Shooting vultures leads to good story
One of my favorite hot & dry weather stories has to do with an acquaintance in Texas who ate a buzzard. I’ll call him Jack because revealing his actual name could cause legal problems.
As I understand the statute, eating a vulture may not be a crime. Preparing one for the table, though, normally involves ending the critter’s life. Doing this is an offense and, even though mitigating circumstances weigh in his favor, I expect Jack broke the law.
Vultures are protected because they provide a valuable service; cleaning up road kill and assorted other dead animals. Consuming bloated, putrid flesh requires a remarkable digestive system, which vultures have. Even so, they throw up a lot. What went down was ghastly. What comes up, mixed with stomach acids capable of dissolving tire irons, is much worse.
With this in mind consider Tony H., who raises cattle on the ranch where he was born. Drought years create special problems. Dwindling water holes draw more than thirsty cows. Wild hogs and buzzards come from miles away. Hogs are bad, Tony says, but buzzards are worse. When ponds are at their normal level a bit of vulture vomit is not a problem. But as water levels decline and the number of vultures frequenting water holes increase, the concentration of deposits reaches a point at which cattle refuse to drink. Tony claims cows are so repelled by buzzard contamination they’ll die of thirst. Dead cows make more for the birds to consume and dispel.
The law includes a provision allowing those being damaged to apply for a permit to kill offenders. Knock off a few and the rest will leave. Tony tells me he’s done this several times in years past. Jack hunts deer on Tony’s ranch, using a high-powered rifle with pinpoint accuracy. Tony is 82 years old and shaky. He calls on Jack to do the shooting.
Jack, with all the paraphernalia for a buzzard shoot, arrived on a 102 degree afternoon. Tony had applied for the permit, was sure he’d get it, but there’d been some delay. The two could see a watering hole from the porch. It was black with buzzards, dozens more were circling overhead, and thirsty cows were looking on. Waiting for the permit, it was decided, wasn’t entirely necessary.
Tony, watching with a spotting scope, remarked that Jack seemed to have shot the first couple of birds in the body. Jack replied he was aiming to. Tony joked that doing so ruined the meat. Although Tony wasn’t serious, the line of conversation nettled Jack. Head shots were foolish. His rifle was capable, but a buzzard’s neck is rarely stationary. The head bobs and ducks. Attempting to hit a tiny, moving target at 250 yards was a waste. He tried a couple and missed. Tony laughed. Jack handed him the rifle. “If I pop a noggin with the first shot,” Tony asked, “will you eat the breast?” Jack noted Tony’s hands, which were shaking like wet puppies. “What if you miss?” Tony would buy the steak dinner, and the bet was made.
Jack tells me he soaked the breast in salted ice water for 24 hours, marinated it for 12 more in a blend of Italian dressing, Jack Daniels, and chipotle peppers. He then slow cooked the lump in a crock pot. The meat, he said, was dark and awful, but the sauce wasn’t bad.
Jack’s theory held that Tony hit the target because his shakes corresponded with the buzzard’s head-bobbing. Tony set the record straight a few months later, confessing that the abruptly decapitated vulture was about eight birds removed from the one he was aiming at.
The cows, we presume, were grateful regardless.
Roy Marshall is a local historian and columnist for the Red Oak Express. He can be contacted at news@redoakexpress.com.