My dad got an air rifle. The folks had a garden in the backyard. A bounty of tomatos, eggplants, jalapenos, strawberries, raspberries, rhubard, zucchini, cucumbers, sweet corn, sunflowers, and herbs. No amount of chicken wire and other deterents was completely successful in preventing squirrels from pilfering our harvest. So my dad got an air rifle.

He killed hundreds of the little rascals. I remember him fondly calculating the demise of the squirrel population, yet refraining from shooting the albino ones. Conducting his own ramshackle genetic experiment. Trying to obliterate the grey squirrel in our hood. A harvesting hunter at heart he felt somewhat guilty of killing animals without utlising their flesh for comestible means.

I was reading Vonnegut's Cats Cradle. Mom hollered throughout the house that dinner was served. Sit down to my dad ladling a tomato based broth with bits of light hued meat floating in it. My dad cooked most of the meals. I asked what it was. "Stew" trying to hide his anxious grin, "dig in". I figured it out after three spoonfuls. A three to one vote that it was the last time our table would see another squirrel dish.

During a trip to Texas, my family was invited to a rattler wrangle. A fairly spacious dirt pit. Five burlap bags come from all angles. Dozens of rattlesnakes pour out from them. Hooting, hollering and yee-has even, real western film cliche noises. What I could only believe to be madmen, dove on into the pit. They frantically would snatch up a snake by the throat, scramble to get out of the pit, and chop off the snake's head on a wood block. They slit em down the middle and degut the carcass, flinging entrails everywhere. Plenty of snake juice to go around. Rip the skin off, cut them into bite sized bits, dipped in batter and deep fat fried in a large cast iron kettle atop a wood fire. I must say that I can affirm the many "good eatin when they're freshly kilt" comments from the people that served the hot rattler nuggets to us.

During my first stint of Outward Bound, the roughin it camping experience for troubled pubescents, I had to kill a bunny. We were out in the wilderness of Missouri for three weeks with only what we brought on our backs. They taught us how to set simple traps to snag lunch. Got hunting in my family and even though I mostly shied away from that activity, I learned the basics. So when young, squeamish yet hungry minds were incapable of dispatching prey once ensnared, it fell to me to end it's life. I cried and then puked after the sound of the rabbit's muffled shrieking ended with the wet snap of its neck. The four other kids in my "squad" staring at me with amazement, fear and disgust. Looking into their faces I realised asking who wanted to gut and skin the furry fellow would be foolish. No one uttered a word as the peices of rabbit were divvied out from the fire, just the sounds of grunting and lip smacking.

There isn't much in the realm of meaty cuisine that I haven't tried. My pop liked to be adventurous in the kitchen and we all delighted in discovering something new at a restaurant. Plus there was a rule that we could not completely turn our nose up at anything until we had three healthy bites. I've had braised boar, rocky mountain oysters (deep fried sheep nuts, yes that would be yuck), venison, kangaroo carpacio, recently shot pheasant, jellyfish salad, frenchy frog's legs, chocolate covered ants and grasshoppers, turtle soup, horse, goat, sea cucumber, sea anemone, kidney pot pie, chitlins, cow tongue sandwiches, grubs, and probably cat and dog with some of the greasy ghetto chop suey joints I've frequented in the past. Pretty much enjoyed it all, and would go back for seconds if it was offered.