Well, that was festive

Back in the late 90s, I was on my first night patrol after having just gotten back from a gun class out of State.  Along about 0500 Dispatch called, “Dispatch, Car 12.”

The 0500 calls are always interesting, so I admit to some anticipation, “Go ahead.”

“1100 Possum Drive, 911 call, report of a possible prowler.”

I sighed.  1100 Possum Drive was a nice, middle-aged lady divorcee who called in a prowler about three times a week.  Said prowler always being brush rubbing the siding on her house, or a cat, or the wind.

“10-4, en route.”

I pulled up in front of the residence, and I can see the Reporting Party in the bay window, still clutching her cordless phone, and pointing frantically to the back of the house.

I admit to a well-concealed sigh, waved at her, and then began making my way around the outside of the house, no doubt to spend several minutes peering into the dark.

Imagine my surprise when I turned the back corner into the backyard and came nose to snout with a bloody huge feral hog.  I remember well — in the middle of that startle-response adrenaline dump — seeing the bristles fly up on his chest.  Kind of like he had just gotten centre-punched with a Winchester 127-grain +P+ 9mm.  Like the kind I carried in my P7.

And I realize that I was standing in a text-book perfect speed-rock position.

I had just enough time to mentally pat myself on the back, and then the hog (metaphorically-speaking) looked down at the hole in his chest, said (again, metaphorically-speaking), “Oh, you [deleted]”, and then headed my way with the obvious intention of adjusting my buttock-to-shoulder-blade ratio.

Not being entirely gormless, my body (not currently admiring the shot that started this whole episode) spun, took two steps, and flung me at the lower limbs of the nearest mesquite tree … about those two steps ahead of the enraged pig.

So.  There I am, hanging like a panicked sloth from the lower limbs by one ankle, one hand, and one wrist, while a Paleolithic-class hog stands below, loudly opining as to my ancestry and sexual proclivities, and daring me to come down.

Yeah, that’s not happening.  Unfortunately, my current suspended position means I can’t get another shot off at the hog without winding up down on terra firma with said ambulatory chop — with him at a decided advantage.

Worse, during the mad sprint for the tree, I seem to have dropped my walkie-talkie.

I resign myself to not going anywhere for a while.  A sentiment obviously shared by Senor Puerco.

A lot longer later than I felt was absolutely necessary, I hear the sound of a DPS cruiser pull up outside.  At last, think I, back-up.  And not before time.

Indeed, back-up soon showed itself cautiously around the corner in the form of the DPS trooper assigned to our wee town.  He scans the back-yard with his torch — passing over me the first time, I might add — before the beam settled on the hog.  It then panned up.

There were snorting noises that I suspect may have been an attempt to conceal mirth.  Not a very good attempt, but at least he tried.

“Shot the hog, didn’t you?”

I snarled something that may have been less than courteous, but I plead long-term discomfort.

“I told you that dinky little 9mm wasn’t any good, didn’t I?”

I was attempting some form of come-back, when I hear the bark of a Texas DPS-issued Sig P220, and the .45 ACP round smacks the hog right behind the foreleg.

I know this, because I had a unique perspective on the second bristle spray of the morning.  Which led the hog to announce — at the top of his porcine lungs — “You want a piece of me, too?”

And I watch the DPS trooper scramble to the top of an ancient outhouse with the alacrity and grace of a scalded-arsed ape.

“Nice shot, Tex” I snark from the comfort of my mesquite tree.

“Damn,” replied that worthy, “That’s a big hog.”

I cast a sneer in his general direction, “Why don’t you thump it a couple of more times?”

Long pause.


“Well”, I snarl, twisting a bit, “I not in any position to do anything about this, so it’s pretty much up to you.”

The hog sends a grunt my way, letting me know I haven’t been forgotten.

This pause is longer.  Oh, for the love of … “You dropped your bangstick, didn’t you?”

“I had something on my mind!” There’s another pause, contemplative this time, “I’ve got my .32 backup.”

