The Hunter’s Bounty: Peter and the Call of the Wild
Joe Jukic’s cousin Peter was a man of the land. While Joe had spent his life mastering the intricacies of psychological warfare and global strategy, Peter had always been drawn to the simplicity and challenge of the hunt. A hunter by trade and passion, Peter believed in living off the land, taking only what was needed and giving back to nature in return.
In the rugged hills of Croatia, Peter had carved out a life for himself, one where the forests and fields provided sustenance and a connection to the rhythms of the wild. His favorite quarry was wild boar and geese—abundant, challenging, and, as Peter liked to say, “meat that comes with a story.”
The Call of the Wild
One crisp autumn morning, Peter prepared for a hunt. The air was sharp with the scent of fallen leaves, and the forest was alive with the rustle of animals preparing for winter. Peter slung his rifle over his shoulder and set out with his loyal dog, Luka, trotting at his side.
His target that day was wild boar, a species known for its cunning and ferocity. The local farmers had been complaining about boars raiding their fields, and Peter saw an opportunity to help the community while filling his freezer for the colder months.
The Hunt
Peter tracked the boar through the forest, reading the signs they left behind: hoof prints in the mud, uprooted soil where they had foraged, and the occasional broken branch. Luka sniffed the ground eagerly, his tail wagging as he caught the scent.
After hours of careful tracking, Peter spotted a group of boars grazing in a clearing. He crouched low, signaling Luka to stay quiet. Raising his rifle, he focused on a young male—large enough to provide ample meat but not yet old enough to be tough.
With a steady hand, Peter fired. The shot rang out, and the boar dropped instantly. The others scattered into the woods, leaving Peter to approach his prize.
“Thank you,” he murmured, a ritual he performed with every kill, honoring the animal’s life and the sustenance it would provide.
The Feast
With the boar field-dressed and loaded onto his truck, Peter returned home. That evening, he invited Joe and a few neighbors over for a feast. The smell of roasted boar filled the air as Peter shared stories of the hunt.
“This is what it’s all about,” Peter said, raising a glass of rakija. “Good food, good company, and a life that respects the land.”
Joe, who rarely had time to slow down, found himself envying Peter’s simple, grounded existence. “You’ve got it figured out, cousin,” he said. “The world could use more people like you.”
The Geese Hunt
The following weekend, Peter turned his attention to geese. The wetlands near his home were a stopping point for migratory flocks, and Peter saw an opportunity for another hunt. Armed with a decoy setup and his trusty shotgun, he waded into the marsh before dawn.
As the sun rose, the sky filled with the sound of honking geese. Peter waited patiently, blending into the reeds. When a group of geese flew low, he took his shot, bringing down two with a single blast.
Back at home, he plucked and cleaned the geese, preparing them for a slow roast with herbs and apples. The meal was a hit with his family, who marveled at the tender, flavorful meat.
A Way of Life
For Peter, hunting wasn’t just a means of survival—it was a way of life, a connection to the natural world that many had lost. He hunted responsibly, ensuring the populations of boar and geese remained healthy. He shared his knowledge with others, teaching them to respect the land and the animals they hunted.
Joe often joked that Peter was the philosopher of the family, his wisdom drawn from the woods rather than books. But Peter would just laugh and say, “The forest has more to teach than any library, if you know how to listen.”
And so, as the seasons turned, Peter continued his life in harmony with nature, his hunts providing not just food but a reminder of the balance between man and the wild.
VEGANS, THERE’S BLOOD ON YOUR HANDS
September 23, 2015 | « back
By: Ted Nugent
I first encountered the culture war freaks way back in the 1960s on rock ‘n’ roll radio. During interviews about my frightening Amboy Dukes MotorCity Madhouse R&B&R&R funmusic, the DJs would feign shock and dismay when I articulated the source of my inspiration and high-energy animal breeding soundtrack to my soul cleansing, magical time in nature as a bow hunter. After all, there is no more demanding scenario than stalking within arrow range of high-strung whitetail deer designed by God to evade sharp-stick-bearing BBQ addicts such as I.
