Sports: Outdoors

Pelzer, pork & Mr. Monroe

Bob Kornegay

Pelzer Easley (you can’t make up a name like that) walked out onto his front porch as I drove into his yard. It was February 14, 1988, 6:30 a.m. The old swamper held a half-empty quart of Country Club Malt Liquor in one hand and a partially eaten Goo-Goo Chocolate Cluster in the other. It crossed my mind that this day might be memorable.

Pelzer, by reputation, was one of the best feral hog hunters in North Florida, and he looked it: grizzled, scarred, squinty-eyed, broken teeth, belligerent countenance. Here, I surmised, was a man who’d caught a few wild boars in his time. And, no, I offered zero critical commentary about his choice of morning cuisine. Anyone who live-catches wild hogs with regularity and lives into his mid sixties may eat or drink whatever he wants, combination and time of day notwithstanding. Besides, it was Valentine’s Day. The Goo-Goo was appropriate.

I was there to hunt hogs with Pelzer. I would shoot photos, take notes and compile the fodder necessary for a marketable magazine article. My buddy Cletus Monroe was along for the adventure.

After a chocolaty handshake and a “howdy do,” Pelzer finished “breakfast” and went to collect his dogs, which would chase, catch and hold for us any hogs we might encounter. He returned with three; a mixed-parentage trio in which I recognized pit bull, Catahoula, and a dash of Cerberus, the three-headed hound of Hell. All three were grizzled, scarred, squinty-eyed ... aw, heck, they looked like Pelzer.

Clete and I hurriedly boarded the cab of my pickup as Pelzer jumped into the back, dragging the sinister-looking canines behind him.

The drive to the swamp was uneventful, unless one counts the stop made to break up the fight that broke out in the truck bed. The snarling and snapping was awful. The dogs behaved viciously as well.

Rain had turned the wooded terrain into a gooey quagmire, punctuated here and there by high-ground “islands.” On one of these, Pelzer, bloodied but exhilarated, loosed his wild-eyed, demonic charges. In moments the chase was on.

“Come on!” yelled Pelzer, moving as fast as his sexagenarian’s legs could carry him.

Left behind, Clete and I desperately trailed Pelzer, who chased the dogs, who were running the hog, who was Lord knows where by this time. Twice my camera strap snagged on branches, nearly hanging me. Three times, Clete fell into the sticky, stinking mud.

We needn’t have worried about not keeping up. Frenzied barking, cussing and a caught hog’s squeal were our locator beacons. We homed in on our host’s high-pitched, “Whooee! Whooee!”

Exhausted, we arrived at the scene of capture to find Pelzer and dogs locked in mortal combat with a large feral sow. Pelzer was attempting to control the hell-hounds and, at once, wrap the hog’s feet with duct tape.

His assistance options were limited. There was me, but I was taking pictures. There was Clete, who had no excuse, but wasn’t about to get physically involved with a hog, three dogs, and Pelzer, who was now brandishing a long, double-edged “stobbin” knife.

Long story short, Miz Hog got loose, Pelzer got tossed into a briar thicket, and the dogs, rather than give chase, opted to finish the altercation begun earlier in the back of the truck. The sow, no quitter, ran toward Clete and me, who proceeded to contest squatters’ rights to the only climbable tree in the vicinity.

I got there first, barely. Clete wound up in the hog’s mouth — or at least his pants did.

Picture, if possible, a big perturbed porker, teeth snagged in the crotch of my old pal’s baggy (thank goodness) hunting trousers. Attempting to free her dentition from the cloth, the sow “rooted” up and down, bouncing Clete’s ample posterior like a point guard dribbles a basketball. He yelled for help, but Pelzer was pulling dogs apart while I, ever the professional, continued taking fine aerial shots of the proceedings.

Help was unnecessary anyhow. The britches eventually gave way and the pig escaped with a mouthful of canvas and a sizable portion of bright red boxer undies.

She was our only hog of the day and Pelzer was sorry she hadn’t been a big wild boar. Glancing downward and imagining sharp, four-inch tusks at work, Clete assured him that was alright.

Later, on Pelzer’s porch, Clete hogged (sorry) all the Country Club.

Pelzer and I contented ourselves with a Goo-Goo and kept one eye peeled for mean dogs.

Back to today's Sports>>