Daggone, Denny. That's not a flattering photo of me with the redeye untouched.
Brought back three hogs and two that Monty kilt, so am in sausage mode now. Have four hams ready for the smokehouse midweek.
SHot another hog that I couldn't find, and it looked to be the best of all four shots. That's why I'm standing on the porch half nekked. Stanley Anderson and I put his two tracking dogs on its blood trail, and the dog in training, a menace to anything wild, a new addition to the team, for which I am responsible (long story, but I am its benefactor), a pit bull cross I named Slash that I found at Milston the year before as a half-starved weanling, a pitiful snarling worm-filled wretch with broken teeth from living off rocks and dirt, a pup that dared me to rescue it, a malevolent ingrate from its new position of health and vigor, ignored the blood trail and jumped a wholly innocent, large and untouched hog instead, tore after it and grabbed hold in ball-deep swamp water where I had only benefit of a four inch lockblade to finish it off. Was totally unprepared for this as had expected to find only a dead hog after a short dog-training run.
The legend of Slash begins. He proved twice on this hunt that when you cut him off the lead strap, you're guaranteed meat somewhere of some kind. Burger, most likely.
Was a great time with friends and wonderful companions.