fall over. The only difference about
this fellow was that he was bigger than any pig that had charged me
before, but that meant he was a better-than-usual target.
I
lined him up in my sights as he hurtled towards me and then, as one
does, brushed my right eye with my hand to clear it.
I
had forgotten the stitches in my eyelid. One of them tore loose and
my eyelid started to bleed, effectively blinding me. It would have
been trivial if an enraged boar had not been bearing down on me with
mayhem in its heart.
I
tried to sight the rifle with my left eye, but this is almost
impossible unless you are used to it. I wasn't. I could vaguely line
the boar up, but only vaguely. But there was nothing I could do
except start shooting. I started shooting. I fired five times and
unless that boar was wearing armour-plating, I missed every time.
Then
my rifle was empty and the boar was about five metres away.
Now
there was only one thing I could do, and I did it.
I
panicked, dropped the rifle and ran.
With
the little reasoning capacity that was left to me, I realised that my
car was one hundred metres away and I wouldn't reach it before the
boar reached me. I am far too old and fat for a hundred-metre sprint.
There
was however, just a few metres away, a sapling gum about three metres
high. I got to this and went up it like a goanna, a feat I could
never have achieved except under the impulse of pure terror.
The
trouble was that there were no substantial branches on the sapling
and the only way I could stay the necessary couple of metres above
the ground was to wrap my arms and legs around the slender trunk and
support my own weight with the strength of my muscles. I weighed
about one hundred kilograms. My muscles aren't in very good
condition.
I
looked down and there was the boar glaring up at me, grinding its
tusks and foaming slightly at the jaws.
Already
my arms and legs were aching with the effort of holding myself I in
the tree and I knew it was only a matter of minutes before I fell to
the ground. Whereupon the boar, I was sure, would gore, bite and
trample me to death with considerable expertise and enthusiasm. Just
one glance into the hideous face eliminated any possibility of
negotiation. Besides, I had been trying to kill him — he
was only reciprocating.
These
were not thoughts that occurred to me at the time. The only cerebral
activity that could be described as thought was the realisation that
my best bet was to try to get back my rifle and reload it.
The
boar was circling the tree, looking as though he was considering
climbing up after me. I hung on until he was on the opposite side
from the rifle, then dropped to the ground and ran for my weapon. I
don't know how close the boar was behind me because I didn't look,
but he was squealing again, I could hear his hooves on the hard baked
ground, and no doubt I imagined it, but I swear I could feel his hot
breath on my neck.
I
reached the rifle, picked it up by the muzzle, and swung around with
some vague idea of trying to get back up the tree and reloading the
rifle. Just how I proposed to climb the tree with a rifle in one hand
I didn't know. I wasn't really acting terribly rationally at the
time. Anyhow, it was irrelevant. The boar was upon us. Head down and
tail up, he was homing in on my legs with lethal intensity.
I
did what I should have done in the first place. Used the rifle as a
club. Clutching the barrel in both hands I made an almighty swipe at
the boar's head.
I
missed.
I
not only missed, I fell over backwards and lost hold of the rifle. It
went sailing off into the grass several metres away and the boar
moved in and proceeded to eat me.
It
had torn my trousers half off and was making considerable inroads in
my legs (I still have the scars) when I decided that I was not too
old and fat to run one hundred metres to my motor car.
I
kicked the boar in the snout, scrambled to my feet and ran that
hundred metres, I am sure, faster than any athlete in
this fellow was that he was bigger than any pig that had charged me
before, but that meant he was a better-than-usual target.
I
lined him up in my sights as he hurtled towards me and then, as one
does, brushed my right eye with my hand to clear it.
I
had forgotten the stitches in my eyelid. One of them tore loose and
my eyelid started to bleed, effectively blinding me. It would have
been trivial if an enraged boar had not been bearing down on me with
mayhem in its heart.
I
tried to sight the rifle with my left eye, but this is almost
impossible unless you are used to it. I wasn't. I could vaguely line
the boar up, but only vaguely. But there was nothing I could do
except start shooting. I started shooting. I fired five times and
unless that boar was wearing armour-plating, I missed every time.
Then
my rifle was empty and the boar was about five metres away.
Now
there was only one thing I could do, and I did it.
I
panicked, dropped the rifle and ran.
With
the little reasoning capacity that was left to me, I realised that my
car was one hundred metres away and I wouldn't reach it before the
boar reached me. I am far too old and fat for a hundred-metre sprint.
There
was however, just a few metres away, a sapling gum about three metres
high. I got to this and went up it like a goanna, a feat I could
never have achieved except under the impulse of pure terror.
The
trouble was that there were no substantial branches on the sapling
and the only way I could stay the necessary couple of metres above
the ground was to wrap my arms and legs around the slender trunk and
support my own weight with the strength of my muscles. I weighed
about one hundred kilograms. My muscles aren't in very good
condition.
I
looked down and there was the boar glaring up at me, grinding its
tusks and foaming slightly at the jaws.
Already
my arms and legs were aching with the effort of holding myself I in
the tree and I knew it was only a matter of minutes before I fell to
the ground. Whereupon the boar, I was sure, would gore, bite and
trample me to death with considerable expertise and enthusiasm. Just
one glance into the hideous face eliminated any possibility of
negotiation. Besides, I had been trying to kill him — he
was only reciprocating.
These
were not thoughts that occurred to me at the time. The only cerebral
activity that could be described as thought was the realisation that
my best bet was to try to get back my rifle and reload it.
The
boar was circling the tree, looking as though he was considering
climbing up after me. I hung on until he was on the opposite side
from the rifle, then dropped to the ground and ran for my weapon. I
don't know how close the boar was behind me because I didn't look,
but he was squealing again, I could hear his hooves on the hard baked
ground, and no doubt I imagined it, but I swear I could feel his hot
breath on my neck.
I
reached the rifle, picked it up by the muzzle, and swung around with
some vague idea of trying to get back up the tree and reloading the
rifle. Just how I proposed to climb the tree with a rifle in one hand
I didn't know. I wasn't really acting terribly rationally at the
time. Anyhow, it was irrelevant. The boar was upon us. Head down and
tail up, he was homing in on my legs with lethal intensity.
I
did what I should have done in the first place. Used the rifle as a
club. Clutching the barrel in both hands I made an almighty swipe at
the boar's head.
I
missed.
I
not only missed, I fell over backwards and lost hold of the rifle. It
went sailing off into the grass several metres away and the boar
moved in and proceeded to eat me.
It
had torn my trousers half off and was making considerable inroads in
my legs (I still have the scars) when I decided that I was not too
old and fat to run one hundred metres to my motor car.
I
kicked the boar in the snout, scrambled to my feet and ran that
hundred metres, I am sure, faster than any athlete in
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