I can feel a facial tic developing.

This goes on until the sun rises, the hog trots off (with a firmly-cocked snook in our general direction), the trooper and I climb down and solemnly swear to never speak of this again.

Fast-forward about a year, and I’m in Dispatch when the local Game Warden staggers in, and heads for the coffee-pot with the same sort of intensity that a man three days under the Sahara sun heads for an oasis. 

“You okay, Harry? I ask, slightly concerned.

“[Deleted] monster hog out by the T bar S,” he mutters from around a soothing mug, “Took three rounds from my .450 Marlin.  Didn’t think the [deleted] was ever going to go down.”

I’m mildly impressed.  “Damn.”

“Checked him over, found this under the skin on his chest.” He displays a perfectly-mushroomed Winchester Ranger bullet.  Probably about 127 grains, were I to guess, “Some damfool moron shot him with a 9mm sometime.  Can you imagine that?  Idiot.  Some people shouldn’t be let out without a minder.”



Mood music for today
Better than a poke in the eye with a sharp ... oh, wait.

36 thoughts on “Well, that was festive”

  1. Yeah, I bet the GW had a better laugh when he skinned out that DPS issued .45 from under the skin too!

  2. There's a reason that boar spears had that big crossbar a third of the way up from the pointy end. It wasn't for carrying purposes; it was to keep the boar from crawling up the length of the spear and 'having words with you'.

  3. I've been tempted to archery hog hunt on local Army Corps of Engineers land. But, their restrictions on backup armament have dissuaded me from doing so. Your story is a perfect example of why.

  4. Remind me sometime to tell you in detail about the time I pulled my trusty Glock 22 on an 8' tall polar bear. I looked at the bear, the bear looked at the pistol, whuffed amusedly and sauntered away.

    He's probably still giggling.

    Ps- Alaska LEO here.

  5. I am so happy that you are back, I have really missed your post!

    Linda in Mississippi

  6. He's back! I was beginning to think I might have to eke by in future days by reading old posts. Great to have you back, LawDog, and keep the stories coming!

  7. YAAAh! Lawdog is back

    Javalina giving hunters grey hairs since forever
    Glad you all had perches to view the festivities

    My Dad plugged 7x 7.62×25 into one that was having a discussion with the dogs
    neighbor wandered up '…private war or can anyone join?' fires 6x long Colt(.45) out of SAA revolver Herr Hogg was still chewing on the dogs
    another neighbor (moves houses for a living) pull up asks to join in

    he spears hog on steel bar asks if anyone wants any ribs or sausage
    all declined

    he did report later all 13 rounds had hit

    big hogg


  8. I woke everyone in the house up with my giggling.

    You are absolutely wonderful! Keep up the good work.

  9. Feral hog are pretty ornery when confronted at short range. Robert Ruark's comments on using enough gun applies with them. Mud caked hide can soak up a lot of bullet energy.

    Several years ago, my brother shot and killed a hog with a 12 gauge shotgun using buckshot. He wasn't hog hunting, just heard it late at night while cooking supper. It was a pair close range shots and when he approached the now still hog, shot a coup de grace with his sidearm, a Walther PP .32acp. Bullet stopped at skull level hardly piercing the hide. He is glad the animal was already dead and learned an important lesson on the power of .32acp ammunition.

    Glad to hear only your pride was hurt during this encounter.

  10. Really? You two bozos don't know where to shoot a big hog? Not in the chest with handgun ammo. Make an X from his right eye, left ear, then left eye, right ear. Hit that X and he'll fold up like a cheap pocketknife. guaranteed. Largest hog I ever killed, 350+, I killed him with a .22LR right at the X.

  11. A .30 Carbine isn't much better. I learned this when I was 17 back in the late 70's. Six shots and I had a pissed off hog and a 30 cal club. I spent the night in a tree. After that I switched over to 30-06 and also carried my grandpa's 44mag pistol with me when I went deer hunting. Just in case I saw a hog instead I wanted to be sure not to piss him off and put him down right away.

