Problems with dog poop, hunting

As I mowed today for the last time this year, I observed that it is an unalterable law of the universe that no matter how fine a man a person a pet owner is or how thoroughly he searches his yard, he is still going to get poop on his shoes and in his lawnmower tires. This constitutes my chief argument against the existence of a benevolent deity.

Peggy and I took three bike rides last week on Weyerhaeuser roads, which we like because they are usually gated. It being hunting season, the gates were open, and we encountered several hunters. They were mostly young men, wearing camouflage, and driving pickups. We worried little about them running over the dogs, because they were barely moving. Presumably, they were looking for things to kill. I don’t know if hunters actually shoot their prey from inside their trucks, but I have only seen them outside on two occasions, and on those occasions they were leaning against the side panels. This raises the question of why hunters wear camouflage. All I can figure is that they want their prey to think their trucks are unoccupied.

The sport of hunting differs from human-against-human sports in two ways. The most obvious is that hunters kill things. The other is that human-against-human sports include rules that favor skill and fairplay. Even I could beat Tiger Woods at golf if I poked his eyes out, or I could knock Mike Tyson right out of the ring if I hit him from behind with a steel pipe. Such rules don’t apply in the world of hunting. If they did, hunters would attack grizzly bears with Bowie knives instead of shooting them from distant hillsides. Such considerations cause me to hold hunting in very low esteem, yet I know several people who hunt, and they all seem fair-minded and even kindly in their ordinary lives. I think of them this way …

Ken (a non-hunter) was my best friend in Mississippi. One day, Ken and I were at someone’s house, and this person’s little girl was flirting with us by “making eyes” as it is called in the South. After we left, Ken said, “That kid sure did want it, and someday somebody’s gonna give it to her.” I first tried to convince myself that I had heard wrong; then I felt dismayed and heartsick. All of the many little things I loved about Ken were still there, but I could never get past this one big thing.

Hunters say they hunt because they enjoy the outdoors, or the camaraderie, or the thrill of the chase, yet none of these things need end in the death of an animal. Some few say they hunt because they enjoy eating game. If you are going to eat meat anyway, I suppose you might as well kill it yourself, yet I find even this reason suspect due to the amount of money the meat costs. The price of trucks, guns, licenses, clothing, and, in some cases, trips to faraway places, make for some awfully expensive jerky.

I have no doubt that many hunters are among the finest people in the world except for this one thing that they do, but, as with pedophilia, it ranks as a very big thing in my eyes, and I can never get entirely past it. My life would be easier if I could. My best efforts involve a remembrance of my own sins, including that of hunting. From ages eight to eighteen, I hunted—nearly always alone even when I was eight. My reasoning was threefold. First, I was curious about death, and I thought I could better understand it by being near it. Second, I believed that hunting was what real men did, and I wanted to be a real man. Third, I hoped that the power of the animals I killed would pass into me. This sounded idiotic even at the time, but as with other magical thoughts, I later learned that it was both common and ancient. The best face I can put upon my years as a hunter is to say that what I wanted with animals was intimacy, even oneness. The problem with this is that I wanted them to be absorbed into me, and most definitely not me into them.

Marvin and the junior warden's station

Marvin is an eighty-year-old Masonic brother. He is popular, does more than his share to keep the lodge running, and knows Masonic ritual better than anyone else in our lodge. In fact, he knows it so well that I told myself that here was an example of what diligence and intelligence combined with decades of experience could accomplish. Then I learned that Brother Marvin only joined the lodge six years ago.

The Worshipful Master, Senior Warden, and Junior Warden comprise the hierarchy of the lodge. Under normal circumstances, the lower two officers progress to the Master’s position. Brother Marvin served as Senior Warden this year, and will therefore become Master in December. A month ago, he asked me if I would “stand” for election as Junior Warden. I told him that I would only consider it if I didn’t have to wear a tux (the Master dictates how his officers dress). He looked displeased, but said nothing. I didn’t hear anymore about it, and I hoped he had found someone else because I didn’t want the job anyway. This week, on the night of elections, he asked me again if I would take the post. “You already asked me once, and I said I wouldn’t wear a tuxedo.” “I know,” he said, “So, will you stand for the office?”

“No, I’ve decided against it because it would put me in line to be Master in two years, and I don’t want to do that.” Marvin chews gum, and you can gauge how fast his brain is working by how fast his jaws are moving. “Why not?” he demanded as he moved his face close to mine, chomping furiously. Thus challenged, I laid out each of several reservations. Marvin agreed with some, disagreed with some, and then said: “Lowell, when they made me Senior Warden, I told them I wouldn’t accept the Master’s post unless I could get a slate of officers I could trust.” This unexpected mixture of flattery combined with a personal appeal was probably the only way he could have won me over.

Later, I remembered that he has no say about who will become Senior Warden since that post is normally filled by the former Junior Warden. I also realized that most of the other positions were also predetermined. For example, treasurers and secretaries stay put for years, because few are willing to take the jobs. Other posts are occupied by old men who don’t want to move. We have a few younger brothers, but they are too new to become Junior Warden.

I realized that I had been had. Marvin knew he couldn’t browbeat or shame me into accepting the office, but he realized that he might be able to lure me with flattery coupled with an appeal to loyalty. Upon realizing this, I vowed to evermore be on guard against the manipulating bastard. Later, I just smiled, because I knew I had been outwitted fair and square. Marvin hadn’t hidden anything from me. He had simply acknowledged that I am good at the work I do, and that it would be a loss to him and the lodge if I refused to move up.

Scavenging, profanity

I just came home with a knit cap that I found in the street. It was dripping wet and contained an earthworm, a scorpion, and leaf litter; but it was a Carhartt’s and almost new. Peggy hates my scavenging, but I ask her not to deny me such a simple pleasure, for I value my finds even though I usually pass them on to other people. Today’s hat is not even a style that I like, but I cleaned it well, and it is now drying in the laundry room. My father also scavenged, but he never got rid of his finds, and he brought home a lot of truly worthless stuff like broken toys and machinery parts of unknown usage—things that even a junk dealer wouldn’t want.

Peggy also hates it when I scream profanities in the front yard, and I can see her point there, but I was brought up that way, so it comes naturally. Mostly, I curse the dogs (“What the f___ are you rolling in?!”), but I have cursed other people and even inanimate objects. My father screamed profanities not only in the yard, but on streets, out car windows, in stores, in other people’s houses (while he was working), and every other conceivable location except church, but then he only went to church when he was in one of his theistic phases.

Peggy’s father never even whispered profanities, although her mother let loose on rare occasions. Like my father, she was emotionally unstable, and I suppose people who scream profanities in public are more likely to be unstable than are people who refrain. Nowadays, I hear loud profanity in public all the time, even from girls who are barely old enough to have breasts. Maybe our whole society is becoming unstable.