You fucker!
My dad used to hunt squirrels, but not for the meat. I mean, our dog who helped him tree the squirrels loved the meat, but there was no cooking involved.
Dad hunted them because they raided his peacan trees (that's pronounced "pickahn" and NOT "pee-can" as some Yankees insist we say down in the South, but don't.)
One time Dad decided to start sending me up the trees to dump the squirrel's nests. He knew the squirrels were in there, but he couldn't get a clear shot. So up I'd go to dump those nests way up in the tree and send the squirrels running. Dad would shoot at them while I was still up in the tree, now all covered in squirrel pee because that's how squirrels hold their nests together.
They pile up a bunch of leaves in the crook of a tree and pee all over them before tramping them down with their feet. So when you dump their nests the pee all comes out all over you, while your father is shooting at you.
Yeah, good times.
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