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Learn When to Shoot, Sh*t or Go Blind
My erstwhile scout however, was not to be found so I had to load the carcass on my own and then return home. Later at beer drinks and parties with my mates, and anyone else who would listen, the scars miraculously became wounds I had sustained from a savage mauling, and a much handled photograph of a hog felled by a brain shot would be passed round for all to admire. With each case of beer that was consumed, so the story was retold and expanded on, but I was now amongst the ranks of the mighty, - a hunter of note.

My second foray into the legendary world of porcine fame, began on a Sunday morning with me lazing in the bath, when there was a knock at the door. It was rather a persistent knock, and the closest article of clothing available was a pair of boxer shorts with a large hole in a rather awkward place. I was at the time feeling the after effects of a major beer drink, which had resulted in a hop’s overdose of gargantuan proportions, so this was at the time a minor detail. I stumbled to the door to find a friend of mine who is a professional hunter with a client. They explained how they had wounded a wild pig which had crossed over on to our property and requested permission to follow it up. Being keen to partake in some excitement, I donned a shirt not bothering to look for any under pants and tagged along.

We soon picked up a blood trail and followed at a brisk pace. The P.H. carried a .458 Lott and the client a .375 H&H. As we came up to a large sausage tree with thick cover underneath, the pig bolted towards an area of long grass. The two rifles seemed to fire simultaneously and the hog was knocked over squealing and grunting with fury. Somewhat to my amazement the two hunters were now scratching around in the grass mumbling about cartridge cases being unobtainable in this country, while the hog was struggling to regain its footing and screaming louder than an Irishman deprived of his whisky. My addled brain ticked over reluctantly, still feeling the effects of the previous night’s bacchanalian excesses, when I realised there may be a small chance of the hog escaping and I could lose a much needed trophy fee. To say that I experienced a small bout of schizophrenia would be a charitable description. Common sense demanded that I stand back, I mean large calibre rifles have a habit of making a hell of a bang, but the Goddess Diana urged me on like a demented fool, and as I ran forward I prayed fervently that the Gods would be attentive and stay close by my side. Before I could fully appreciate the folly of my actions, I had leapt upon the hog’s back and gripping the ears held on for dear life. The bouncing and screaming (these were all mine) escalated immediately and instantly lifted the pounding pain in my cranium to a more elevated plane, and it was at about this time, I noticed the hog had more sharp teeth than the Klu Klux Klan had spare bedsheets and they were all directed at me. They were gnashing and grinding ferociously, the boar wheeling in circles furiously trying to get at me.

Wild ride on a boar.I hung on like a stud dach, so tightly that the beast and I seemed to be afflicted by that biological phenomena that so often occurs at the peak of canine passion. The bouncing around slid me back to the rear and the hog must have thought that we were in a full blown "porgy" (like an orgy but you use a pig) which seriously annoyed him. What really compounded the problem was the hole in my shorts, and my genitals were now hanging free, being crushed with each bounce, suffering whiplash with each swing, and the abrasive hide of the hog removing dermal tissue in what felt like sheets and layers. The heavy bristles were also puncturing my bouncing testis, and in the midst of this terrible ordeal I could only imagine the irreparable damage. I was however in a jam, and felt that my fate would be sealed if I had to let go. The two “observers” had by now sauntered over and I heard the client say “Gawdamn likkit thayt boy ride”, as though I do that sort of thing everyday for arbitrary amusement.

The hog was still wheeling in circles and I was fast reaching the point of exhaustion, but as they came into my vision each time a circle was completed, I was screaming at them to shoot the pucking fig from under me. They decided that the danger of firing was too great - believe me I would gladly have taken my chances for the swine showed no inclination of slowing down, so amidst a concerto of gnashing teeth, squeals and screams (these were mine),I begged for a knife to cut its throat. The client lunged forward, my saviour and benefactor, but sadly brandishing what seemed to be the most miniature excuse of a pocket knife ever made. This distressed me greatly and the merry-go-round ride was taking its toll.

It was just as well that the client never heard me telling him where to go and how to get there! The P.H. rallied to my calls braving the fracas, and as I finally let go to fall exhausted to the ground his experience paid off and he fired before the pig could wreak any more havoc. I lay there on my back spread-eagled, gasping for breath in the now flattened area of grass thankfully alive, but too exhausted to be embarrassed about my still exposed and bruised genitals. The peals of laughter were rather hearty, an indication that my equestrian skills and porcine predicament had been fully apprecaited. Thankfully I had sustained no permanent damage and went on in life to father two beautiful children. There was much back slapping and hoots of laughter, the ensuing photo session was difficult for me, to say the least, as I had to pose with the hog in various positions (I believe in the name of posterity), some of which I felt compromised my dignity. What made it worse was the aching pain I was experiencing and my smile in the photos was fixed and somewhat lopsided. I also had the posture of a hunchback, the nether regions of my body dictating that I not stand upright, but I was regaled as a clown, a pseudo hero, and other more unflattering descriptions which I shall not disclose.

So there we have it, the full extent of my experience in all its splendour, and the end of my chapter on pig-hunting. There are however, other aspects of my hunting career still untold, locked in the inner recesses of my embarrassed soul. Anyone interested in hearing them?

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African Hunter Vol.5 No.2 April 1999
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