March 30, 2015
I spoke to my neighbors and got permission to slip over to their place in hopes of ambushing one of the toms that’s been cruising up and down the dry creek bed, and gobbling their heads off every morning.
I dug out my box call and a slate, debated pulling out the gobbler and decided to leave it stowed for now.
I found Fertile Myrtle, the trusty decoy, and tried to straighten out the wrinkles in her foamy flanks.
Iggy and I cruised over and scouted the area thoroughly, identifying two ideal setups.
Saturday morning dawned, and I sat shivering in the chill morning air, waiting to hear the fly-down or the gobbling that typically answered my neighbor’s rooster.
It never came.
No gobbles. No yelps.
The morning passed and I had errands to run, so I set my sights on Sunday and went about my business.
Sunday dawned, and again I waited.
The damned birds have done it to me again.