Introducing a child to the concept of hunting takes the most delicate touch. One misstep and they could be in therapy for the rest of their life. When my nieces were young, my wife and I would take them to our cabin in the woods for the weekend. On the trip there they would listen to the oldies station on the car radio. One of their favorite songs was, “Hippy Hippy Shake” by The Georgia Satellites. My nieces had no idea what a Hippy was, but they thought the song was funny.
One night, while at our cabin, we heard a critter tearing apart a bird feeder in the yard. My wife slowly got out the flashlight as I loaded my trusty .22 rifle. I silently slid the window open as Amy found the bandit with the beam of light. My nieces peered through the curtains as my rifle made a crack and the bullet impacted the raccoon’s skull.
Both of my niece’s eyes grew large as the vermin flipped over on its back and went into convulsions and a gruesome death rattle. The elder of the two asked me in a disturbed voice, “What is he doing, Uncle?”
I looked at them both, knowing that my answer would shape their young minds for years to come, and said in a matter of fact tone, “He’s got the Hippy, Hippy Shakes.”