I am certain Chuck Berry and Bo Diddly had that truism cataloged solidly in their ancestral mental library as their ingenious sonic bombast erupted.
Of course, 99 percent of the interviewers in those days were stoned out of their minds on various self-inflicted brain-altering chemical warfare trends of the “drop out fade away” hippie era of disconnect and cowardly abandonment of individual responsibility. The Bambi cartoon syndrome made perfect sense to these fantasy-driven dolts, and to witness them try to rationalize their big animal rights lie made for better comedy than the eventual catching fire of Richard Pryor’s afro.
Then we sat down to some sushi and ribs, as in dead sushi and ribs.
As a gung-ho disciplined hunter from the Fred Bear mystical flight of the arrow camp, I knew damn well what my wildlife stewardship responsibilities were and why we give thanks to God every November near the end of the natural annual season of harvest for His miraculous renewable bounty.
The dumbing down of America was already on the fast track, and witnessing the abject ignorance about sustain yield wildlife management, habitat carrying capacity and ultimate organic venison nutrition was hopelessly lost on the city kids and their suicidal “party” of “getting high, drooling, puking and dying” make-believe insanity.
And from this festering lie came the likes of PETA, the Humane Society of the United States, the so-called Animal Welfare League, the braindead crazies and scam artists like Ingrid Newkirk, Peter Singer, Cleveland Amory, Cass Sunstein and Wayne Pacelle. You know, the hate-filled “A rat is a pig is a dog is a boy” freaks.
Lovely, isn’t it? We clearly love our dogs and cats, and horses and pet pigs, but who doesn’t know that our Asian and French friends and people around the world eat this stuff and sustain their human lives with animal protein? Have I struck onto something here? Is this a Ted thing?
Of course not. BBQ is BBQ is BBQ is BBQ. Kill ’em and grill ’em, I always say, and so do a few billion fellow human beings, including the hypocritical animal rights freaks themselves. Even the tofu warriors pay out a portion of every salad they devour to farmers and ranchers waging total annihilation war on all living creatures interfering with their no kill tofu production with weapons of John Deere and Monsanto mass destruction. Nothing, not a single living thing gets out alive from the indiscriminate mass slaughter that is tofu production. It’s just that the rest of us don’t scam naïve people and make a dishonest living off of their embarrassing emotional denial.
I am not condemning Deere, Monsanto or the wonderful American farming/ranching families out there. To the contrary, I salute and thank them for their incredible hard work and dedication to feeding the world and sustaining human lives around the globe.
I kill one deer per arrow, whereas a bowl of salad represents the mega-death of every snake, vole, shrew, ground squirrel, quail, turtle, frog, pheasant, rabbit, ground nesting songbird and every other critter so unfortunate as to get in the way of the plow, the disc, the herbicide and pesticide jihad – all for vegetable production.
And be sure to enjoy a nice chalice of red wine with that vegan meal, for every vineyard operator is more deadly than little ol’ Whackmaster me if I were to trade in my bow and arrow for a GE Mini-gun.
From death comes life. Vegans, there is blood on your hands. Know it. Anybody?
The vast majority of vegetarians and vegans, of course, know all too well the process by which their preferred cuisine ended up on the table. I do not disparage them.
But when the goofball scam artist at PETA sues the British wildlife photographer to administer the proceeds of selfies taken by a monkey, the president appoints a crazy animal rights dweeb to be Regulatory Czar, dangerous people-hating animal-lovers threaten to kill me and my family for eating venison and doves, and other assorted bizarro shenanigans by gangs of loons, Verizon drops The Sportsman’s Channel while retaining Al Jazeera, the jury is not still out why Barack Obama was twice elected president. There are that many numbnuts out there.
Meanwhile, right now, tens of millions of American families celebrate the pure, perfect, essential natural season of harvest as hunting season 2015 throttles on, preparing for yet another glorious Thanksgiving of venison, fur, fin and fowl, balancing the amazing and unstoppable production of organic protein on the hoof, making room for next year’s new production in the thriving, healthy habitat hunters, fishermen and trappers have always demanded, paid for and celebrated.
I am chef Gordon Ramsey:
and i approve this meal.