Tard and I decided that green was no way to go through the hunting world. We reckoned that an average IQ rating of 99-1/2 for the two of us meant that outwitting a squirrel was an attainable goal. So, to sharpen our woodsmanship, Tard suggested that we alight to our future public deer-killing grounds in north central Illinois to squirrel hunt. As he explained "Squirrels are tasty!". I retorted "When have you ever eaten them?" Tard rejoined with "I have read they are tasty in Field and Stream."

Since it is an immutable law of the universe that what tastes good must be killed and that additionally, as common folk, we believed (and still do) that anything in writing that is published on paper is the truth. We are inclined to believe also that anything on the Internet is also true, although Tard is still waiting for the million dollars from one Mr. Mmgooboo of Zambabway. Thus, since Tard had supplied irrefutable logic in that squirrels are indeed tasty and therefore must be killed and that even though he had no personal experience eating them it was written on a piece of paper that yes they do taste good and so I was left outflanked and thereby agreed that we should kill and eat these furry smallish rodents. I grumbled "Squirrels are rats with puffy tails."

Tard then reminder me that I was from Indiana and that meant I was genetically predisposed to eat rodents of all sorts both big and small, road kill and quaint dishes like collard greens. This I could not stand for and with some slight emotion told him that Indiana had fought for the north in the Civil War and we did not eat collard greens. So with Tard having completed my argumentative route and I having ended the exchange with a quivering voice we made our plans to kill the cute little rats.

First we needed to choose weapons. Although I had a 22 Marlin, Tard thought that with our shooting skills and the vast quantity of squirrels we would be harvesting that we would be better served by wide areas of destruction. So we brought our 12ga shotguns. These had been purchased for duck hunting but duck hunting didn't really pan out for us. On the appointed day we strolled arm in arm through the parking lot of the state forest. We were dressed in camo and ready to use our lightning reflexes and steely eyes to take on the wily rodents of the woods.

After an hour and a half of crashing through briars, tripping on logs, and going in circles I called a halt. "Tard," said I " What else did the Field and Stream Magazine say about squirrel hunting? Because so far we haven't seen one squirrel." Tard defended " It talked about the fine tradition of squirrel hunting and how it can prepare you for the season, get you familiar with the woods you hunt, increase your woodsmanship, and introduce a youth to the exciting world of the outdoors." So I said "Well thank you for introducing me to the exciting world of the outdoors. What did it say about how to actually hunt squirrels?" Tad stammered "Ah, well, the article was mostly about how wonderful the woods are and lost innocence, and something the guy quoted from Thoreau."

"I see" I said. And that's when things finally got exciting. As Tard was suggesting that we try the ridge up above us he used his loaded 12 gauge shotgun to point up the hill. In the process he swept the barrel completely across the back of my head about eight inches from muzzle to perfectly coifed hairdo. "Are you fucking insane!!!!" I yelled "You could have blown my head clean off!!!" "What did I do?" "You pointed your damn shotgun right at my head! Is that thing loaded?" "I didn't have my finger on the trigger!" "Are you fucking kidding me? (with a mocking tone) ' I didn't have my finger on the trigger' Tell that to my widowed wife and orphan daughter!"

Tard grew remorseful and as with many of our spats his eyes welled with tears as he said "Sorry Mongo." In truth, I was still slightly irritated with the whole road kill and collard greens insult. This exchange put our relationship back on course in my eyes. So I said "Jesus Christ and buttermilk biscuits, watch where you point that damn thing." "OK" Tard said. Our relationship was restored to equilibrium after several tense days of squirrel-lore dominance by Tard.

After wandering through the woods for another half hour we decided it was time to put the rodent killers away and start doing some serious scouting for deer. Tard pointed out several rubs and we looked for deery spots to set our ambush. We scouted the farthest corner of the state property in hopes that there would be less human activity there when opening day of archery season came that first weekend of October. Then from a few dozen yards away I heard Tard shout to me "Mongo, come here. I found some stuff someone left behind." I walked over to see the discovery.

Tard had found a broken arrow and a single tube sock. We examined the old aluminum arrow and tried to imagine the hunter and hunt that had sent it errantly into the hardwood forest. Then Tard took a closer look at the mostly white sock. "Look at this," Tard said "This sock has splotches of mud on it." As Tard flaked off the mud he queried "What kind of a dumbass leaves one sock behind?" "Well, Tard, I supposed the corn in the mud might be a clue." was my retort. "I'm thinkin' that some guy took twenty five giant stinking shits out here and because he had no toilet paper he used his sock." I said as the realization, disgust, and horror at his predicament spread across Tard's face. For once in our storied relations he was momentarily speechless as his eyes grew wide, his mouth opened to reveal his smallish teeth, and finally he drove the offending sock and the hand that held it away from himself.

And yet, Tard in his shock did not let go of the turd-sock but held it away from himself as if it were a disgusting and dangerous animal. I have always imagined that Tard at that moment saw no other thing in the world than the turd-sock and that his vision narrowed to a tunnel. But I saw other things and found the need to make my observations known. "You know, you have another man's crap under your finger nails. Why don't you taste it to make really sure it's shit?" And so we enjoined on the best of male discussions which to untrained outsiders appears to be childish arguing.

"I don't think its shit."

"Then how do you explain the nuts?"

"It can't be."

"Riddle me this Gilligan - why does a guy take off one sock and wipe it in the mud?"

"Take a look at it!" He tried to hand me the sock.

"Do you really think I want crap all over my hands too?"

"Oh god, don't tell anyone." And the sock finally went back to its rightful home - not in Tard's hand but on the ground.

"Hey, what are friends for?"

Our scouting did pay off though. Because on opening morning of our second year of bow hunting together, after I got lost in the darkened woods, wandered in circles for twenty minutes or so, sat down, wept, waited out the dawn and eventually saw a four point buck going at a full trot at 80 yards or so, the third hunter we saw go by my stand and Tard's ground blind had on just one single sock.

Since he was armed and quite possibly had a sense of honor I waited until he was nearly out of earshot before I shouted "Hey buddy, there's a ground blind down that ridge that you can use for a latrine!!!" At the noon hour I descended my tree and climbed off my ridge to eat lunch with Tard. We reviewed what we had learned about deer and deer hunters. Then it was my turn to be abused for my poor sense of direction, lack of stealth, and girlish emotions.

When our childish argument was over, Tard turned to me and said "Good times, good times."

None better.