Through An 'Old Timer's' Eyes
By Howard 'Mac' McDonald

Father's Day came and went last Sunday. I felt more like a great-grandfather than a father.

You know what they say -- if you wake up in the morning and you don't have any pain, you're dead.

We have the speech police and now we will have the smoke police in Pennsylvania.

I am anxious to see how Uncle Eddie is going to enforce that law. We can't stop the dopers, so how in the name of Lucky Strikes are they going to make this no-smoking law work?

My son sent me a story that may or may not be true. It was entitled, "And That's When the Fight Started."

These two cars were at a four-way stop and pulled out at the same time. The one driver was having a bad day and he said to himself after the cars collided, "Just what I needed . . ."

The second driver jumped out of his car and he was a dwarf. He ran up to the other guy's car and declared, "I am not happy."

The first driver replied, "Then which one are you?"

I don't know how long the life expectancy is for a wild cottontail, but I have a story about one that lives up Rich Valley.

Shirley and I took a ride out that way and when we stopped at the stop sign, along came this old, decrepit rabbit crossing the road. The creature only had one speed and that was slow.

He was really having a hard time walking and Shirley commented that he looked like he had arthritis. What hair he had left was grayer than mine and he looked like he needed a trip to the scooter store. The rabbit finally made it into the weeds and disappeared.

As we drove home, my wife and I discussed the plight of this old bunny and wondered how he had escaped his demise at the hands of the natural predators in that area. He must have been wise in the ways of the woods.

I got to thinking back to 1967, which was the last time I hunted small game. Kevin Johnson was not long out of high school and worked at the same place I did. He said there were a lot of rabbits up behind his dad's house.

Kevin said the only way you could bag these elusive creatures was if you had a good dog that would root them out of the brush and briars. We made plans for Saturday and I was to bring my son's pedigreed beagle to help us in our quest for some fried rabbit.

We met Kevin at about eight o'clock and we got right down to the nitty-gritty of rabbit hunting. We walked up the hill about 100 yards before I turned Homer Rabbit Chaser loose. Kevin got a good laugh out of this hound's name, but that was what was on his AKC papers.

Old Homer was only loose for a couple minutes before he had a rabbit on the run. Braying and yelping, he ran that rabbit by me at about 100 mph. I pulled up and shot, but that old boy was too quick for me.

About a minute later I heard Kevin shoot. He missed him, too.

Old Homer Rabbit Chaser must have brought that rabbit by us a dozen times and we never did get it. That bunny either had a hide made out of body armor, or there was no shot in our shells.

Homer was so tired that we had to carry him back to the car. Kevin and I didn't get a thing that day, but we sure had a good time.

I called Kevin the other day to see if he thought that old rabbit Shirley and I saw might be the same one we chased for a half a day.

"Could be," he said. "Stranger things have happened."