The Hunt

30 degrees,  overcast,  quiet.  In the distance birds screech, squawk, and shriek;  they sense the chaos that approaches.    Nerve ends on fire;  she can feel her prey.   So close, so fierce;  yet,  so  hidden—coiled and ready to strike.

With her Texas heart pounding,  she emerged  from the safety of the truck wearing her traditional Norwegian hunting head gear.  She squinted and scanned the wilderness.  The horizon was bleak and barren—non-descript, almost Prairie-like. 

She paused for a moment, her face frozen, lost in her thoughts… “Lutefisk or hunt?”   A tough decision.   But the hunt was in her blood;  through marriage  it was pre-programmed into her DNA, she has no control; there was no turning back.  The adrenalin charge of the hunt quelled her belly rumblings, overpowering her desire for the rotted, lye-soaked, codfish.

She crouched down and leaned forward;  she  felt the wind and looked for tracks.   She detected a great deal of evidence that tribes of slightly inebriated (and generally balding) Swedish huntsmen had frequently plundered this area since Thanksgiving (hunting is a well established endeavor that tends to counteract the after effects of overindulging on goulash and Jell-O laced with marshmallows and Miracle Whip).   Yet, she knows her trophy has eluded the ever-so-slightly intoxicated Swedes and her prize still lurks and waits  in darkest corner of the prairie.  

She prepared well.  In the fall, she spent a week and scouted for droppings,  she researched mating habits and  perfected her mating call which she will use to lure her quarry into her web.  She knows no mercy: she will show no mercy.  And she will not leave the desolate and bitter wind-blown prairie without her prize.

She approached  from down wind—her footsteps soft and silent on the snow.   Her breathing was controlled,  her movement was deliberate.  Close.   The intensity increased; she focused on her target, she was prepared for the hunted to bolt.   She closed in; her heart pounding,  her throat tight, panicked; yet, she  forced her hand to hold steady.    Closer.   Closer yet.  Her unknowing victim was within reach.   She uttered the direction “Now!”  Her subservient, truck-driving, prairie porter was directed to slay her prey.   Quickly & silently he cut and slashed.  It was over in an instant.  

The Huntress breathed deep; she was  delighted.   Superior hunt indeed.  She was beguiled with herself—she had bested  her arch-nemesis Petey.   At this very moment Petey had not even reached his hunting grounds in Princeton; nor had Petey commenced his hunt !

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Her  Trophy—Gutted, Stuffed, and Displayed in her Lair….