Living With Animals

Hardy had waited, squatting uncomfortably in the duck blind since midnight. His feet, although ensconced in thick, woolen socks and heavy boots, were freezing from lack of circulation, and he was more than relieved when his target finally emerged from the dense, wooded thicket that surrounded Coyote Creek Lake.He shifted his 30.06 to the crook of his arm and watched as the sun began to light the far end of the watery expanse in an orange glow. The man wore overalls with a dark colored sweatshirt underneath and knee high rubber waders held up by suspenders. A woolen cap was pulled down over his ears. He dragged a large black plastic bag across te swampy ground, cursing, breathing hard, and strugglling with each sucking step. The bag appeared heavy, and Hardy wondered what animal lay dead inside this time. Tolken stopped at the water's edge and released his grip. The bag sank into the soggy ground as the man stood staring out over the lake, each labored breath spewing forth like a blast of steam from a dying engine. Heavy was not good thought Hardy, obsessed by the bag and its possible contents. Suddenly the old man gasped and yelped like a wounded dog, his hands flying to his chest. He dropped to his knees , flung his head back and howled, then his body flopped sideways,splattering into the soupy swamp where he lay still as a rock.Hardy watched, fascinated by the performance, his rifle at his side, and as the sun struggled to rise above the water oaks, he made his move, slogging slowly toward the man and the bag. The closer he came to the water's edge, the harder it was to move. The muddy earth sucked at his boots pulling him down, forcing him to exert maximum effort to advance, a phenomenon he did not appreciate. The cold wet penetrated his sixty three year old bones, making them ache, the penalty for sucking through a swamp at dawn, But that was the lot he had chosen. Old man Tolken made no sound nor did he move: his capped head resting in a pillow of reeds and mud. His eyes-wide open-stared up at Hardy, and no foggy warm breath rose from his gaping mouth. Hardy reluctantly placed two fingers on the old man's neck and felt no pulse. The final act had looked like a heart attack, or a seizure of some sort. Whatever, Hardy had no doubt:Tolken was dead. He went next to the bag, fearful of what it might contain , for it looked too big to be a town pet,Tolken's usual victim.