I was visiting family friends in the south of England. The father of the family invited me to go duck hunting with him and his youngest son age 12. I was thrilled – a completely new adventure. I had never been hunting before.
His oldest son, when he heard, said, “Do you know what you’re getting into? I don’t think you’ll like it.”
The oldest son knew my sensitivities so wasn’t wrong but my curiosity was greater than any squeamishness. I actually didn’t even think of the squeamy side till the older son said something.
Late afternoon, we drove to the pond. On the way, the father stopped and ordered the dogs to pick up the ducks in the road.
Someone had hit and killed the ducks and the father was not going to waste a good duck.
I thought he was kidding.
He wasn’t.
Last time I had seen roadkill, I was about 15, my friend and I had come upon the results of the accident: some baby possums or possi? squealing because I think their momma had been hit but the day old possums were lost without momma.
We avoided the mess, got to my friend’s house and called 911. I seem to recall that there wasn’t much sympathy. We didn’t know what to do, were desperate to save the babies but I had been brought up that wild animals could have disease or could bite or….so we tried to find someone official to do something.
Back in England: With the dead ducks now in the back, we continued to the pond where we met the other hunters in the club. The father put me in a blind with his younger son, age about 12, and the gameskeeper.
I was excited! This was so cool!
An English hunting experience. Just like the period movies.
No one had suggested I shoot – I had been pretty good with skeet and trap but that’s a far cry from actual ducks and other shooters…so I was quite happy to watch.
We waited.
And waited.
And….then the first flight of ducks came over. Bam! The father shot…and hit two with one shot.
At the same time I thought: Great shot/Oops. Ralph was right. Those birds are dead. Victoria, don’t get sick. Not good manners.
However, I am not a vegan, or vegetarian and love duck so I have certainly never been anti-hunting.
I kept quiet, watched the young son hesitate as well. Although encouraged by his father from another blind and the gameskeeper to get ready for the next flight of ducks, and to shoot, the young son – well, I don’t think he ever shot.
He seemed to always find a reason – something wrong with the gun, he was late to aim…
When it got too dark and the shooting ceased, we went to get the ducks. Or the dogs did.
One excited dog brought a duck, still alive, back in his mouth. The father instructed the young son, already squatting down and petting the duck, saying endearing things, probably already named it; to remove the duck and break its neck.
The father said it again.
I thought to myself, sadly for the father, I don’t think your second son is taking to duck hunting either.
At the same time, the retriever, thinking the young son was taking the duck, let it go. The duck landed on its feet facing away from the dog, shook itself, realized it was free, let out a quack/squawk and took off. We all jumped out of the way. That was a fast waddling sucker!
The dog, thrilled at the game, wagging its tail, chased after it
I confess: I think I joined the young son in silently rooting for the duck.
No such luck. The retriever lived up to its name and after giving the duck a playful head start, retrieved it.
This time the father grabbed the duck and started whacking it against the tree.
I realize now, having now hunted since then, that the reason the father didn’t wring its neck – I mean the duck’s – was because we were all too close and blood might have splattered us. (Or might have had his son or me uncontrollably screaming or blurting something like “GROSS!” or the English version which I won’t repeat, embarrassing him 
Frankly neither of us would have dared).
This thoughtfulness was quite in keeping with the father’s character.
As the father started the first whack, I quietly turned away trying to hold onto my delicious (at least the first time) favorite meal: afternoon tea which included tea, tea sandwiches, and scones.
One of the other hunters was very kind – he took my attention away with humor by saying: Bet you want to do that to a few producers.
It sure took my mind off the poor duck and made me laugh.
We headed home.
Later that evening, I saw the ducks having been plucked and hung. The father pointed out the roadkill – it actually was the best looking of the plucked ducks. He distinguished the types of duck which I don’t remember now.
The older son asked me how, no, if, I had enjoyed the hunt.
I smiled: I enjoyed it. But, you’re right, I don’t think I’ll be taking up duck hunting any time soon. (That was clearly more a function of means and opportunity as well as desire at the time, as later in life I have taken up huntin’, not hunting, with Gen Yeager).
What an outstanding adventure for me.
Since then, I have actually shot a few dove and quail and pheasant. I’m a pretty good shot – of course my instructor is the best – Gen Yeager.
Oddly, I’m a very, very good retriever – I can sight where the birds or animals go down and often do better than the dogs.
I was born, in Chinese astrology, in the Year of the Dog….hmmm.
c. GCYI