Mike's moose

A couple of years ago my friend, Mike, and some of his pals went moose hunting. It was after his last graveyard shift that week and Mike went bounding out of the plant where he works and into the already packed camper being driven by his fellow hunters and off they went, drinking beer all the way to Quesnel, which is far north of here, as the crow flies.
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They set up camp in the boonies a few tens of miles (or whatevers of kilometers) even further north of Quesnel, and a quick bottle of tequila later they all hit the sack to dream the dreams of the totally innocent and the completely pissed. The next morning Mike woke early, put some coffee on to brew, and then he went outside to ‘water the horse’ or ‘hang a rat’ (use the euphemism you most like). He moped around to the front of the camper, and there was a huge moose a couple of dozen yards away, chewing it’s cud and otherwise behaving in a responsible moose-like manner.

So here’s Mike’s quandary. Does he, A: do a job on this particular moose then spend the next seven days eating Fritos and drinking beer while his friends try to get their own moose, or does he, 2: let this moose go and get the next one that happens to come along, which there might not be one of. Mike is nothing if not pragmatic so he whacked the moose right there (I feel it necessary to point out that Mike had no particular issues with this particular moose. It was just a carnivore thing.)

The point of this story is that even though Mike had gone into the moose’s natural habitat to ‘get’ a moose, he didn’t expect it to happen on the first day. That was just luck, unless you were the moose. Had Mike had to spend the entire week hunting that moose he would have been perfectly happy. Not that a week of Fritos, Molsons and dark rum bothered him, but I think it’s the Bible that says, ‘Good things come to those who wait’, or ‘be patient, dude.’ It’s like a Zen thing, I suppose.

Anyway… Humouroceros