vegetarians, Bubba, not veterinarians. A vet takes care of yer dawgs or cats when they get sick.”

Bubba’s eyes grew wide in surprise as he asked, “Ya mean a-fore one of them folks can become a vet they gotta serve in the military? I ain’t even asked mine what branch of the service he served in or nothin’. Personal like, I don’t see the need or the reason behind it a-tall.”

“Not a vet, but a vet,” Bobby Dale quickly said and then met my eyes as he grinned. We both knew it took little to get Bubba goin’ good and he was easily confused.

Bubba, now totally mixed up, replied, “It don’t matter none and y’all stop pickin’ on me. Ya know what I mean. But why do they have to be a vet before they can become a vet? Ain’t a vet a vet?”

“No, both a military veteran and a veterinarian are called vets Bubba, but they’re jobs ain’t the same,” I said as I placed my now empty cup by my right foot.

“I know a vet that don’t even have a job,” Burrhead added quickly.

“No animals?” Bubba asked.

“Not that kind of yet, a military vet,” Burrhead replied and I could tell by his tone he was growing angry.

“Now, that’s jess plain dumb, but I mean about the animal doctor, not the military vet,” Bubba replied and I knew he was totally discombobulated.

“Who so?” Uncle Ben asked.

“If they served in the military they’re already vets.”

“Nope, not really, just in the military sense. I mean, Burrhead here is a military vet, but would ya want him to doctor up ole Blue if he got hurt?

Bubba looking at Burrhead, with a twisted grin on his face, replied, “I wouldn’t let him try to doctor up a goose. He ain’t got no learnin’s about critters.  Heck fire, he worked on my car ten years back and it still don’t run.”

“See, I rest my case,” Uncle Ben said.

“What case and what in the world are ya a-talkin’ ‘bout?” Bubba asked and I knew he was growing irritated, so I changed the subject. “Let’s get back to them folks that don’t like hunters.”

“I had a woman stop at my house last year and ask me what I had hangin’ in the big tree in the front yard,” Burrhead said as he added a log to the dying fire.

“What did ya tell ‘er?” Bobby Dale asked..

“I told ‘er it was a cow, with non-typical horns, with a score ‘round 200 and it was butcherin’ time.”

We all shared a laugh and once it grew quiet I said, “Seriously fellers, I don’t know how some folks will survive if something ever happens and we have to revert to the old ways again.”

“What ya mean?” Uncle Ben asked as he pulled his pipe from his teeth.

“Ya know, no electrical power, no gas, no runnin’ water. How could most folks survive without them thangs?”

Uncle Ben smiled and said, “I do it everyday.”

“Yep, but by choice. I mean, what do y’all think would happen?”

“Well,” Burrhead said, “I think a lot of them folks that don’t like to wear animal fur would be out in force, lookin’ fer a new fur coat come a hard snow.”

“Yep and them folks that think chickens are loved to death by an unknown butcher would soon learn how to prepare their own meat.”

A few minutes of silence filled the night and then Bubba said, “I hope that don’t ever happen.”

“Why’s that Bubba?” I asked, because I was actually interested in his answer.

“Because I don’t want to share my neck of the woods with a bunch of hunters that expect a deer to look like a cartoon Bambi and don’t know the difference between the barrel and stock of a gun.”

“What yer sayin’ then Bubba, is most of ‘em couldn’t find their rear-ends, even if they started with their hands in their rear pants pockets.”

“Exactly.”

The remainder of the night was filled with similar intellectual subjects until we moved off to our sleeping spots one by one. As I lay in my sleeping bag I thought, I’m one lucky man to live where I live. How many fellers can hunt with a nice group of friends and family and discuss such deep and meaningful subjects. I’ll bet them big rich jaspers can’t buy this ... or sadly, even appreciate it.

The next day we all filled our deer tags, but that’s another story for another time.

© 2006 by Gary L. Benton