One of my grandsons is a wildlife biologist. They say you can tell what sort of job a person is suited for when they are children. Well, we should have known about this one when he drove off for college with fishing and hunting gear loaded into his small grey truck. They didn’t have an ocean in the state where he aimed so there was no need for a surfboard. But life is good anyway.
He hunted often in the hills near his home, so there should have been no surprise when his parents arrived home one afternoon to find the skin of a six foot rattler drying in the bright Southern California sunshine and firmly attached to their fence. Since this was not part of the normal garden decor, they naturally sought the new designer. He was found in the person of their ten year old son who was happily starting a fire in the barbeque pit preparing a rattlesnake picnic for friends. He and a young friend had come upon this squirming monster under a discarded sheet of corrugated metal on the side of the hill, and being of curious nature and “just happening” to have brought along a homemade snare, they had captured their unwilling prey. After an agreeable time on the grill, they both agreed that it tasted like chicken.