by Cleta Crenshaw
Every year, come the first of September, three lifelong friends—Michael Lee (two names pronounced as one word), Roy, and Raymond “Tater”—loaded up Michael Lee’s old Ford F-100 and headed south for their annual dove hunt.
It was a time-honored tradition, an event marked by good-natured ribbing, ice-cold beer, and enough gunfire to make Fort Hood sound like a library.
Now, this particular year, things started off on the wrong foot before they even left Michael Lee’s driveway. Roy, whose job was to bring the food, had stocked the cooler with nothing but Vienna sausages, sardines, and some off-brand saltine crackers that tasted like cardboard left out in the rain. Tater, the self-appointed camp cook, took one look and declared, “I ain’t eatin’ this crap, Roy. I’d rather chew on my boot.”
Michael Lee, the proud owner of their hunting chariot—a rust-covered, dent-riddled ’73 Ford F-100—grinned and patted the hood. “Don’t worry, boys, we got all the essentials right here. Cold beer, a full tank of gas, and Daddy’s old Winchester Model 12. What could go wrong?” As it turned out, a lot.
The journey to the lease started well enough, with the boys bouncing down the dusty backroads of South Texas, the glass-pack mufflers roaring loud enough to wake up every jackrabbit within a five-mile radius. Roy manned the CB radio, trying to impress truckers with his handle, “Squirrel Stomper,” but all he got in return was static and a few unintelligible curses. Roy and Tater both owned late-model trucks with air conditioning and all the bells and whistles, but the trio always drove Michael Lee’s old 73 Ford because that’s what they always did. Hot? Oh yeah. It was dang hot, but open the floor vents and vent windows and it was bearable.
Their Labrador retriever, Dale (named after Dale Earnhart), sat in the truck bed, drooling on the cooler and wagging his tail like he had good sense. In theory, Dale was supposed to retrieve their doves. In practice, Dale had the attention span of a toddler with ADHD and a deep, unwavering love for chasing his own tail and rolling on dead critters and fresh manure.
Upon arriving at the lease, the boys put out a few decoys, set up under a sprawling mesquite tree near a pond, cracked open a couple of cold beers, and prepared for what they believed would be an afternoon of prime shooting. Michael Lee pumped his Winchester, took aim at a passing dove, and—BOOM—missed by a country mile. Roy followed suit, emptying three rounds and hitting nothing but sky. Tater, laughing so hard he nearly choked on a sardine, was the only one who managed to bring down a bird.
That’s when Dale decided to shine—or maybe, not. Instead of retrieving Tater’s dove, Dale sprinted off in the opposite direction and disappeared into the brush. The boys figured he’d come back when he got tired or found something interesting to roll in.
As they cracked open another round of beers, a dust cloud appeared on the horizon. Tater squinted. “Uh-oh. That ain’t Santa Claus, boys.”
Sure enough, barreling toward them in an official-looking green pickup was none other than their least favorite person in the county: Game Warden Don Johnson. Don was a man of few smiles and even fewer second chances. He had a permanent scowl, an uncanny ability to sneak up on drunk hunters, and a deep loathing for Michael Lee and his crew.
“Afternoon, gentlemen,” Warden Johnson said, stepping out of his truck. “Hope y’all are having a good and legal hunt.”
Billy Ray wiped beer foam from his mustache. “Oh, you know us, Don. We wouldn’t dream of breaking the law. The hunting ain’t been so good, yet.”
Warden Johnson raised an eyebrow. “Is that so? Why is that shotgun loaded in the cab of your truck?”
Michael Lee looked down at his spare Winchester, sitting right there on the bench seat, action closed, three shells chambered. “Well, uh, you see, that’s for… quick access.”
Warden Johnson sighed. “Hand it over, Michael Lee.”
As Michael Lee reluctantly surrendered his gun, a commotion erupted from the mesquite grove. Duke came charging back, covered in mud (hopefully), a half-eaten rattlesnake dangling from his mouth. Behind him ran a vision so stunning the entire scene froze like a painting—Cleta Mae Crenshaw, daughter of the ranch owner, and about as far out of the boys’ league as a winning lottery ticket.
Cleta Mae was furious, stomping toward them in cut-off shorts and a spaghetti-strap tank top, waving her arms like an air traffic controller. “Which one of you idiots let your dog loose on our property?”
Roy, who had a bad habit of speaking before thinking, pointed at Michael Lee. “Him.”
Michael Lee shot Roy a murderous glare before turning to Cleta Mae with his best attempt at charm. “Now, Cleta Mae, I think there’s been a misunderstanding. See, Dale here’s a full-blood, registered, professionally trained, hunting dog.”
Cleta Mae put her hands on her hips. “Oh really? Then why’s he running around like a lunatic and scaring off every bird within a ten-mile radius?”
As if on cue, Dale dropped what was left of the rattlesnake at Cleta Mae’s feet and wagged his tail, pleased as punch with himself. Cleta Mae let out a disgusted shriek and jumped back, which caused Roy to laugh so hard he fell over the cooler, spilling Vienna sausages everywhere. Dale, seeing an opportunity, pounced on the sausages and began wolfing them down.
Warden Johnson watched the scene unfold with the weary resignation of a man who’d seen it all. He took a deep breath, rubbed his temples, and muttered, “I swear, I don’t get paid enough for this.”
After a solid five-minute lecture about leash laws, responsible hunting, and why they were a disgrace to sportsmen everywhere, Warden Johnson decided to cut them a break—probably because he was too tired to fill out the paperwork. “Y’all pack it up and get out of here,” he grumbled, handing Michael Lee his Winchester back. “And keep that dog away from my truck. He looks like he’d chew the tires off.”
The boys didn’t need to be told twice. They loaded up their gear, called Dale (who was humped up dropping off a loaf of digested Vienna sausages), and fired up the old Ford. As they roared off in a cloud of dust, Cleta Mae shook her head, hands still on her hips. “Don’t come back anytime soon!”
Michael Lee grinned and tipped his hat. “You say that now, but one day you’ll be tellin’ stories about us.”
Roy leaned out the window. “We’re legends in the makin’, sweetheart!”
With a final cough from the glass-pack mufflers, they disappeared into the South Texas sunset.
The trio went to their camp. They had planned to cook dove poppers for their supper. Their lack of shooting skills prevented that, so Tater smeared some cream cheese on the Vienna sausages, stuck a few Jalapeno pepper slices to the cream cheese, and wrapped them with bacon. He grilled ‘em over a bed of charcoal and served ‘em to the boys. They split the dove three ways. Roy and Michael Lee each tried a Vienna Popper, and to their amazement, they were delicious. Much tastier than the durned ol’ dove. “The Viennas are a lot better than the bird. It tastes like a Hobo toe.” With that, a new tradition was born … Vienna Poppers.
Eventhough the boys didn’t kill but one bird, this hunt was considered a success. No one was injured or jailed. Dale didn’t get snake bit, and a new camp recipe was born. The trio was ready to return next year and—without a doubt—screw it all up again.
