Hog Dog Hunting Quotes

If We Must Die If we must die, let it not be like hogs Hunted and penned in an inglorious spot, While round us bark the mad and hungry dogs, Making their mock at our accursèd lot. If we must die, O let us nobly die, So that our precious blood may not be shed In vain; then even the monsters we defy Shall be constrained to honor us though dead! O kinsmen! we must meet the common foe! Though far outnumbered let us show us brave, And for their thousand blows deal one death-blow! What though before us lies the open grave? Like men we'll face the murderous, cowardly pack, Pressed to the wall, dying, but fighting back!

Never been around dogs much. My mom had a collie when I was a boy, but she was a gentle animal who stayed around the house, mostly. My father, and the men he knew, all had braces of big surly hunting dogs they used for going after wild hogs. The times he took me with him on those hunts, I was more afraid of those dogs than the feral hogs. Think they could sense it. Always felt like they would’ve taken the least opportunity to sink their teeth into me.

I don’t remember the whole thing, because it was very long, but Atticus recited it for me once, and there was a line that went like this: “Cry ham hock and let slip the hogs of war!” I know you might not agree, but for me that was the best thing Shakespeare ever wrote." You mean, “Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war” from Julius Caesar? "No, I don’t think that’s it. There was ham in there; I’m sure he was talking about ham. They were going to battle hunger." I think you might have been hungry when you heard it, Oberon.

Cry ham hock and let slip the hogs of war!” I know you might not agree, but for me that was the best thing Shakespeare ever wrote.> You mean, “Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war” from Julius Caesar?

The simple fact is that domestic dogs and wolves are different animals, adapted to different environments, and cannot live (well) in the other’s niche. Wolves are consummate predators, but it’s rare to find a dog that can hunt down and kill a moose for food. Dogs will track deer or chase wild hogs as they “hunt” with humans for sport, but it’s highly doubtful they could ever earn a living by hunting on their own. For their part, wolves rarely become tame enough to get by in the household dog’s world of human hearth and home. They may occasionally live on their own in or near human habitation, but they tend not to be able to eat in the presence of people. Whereas even free-living dogs that are raised in garbage dumps or just outside town are able to dine in the company of humans.

One thought followed another, out of relaxation and into exasperation: the idiocy of animal activists, the bad influence of Disney cartoons, and the gullibility of the Bambi-loving American public. "Walt Disney did us in," he grumbled. "Before all those movies, people looked at animals differently." He snorted with disgust, mulling over that trend of animated movies populated by big-eyed deer and big-bad hunters that terrify defenseless animals. Bambi, Thumper, Flower the Skunk, Gerone sees them all as trouble, part of the reason that we live in a country filled with people who seem only to see animals as cuddly. He put down his wine glass, watching the clear liquid slosh against the edges. Before this century, he points out, most Americans lived on farms. They butchered hogs themselves, took chicken eggs, milked cows, ate the animals that surrounded them. They shot wild animals to protect their herds, to add to their food supplies. Now, the country's population has concentrated in cities. Hunting is largely a recreational sport; farmers are in decline. People are sur- rounded instead by pets, sleepy cats, playful dogs, pet rats and guinea pigs. "There are kids out there who think meat is born cellophane wrapped," complained Gerone. How can they identify with the idea that animals—the ones they play and feed and sleep with-—should be available as tools, for research?

Each man builds his dog in his own image, but the definition of a good dog, like the definition of a good man, is one who knows and respects the bobwhite. No sincere hunter will overshoot a covey. No good dog will flush a covey until the hunter is at his side. No good dog will encroach on another's point. A smart dog knows more than any man about the likeliest spot to find his quarry. No good man or good dog is happy to leave a wounded bird unfound. No good man hogs the best shot, as no good dog is disrespectful of the rights of his hunting companion. Altogether, the quail manages to bring out a great deal of fineness in both dogs and men. - The Brave Quail By Robert Ruark

What's your idea of November?” he asked, his eyes half-closed. I wanted to tell him that it was mostly the opening of the bird season, and the Thanksgiving holidays, the persimmons wrinkled and ripe on the trees, when the weather was real nice, and it was hog-killing time in the country, and the pumpkins looked yellow and jolly in the fields, and the sun set good and red, and a lot of other things, but I couldn’t manage to squeeze it all out because I had no way with words. “The bird season,” I said. - November Was Always the Best By Robert Ruark

Reaching the barnyard, we decided that an assault en masse was the proper maneuver. The dogs were to be the shock troops, and we were to follow up the advantage that they had obtained over the common enemy. We had sundry cudgels and ropes with which to belabor the victim. The seven dogs went through the gate in a body; and the wild boar accommodated them by not permitting them to hesitate for a moment as to which hog they were after. Incontinently he rushed them. With great valor we watched the fray from the farther side of the fence, waiting until our chance seemed secure enough to enable us to cross the obstruction that protected us. Suddenly, hurled high over the fence, the bulldog rejoined us; all the zest seemed gone out of him. Then the two hounds fled across the yard and skulked into the stable; their attitude indicated that they carried no tornado insurance. The collie stood off and barked with hollow ferocity. The two plain dogs went manfully to work, as if the matter of laying in a supply of Christmas bacon interested them personally. But one dog was trampled by the boar. The other seized the monster’s ear and hung on grimly. Yet the beast would rip him open, I knew. Just then, Sarsaparilla, who had calmly and aloofly watched the proceedings, stepped niftily in. He approached rather fastidiously, not from dismay but from a certain curious regard for finesse. Stationed behind the hog, he looked thoughtfully at the shaggy brute; then he quietly bowed his lunatic, dolesome head, mouthed the boar’s upper haunch until he had a deliberate hold, sunk his teeth, set his legs, and began grimly to shake his head. The boar, I think, got one glimpse of what had him; he probably imagined it a saber-toothed tiger. Savagely shaking off the dog from his head, he squealed shrilly and turned to run. Sarsaparilla said quite firmly, “Not so fast.” The bewildered boar could not get loose. The other dogs came back. We jumped the fence, and soon we had the old marauder from the swamps securely roped. Sarsaparilla then stalked sedately off; he had condescended to help us; but he was not going to join in any of our puerile excitement. “What kind of dog is that?” I asked his owner. “God in he’ben knows,” replied he, meaning no irreverence; “but he got all de sense. Sometime I gwine change his name to Solomon.