George Buster Singleton |
(For decades, local historian and paranormal investigator
George “Buster” Singleton published a weekly newspaper column called “Somewhere
in Time.” The column below, which was titled “Leaving wounded game alive can be
hunters’ cruelest act” was originally published in the Feb. 4, 1988 edition of
The Monroe Journal in Monroeville, Ala.)
I am in no way speaking out against the many people who
enjoy the sport of deer hunting. I am, however, going to relate to my readers
the tragedy of an experience that I was confronted with a few days back.
To me, a wild deer is one of the most beautiful creatures to
be found in this area. I have, on several occasions, forgot to shoot this
beautiful animal when I would be on a so-called deer hunt.
To be truthful, I am not a very good hunter of any sort.
Most times when I go deer hunting, I get sleepy and go to sleep when I should
be watching and listening. And again, I don’t care anything about killing these
wild and beautiful creatures. I suppose this labels me as being “chicken-hearted”
by some. But that’s all right. It has been three years since I have purchased a
hunting license.
Harmful but beautiful
I know, too, that wild deer damage the local farmers’
growing crops during the spring and summer. But I continue to say that they are
among nature’s most beautiful creatures.
A few days back, I was enjoying a relaxing walk in the deer
woods near Haines Island, along the river, near the ferry. It was cloudy, and
it looked as if it might rain at any time. I was getting ready to return to my
transportation when I decided to sit down for a few minutes and just listen to
the sounds of nature. This was when I saw the large deer.
When I heard something walking in the underbrush behind me,
I thought that it was probably an armadillo searching for lunch in the deep
coating of leaves that lay on the ground. I turned to watch, and I saw this
large buck deer staggering through the underbrush, gasping for breath. He had
been a beautiful animal at one time, prior to being shot.
He had a large rack of horns, eight points in all. He would
surely have been a trophy animal had the hunter been successful in retrieving
him. I his right side, a large, ugly hole oozed blood where he had been shot
with what seemed to have been a shotgun of a type. As he stood gasping for
breath, blood could be heard dripping on the leaves beneath his feet.
He knew it was over
His whole body was wet with perspiration. As he tried to
breathe, bloody foam seeped from his nostrils. I could hear him breathe with
loud, raspy gasps. He made no effort to run; it seemed that he knew that it was
over for him.
He looked at me as though he thought perhaps I would put him
out of his misery. I did not have a gun of any type, only a small pocketknife.
I moved closer to him. He shook his head ever so slowly. By now, I was almost
close enough to touch his wounded side. His legs shook as he tried to stand.
We watched each other for about 15 minutes. I looked around,
trying to spot something that I could use to end his suffering. There was
nothing that I could put my hands on that I might use.
As he stood there watching me, I became aware that a greater
amount of blood was coming from his nose. His breathing had become more
difficult; his tongue had extended from his mouth.
He looked at me once again, then he began to walk slowly
down the path that had been made for people like myself to hike on and enjoy
the beauty of the deep woods.
Where was he going?
I followed him down the hill, watching him stagger and fall
as he lost his footing in the heavy layer of leaves that covered the ground.
Slowly he got up, each time with greater effort than the last. It seemed that
he was trying to reach some special place. I continued to follow.
A small footbridge lay in the path up ahead. As I watched
this dying animal struggling along, I wondered if he would cross the man-made
bridge, or try to descend the banks and cross the small stream above or below
the bridge.
The large buck staggered across the tiny bridge as though he
had done it many times. He paused for a moment and tried to drink water from a
small depression in the ground that had been filled by the morning rain. As he
lowered his head to drink, the water turned red with blood; he raised his head
slowly and began to stagger forward.
Seventy or so yards ahead, I saw the slow-moving waters of
the mighty river, directly in the path of the dying animal. I wondered what
would happen when he reached the river.
Saying goodbye?
When the wounded buck reached the river, he stopped. His
breathing had grown much weaker; I wondered how he was going to swim the wide
river in this condition. As if to answer my thoughts, he turned and looked one
last time at me. Perhaps he was trying to say goodbye – who knows? He then
staggered into the waters of the river.
He swam for about 30 feet before going under the first time.
The waters around him showed red with traces of blood. He managed to get his
head above the water; he swam for about 50 more feet. By now he was out in the
current of the river; only his nose and horns could be seen.
He made one last effort to raise his head above the water.
As he did so, he bleated once as he disappeared below the surface. The great
river closed above him; his suffering was over.
Mother Nature has many strange and wonderful ways, far
beyond our reasoning and thinking.
(Singleton, the author of the 1991 book “Of Foxfire and
Phantom Soldiers,” passed away at the age of 79 on July 19, 2007. A longtime
resident of Monroeville, he was born on Dec. 14, 1927 in Marengo County,
graduated from Sweet Water High School, served in the Korean War, moved to
Monroe County in 1961 and served as the administrator of the Monroeville
National Guard unit from 1964 to 1987. For years, Singleton’s column “Somewhere
in Time” appeared in The Monroe Journal, and he wrote a lengthy series of
articles about Monroe County that appeared in Alabama Life magazine. He is
buried in Pineville Cemetery in Monroeville. The column above and all of
Singleton’s other columns are available to the public through the microfilm
records at the Monroe County Public Library in Monroeville. Singleton’s columns
are presented here each week for research and scholarship purposes and as part
of an effort to keep his work and memory alive.)
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