Memories of a rabbit hunter
As I stepped from the 4x4 to open the gate to the property we were to hunt on, it was pretty obvious that the drought had a death grip on the land; it certainly looked devastated. As I peered around I smiled inwardly when I thought of the words old Alan had said to me some years back when I was discussing rain, or the serious lack of, with him. “You know,” he said, “all those years ago when it rained for 40 days and 40 nights we only got 10 points around here.”
I had met Alan through a mutual mate. As luck would have it we were up at my drover aunt’s place, further out west, hunting pigs when her friend Margie rang up. The conversation eventually focused on rabbits and the huge amounts she was encountering down her way. According to
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