The Rabbit Sheriff

My world has taken another nasty little twist, and since I'd rather not deal with it today, I'll tell y'all a story instead!

While out and about with the husband Friday, we crossed a bridge over a small creek. T-Bird pointed it out and it reminded me of a little fishin' trip.

This same little spot that we crossed over on Friday used to be a real sweet hole to fish. Bream like you would not believe. And gar. I prefer to fish for the fight, not for the groceries. If we catch it, of course, that means fish for supper, but it's the fight that I really get off on. That's why I like to fish for catfish, gars, and mudfish.

If they are taking the hook I am happy. A Happy Hooker, of sorts.

We had been told that the bream were biting, and we both like to fish, so off we went, armed with crickets. We weren't playin' around.

We parked the truck on the side of the road and grabbed up an arm-load of gear apiece. I make a good pack-mule on fishing and hunting trips. Unlike my ex, T-Bird DOES help carry stuff.

At the bottom of the hill, below the bridge, the ground turned to muck. Black, smelly, sticky, gooshie, sucky muck. Covered in white bird feathers. It must have been a BIIIIIG bird, as the ground was covered with big feathers. Nice touch.

Cypress knees stuck up through the mud and feathers, which made walking through the mud that much harder. If I tripped and fell in the mud, the trip was gonna be over. And we slogged through this for several yards to get to a shady bend in the creek. We had mud half-way up our calves and it was the kind of mud that sucks your shoes off of your feet. And remember, it smells BAD.

It was so worth it! They were biting as soon as the cricket hit the water, and they were big fish! We were well on our way to filling up a 5-gallon bucket.

And there were gar!!!!!! But we didn't have any luck with those. Not for lack of trying! If you fish, you know all about hope and trying.

We saw the green truck when it come creepin' across the bridge.

The Game Warden.   Rabbit Sheriff.    Possum Police.

He was "fishin'", too.

We had all of our papers in order and kept on catching fish. He took a stroll down the other side of the bridge to check out two men who were fishing there. Then he crossed to our side.

I guess that the other side of the bridge was dry, and not much of a struggle to get down to because he was immaculate.

Not a hair out of place.
Trousers with razor-sharp creases, ending at perfect cuffs.
Brass shining in the sun.
No sweat stains.
Shiny black shoes.
Big smile when he started down the hill.

Big sigh when he got to the bottom, when he got to the mud.

I watched him look down at his shoes and just shake his head. Not smiling now.    I kinda felt sorry for him, so I said to T. that we may as well go meet him so he could check out the licenses and gun permit, and he wouldn't have to go through the mud.

T. replied that since we had to walk in it, he had to walk in it. No sympathy at all. And he kept on fishing.

The officer sucked it up, squared his shoulders, and proceeded to look for good,  less-disgusting ground.

There wasn't any (believe you me, I had already looked), and he had a hard time of it,   and he wasn't even carrying a cricket bucket, tackle box, fishing rods, or 5-gallon bucket.     Or a brown bag full of crackers and drinks.

We had the permits in our hands when he finally made it. T. asked him if he wanted to see the handgun permit, but the officer said "no", and stated he would have thought we were crazy if we didn't have a gun on us these days.

He looked all through the bucket to make sure we didn't have anything illegal in it. He was really very nice. We actually had a nice chat.

He was muddy, sweaty, and bedraggled by the time he waded BACK through the mud, and almost crawled up the hill back to the truck. The climb was steep on our side of the bridge.

We had fried fish for supper that night.    I hope somebody fed him a good supper, because he earned it.