  12. For Paw Paw. I was shooting a farm pig for the pig roast and I found out that hitting the X didn't quite have the effect I thought it would have. I used a Ruger Blackhawk with a fairly hot handload in .45 LC and a jacketed 185 grain hollow Point.
    After the pig developed that third eye, it reared up, snorted, and looked at me with the look that said, "What did I do to you?" The second shot in pretty much the same area put it down for the count.
    We found one of the slugs with a pretty good mushroom somewhere in the front shoulder when we were serving it after roasting.
    Maybe this pig was a liberal, and had a smaller than normal brain.

  13. When I was commuting from Poplarville to New Orleans after Katrina (I'm the night shift computer guy for a local hospital system. We don't close for minor little things like natural disasters that flatten an area the size of the UK…), I kept a 1911 and a Mosin M-44 in my Isuzu. The pistol for two legged critters, and the carbine with the built in boar spear for the piggies. I had been using my WASR as my truck rifle until the first time I went through the East to the reopened Highway 11 bridge. Saw a big blood splat in the center lane, 100 yards or so of bloody crawl marks to another blood splat in the left lane, then more crawl marks that ended at a bloody huge wild hog. Kind of figured at that point that I needed something with more authority and a much longer stabby bit.

  14. So, I guess the blanks in my M-16 that night on guard duty in Germany, when I found myself in the middle of a pack of those wild boar beasties, wouldn't have done me much good, heh? Glad I didn't bother trying to use any of them.

    Talk about mixed emotions! I couldn't believe my suddenly discovered athleticism in the matter of climbing the nearest tree. Never knew I could come close to that physical feat. But then I thought about the pain I was about to endure when I had to get "My Fellow Soldiers" to come down and shoo away some wild boars. Even wild boars don't hang around when a tank rolls up. I got the warm fuzzees about all the glee, mirth, and high spirits I was able to set in motion. Nothing like comrades in arms to get one out of a tight spot.

  15. Hello Mr. Dog,

    I discovered your Blog about 6 years ago when googling the term BBQ Gun and have been a fan ever since. In this Post, you refer to my P7. Could you clarify if that is a HK P7, because I have one of those as a backup for hunting, an I would be happy for another fan.

    (The 9mm suits me as a backup for hunting because my rifle is a 9.3 Mauser, and for any feral hog not dead on the spot, I get help first. I have a bit of game warden training; and one bit of wisdom from that was: If you want to gamble with your life, enlist to afghanistan, but don't go after a wounded hog alone!)

  16. Tony,

    I feel your pain

    Tony Tsquared6:44 PM
    A .30 Carbine isn't much better. I learned this when I was 17 back in the late 70's. Six shots and I had a pissed off hog and a 30 cal club. I spent the night in a tree. After that I switched over to 30-06 …

    I tried the same but with 3x from a 30-30 same result
    converted myself to .308 after that


  17. Laughed so hard I cried. Thx. Glad everyone had something tall enough to climb.

  18. Channeling Terry Pratchett are you? "firmly-cocked snook" Priceless.

  19. I've got a question for people with more knowledge than myself. Would a wax slug work in stopping a hog?


  20. General question, is feral monster hog tastey meat or is it too tough to enjoy?

  21. Depends on the size of the hog. In my experience, anything over 150 – 200 pounds is not worth eating. Nice fat shoat, though — tasty!

  22. Anonymous: I carried a P7M8 for several years in the Panhandle, and still have a soft-spot for that little Kraut staple-gun.

  23. And people wonder whyI want to mount an M1905 bayonet on my 12 gaugae when hog hunting in Missouri.

  24. I remember reading an account from some bloke who found himself up Queensland way in Australia, and in the company of some other blokes who suggested going pig hunting, which hunt consisted of getting liquored-up, then grabbing a short shotgun loaded with slugs, and crawling through the pig created tunnels through the cane breaks, in search of a hog. My memory is not good but it all sounded very plausible in the best Russian redneck kinda way.

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