Real Women Hunt Moose

Pandemic Survival

De: Richard Eugene McCallum

Narrado por: Megan Brewer

“How many bottles will I need?”

“You only got one moose permit, so I reckon you don’t need too many bottles. On the other hand, it may take you a few times, in different places, before you’re at the place whar’s thar’s a moose lurkin’. Like I said earlier, don’t go huntin’ for moose whar’s thar’ ain’t no moose to hunt.”

My eyes show a smile, but actually, my lips purse under the mask, and I push on. My purchase includes three six-ounce bottles of Bull Moose enticement at a hundred bucks a pop.

“A lot to pay,” I say. He shrugs and responds, “Collecting fresh-female-moose-urine-in-heat takes a special talent.”

“I can imagine…” I pour a steady stream into the current, at the rate I estimate a female moose might relieve herself, and the bucket nears empty. My observation focuses on the drifting branches rising and sinking in the current. A swarm of horseflies’ hovers above, do they generate the buzzing sound?

The channel swells and deflates as if a large object displaces its volume. I lay down on the tree limb and watch the effect of this object passing. A monster movie comes to mind. Jaws, the shark, attacks. Or so it appears.

A huge bull moose with trophy antlers breaches up out of the deep. His spines jam the entanglement of branches supporting my lair. The beast curls his lips and bellows in ecstasy. The attractant worked. Only problem?No female moose. The moose’s pikes entwine my clothes, and my body snares on top of the bull’s head. Unbelievable.

By now, the bull knows he did not capture the object of his desire. He cannot fling off my body, while floundering in the deep, and struggling to keep his nose and mouth from going under. A Scream. A Prayer. Finally, the bull smashes into a logjam, which shifts with the impact and traps him: he panics and tosses his head from side to side.

©2021 Richard E McCallum (P)2022 Richard E McCallum