Laughing Matters: The One Where Mother Nature Strikes Back

By Ryan G. Van Cleave |  Illustrations by Darcy Kelly-Laviolette

Absolutely nothing funny happened to me this month. Not one thing.

Thankfully, I’ve got first-rate neighbors with far more exciting lives than I do.

Take, for example, my neighbor Jeremy. As he inches past his mid-40s, he’s becoming more daring in his life choices because he doesn’t want to look back on things in his 80s and have oodles of regrets.

At least, that’s what he’s explaining to me as he segues into a story where his friend Dmitri’s cousin, Roger, invited him to do some Thanksgiving hunting on his 200-acre private estate in central Florida. “Anything we kill, we’ll just eat,” he explained. “Think about all those Butterball turkeys we won’t have to buy!”

Jeremy quickly learned that despite Roger owning all this well-wooded acreage, he knew absolutely nothing about hunting. Here’s how Jeremy sleuthed that out.

Jeremy: “Do you have enough guns for all of us?”

Roger: “I don’t like guns. I thought we’d use spears instead.”

Jeremy: “Okay, do you have enough spears for all of us?”

Roger (turning to their mutual friend, Dmitri): “I thought the reason we invited him was because he owned three spears.”

Dmitri (in his James-Bond-quality Russian spy accent): “What I said was that the last time we hung out, he LOANED ME THREE BEERS.”

Jeremy didn’t want to ruin the Man-Kill-Beast vibe they’d so carefully cultivated, so he agreed to do some research since, as Dmitri put it, “You might as well put that college degree to work for something useful.” Like getting their hunting fix, apparently.

According to the first website Jeremy Googled, it turns out that if they used free running dogs, they could legally take down rabbit, raccoon, opossum, skunk, nutria (whatever the blazes that is!), beaver, coyote, hog, fox, and bobcat. Well, no one Jeremy knew had loanable hunting dogs, and none of those meats felt Thanksgivingy enough, which was good since Robert said he’d never seen any of those animals on his property that he could recall. Then again, he rarely went outside much because of his asthma, so who really knew what lurked in the woods around his house?

The internet saved the day, though, because Jeremy found www.TwoGuysAndAHog.com, the website hawking a feral wild hog hunt company that caters to “son/daughter teams, large groups, families, and the ‘lone wolf’ hunter.” It was the next part that really sold Jeremy. “Our hunters can choose to use rifles, pistols, bow, knife, and spear,” all of which you can bring yourselves or rent from them directly and then use on their own well-stocked hunting grounds.

Best of all? “With our guarantee you will have the opportunity to pull a trigger on a Florida feral hog or you don’t pay us.”

Perfect. 

All three of them agreed to head out to this amazing tribute to the American Dream on the Monday before Thanksgiving. They never got there. Here’s why. The weekend prior, Roger spotted a feral wild hog on his own property. Imagine the luck! The Two Guys and a Hog company wasn’t exactly cheap, after all.

So, Roger phoned up Jeremy and Dmitri—his “hunting buddies,” he told each of them as he explained the situation about the new-found animal on his property—and out they went to central Florida, ready to take advantage of this holiday hunting miracle.

Roger was ready. He’d swung by Walmart and picked up three broomsticks, then duct-taped steak knives to the tips. These “weapons” were more akin to props one might make for a low-budget film shot on a shattered-screen iPhone 4 by third graders than anything lethal. Which seemed a good thing, since Jeremy and Dmitri had fortified themselves with so much beer that they might’ve knocked out the elusive feral wild hog with their breath. (Always a safety buff, he points out that they took an Uber.)

After a couple more drinks from Roger’s patio bar—to “fortify ourselves,” they kept saying—it became clear that none of them actually wanted to hunt. Or rather, they DID want the excitement of a hunt, but they DIDN’T want to actually kill anything. 

Roger eyed the trio of spears he’d left leaning on the side of his Arctic Cat 700 Super Duty Diesel ATV. “I wonder if I still have the receipt,” he muttered. 

“You’re not going to take those back,” Dmitri said.

“Of course, I’d take the knives off first,” Roger insisted.

Just then, the wild hog appeared, 200 pounds if it was an ounce, or so Jeremy swore. Dmitri let out a scream like a middle school cheerleader being asked to the big dance, and the three of them clambered atop the Arctic Cat, which wasn’t really built for more than one. They huddled together on the hood as the black-as-midnight hog snorted and stamped about, vacuuming up acorns from the nearby oaks. Just as they thought it’d maybe wander off, it stomped back over and huffed at them every single time.

“Get the spears,” Roger whispered. But they couldn’t. They’d fallen to the ground and none of them dared get off their safe perch. 

“We’ll wait it out,” Dmitri decided. “It’ll leave before long.”

Three hours later, under the cover of nightfall, that’s how Roger’s wife found them—freezing together atop the ATV as the neighbor’s beefy black cat—Missus Poofy—meowed about.

“Hey, that’s no hog,” Roger realized a bit tardily.

That’s what you get when people who have no business hunting try to embrace their inner Conan. As Jeremy got into an Uber to head back home in well-deserved shame, Roger said, “Don’t forget—we’re going to give tarpon fishing a try next month.”

Whatever day they give that a shot, for my own safety, I’ll be sure to be out of town—but don’t worry, I’ll chase down Jeremy afterwards and get the lowdown on The One That Got Away. 

Or maybe something funny will happen to me. Who knows?

Have your own hunting-gone-wrong story? Have cats ever been part of the punchline to an otherwise terrific tale? Did you ever try to return something to Walmart that’s crazier than a broom modified into a wild-hog-slaying weapon?

If your answer is a resounding “Yes!” to one or more of the above, then by all means, reach out to me via email at MyNeighborsRule@SarasotaScene.com.