Insane Weasels

My first hunting trip was no laughing matter. Mostly because I got the living shit eaten out of me by rabid weasels. Here's how it started.

We arrived at the campground about 6 hours after departure. I saw a real big buck as soon as I got out of the car. I shot it an it died. I was pretty proud of myself. I imagined us driving home, me holding its antlers. People would look at me and ibwould look back with a look that said "Oh yeah. I killed this thing. I'm awesome." And they would look back with a look that said "Holy smokes! How did you manage that?" And I would just smile.

I asked my dad if he could carry it o the car, and he did. I would have been proud with just this. But then I realized somethig: if I could shoot one huge buck that fast, imagine how many more I could get. I tried to picture an army of deer corpses, limping around. That made me happy. So we stayed to hunt more. BIG MISTAKE.

After setting up camp, I went scouting around. I saw a dead rabbit's head from behind a bush. To be silly, I jumped up and grabbed it, ready to "kill" the corpse. Just then, I noticed tiny bite marks all over it. I looked down and was surrounded m
by weasels. I'm pretty sure they were rabbid, because they had white foam in their mouths an a crazed look in the eye I sometimes get when I'm really pissed off. They dove and I ran. But my 11-year-old legs weren't nearly fast enough to outrun weasels. They pounced on me. And I screamed for help.

When my dad arrived, the furry rodents of death ran off. He picked me up and decided it was time to go. So we packed up and tied my only kill to te top of the car.

Worst of all, my imagination of when people would look at me and I would smile didn't happen. In fact, no one seemed to care.