We’ve got a new wolf-hunting ad out from some PAC today. I don’t have a problem with hunting, so long as some level of skill is employed. Aerial hunting is for twits. If we’re talking about being a skilled woodsman, then Michelle Obama has Sarah Palin beat by a country mile. But if the issue in question is one of savagery, well, it’s not really fair to hit Palin on this point, simply because I know Michelle Obama to be far more brutal and vicious than Sarah Palin.
I went hunting in the woods of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula not too long ago, and I rang up Michelle, asking if she might like to come along. We rented a cabin up there together for a week, just the two of us. Michelle’s a crack shot, especially for a city girl. Hell, on our first day there she blasted a Barn Owl Nest near the cabin clear to hell from a range of 150 yards using 12-gauge birdshot, “just to wake up a little bit.”
Being in the woods brings out some sort of deeply suppressed primordial viciousness in her. When she has a gun, her deep dark eyes become extremely sharp and cutting. She is in a state of total alert. Anything that moves in the woods around her gets blasted to hell. She travels with lots of ammunition and only top quality firearms. I never felt in danger around her, per se, but the savage look she takes on when she is armed and prey is about forces you to think twice about making any sudden movements.
Midway through the week we were stalking a herd of caribou when some crows took to squawking away behind us, revealing our position to the caribou. You could see the frustration and rage bubbling up in her eyes as her will was being thwarted. She finally pivoted around and unloaded five furious pump-action blasts at the crows, falling scores of them. It completely spooked off the caribou, but she didn’t care at that point: something had crossed her, frustrated her from her objectives and she dealt with that as only she knew how.
We did finally bag a caribou on our last day. Michelle put two .50 caliber rounds in it’s neck from a range of 400m, nearly severing its head in a fine pink mist. She took no visible joy in the kill and was silent as she walked up to the carcass and used her jack boots to kick away the twisted cartilage and shards of bone fragments in the neck, exposing the Caribou’s adrenal gland. She reached in and wrenched it out, ripping it from the still-warm body. She held it with a firm grip, quizzically looking it over before sinking her teeth into it and sucking out the still warm caribou adrenaline and then throwing it into the snow. Her body shivered for a moment and her eyes glazed over. “Fuck,” she said after a minute, “I need to get back to Chicago.”
Cindy was never like that. Cindy and I used to snuggle with a bottle of shiraz and three or four Vicodin near the fire on those cold Sedona nights. We would start a raging fire, curl up on the bearskin rug John received from some tribal lobbying concern, and play Mario Kart until we couldn’t keep our eyes open anymore, collapsing on one another in a fine cozy haze. In the mornings we would go back over to the main residence to play pinball while the butlers cooked us eggs. Those were fine times. I miss them dearly.