Michael Bey
Buck Fawn
Dear Marestail,
I hate you.
Earlier this year I had grandiose visions of beautiful new food plots with large bucks frolicking in them during hunting season. I dutifully cleared the plots, sprayed them multiple times throughout the summer with 41% glyphosate, and even thought about getting a soil test.
And then you arrived. And brought your entire frickin’ family with you.
Not surprisingly, the repeated sprayings of glyphosate wiped out pretty much every form of vegetation surrounding you. But I’m pretty sure I heard you snickering at me each time I left the property after spraying. If anything, you responded to the glyphosate as a form of personal fertilizer, because on each successive trip to the property I was greeted by even more of you in my food plots.
As you know, I did the next logical thing and switched chemicals. How did you feel about that triclopyr cocktail I gave you last week? Did you enjoy that? Was half a gallon of chemical over a half acre food plot too much? Well, too damn bad.
Why did you and all your dysfunctional family members choose to take up residence in my food plots? Couldn’t you weasel your way into a spot on the Jerry Springer show?
Have I mentioned lately that I hate you?
You may have won these last few battles with me, but you're not gonna win this war. As a heads up, you may want to bring your “A” game because you’re about to have some serious company in the form of cereal rye. If 100 pounds per acre of rye is a reasonable dose, then I may broadcast 200 pounds per acre just to spite you. And next spring? You can count on a heavy application of buckwheat seed, followed by me rolling over you and the rye with my Kubota RTV and cultipacker. I think I’ll do the rolling part slowly so I can listen to you scream.
In case you haven’t figured it out yet, you’ve pissed me off and I’m not done fighting.
In short, I hate you.
love,
Mike
I hate you.
Earlier this year I had grandiose visions of beautiful new food plots with large bucks frolicking in them during hunting season. I dutifully cleared the plots, sprayed them multiple times throughout the summer with 41% glyphosate, and even thought about getting a soil test.
And then you arrived. And brought your entire frickin’ family with you.
Not surprisingly, the repeated sprayings of glyphosate wiped out pretty much every form of vegetation surrounding you. But I’m pretty sure I heard you snickering at me each time I left the property after spraying. If anything, you responded to the glyphosate as a form of personal fertilizer, because on each successive trip to the property I was greeted by even more of you in my food plots.
As you know, I did the next logical thing and switched chemicals. How did you feel about that triclopyr cocktail I gave you last week? Did you enjoy that? Was half a gallon of chemical over a half acre food plot too much? Well, too damn bad.
Why did you and all your dysfunctional family members choose to take up residence in my food plots? Couldn’t you weasel your way into a spot on the Jerry Springer show?
Have I mentioned lately that I hate you?
You may have won these last few battles with me, but you're not gonna win this war. As a heads up, you may want to bring your “A” game because you’re about to have some serious company in the form of cereal rye. If 100 pounds per acre of rye is a reasonable dose, then I may broadcast 200 pounds per acre just to spite you. And next spring? You can count on a heavy application of buckwheat seed, followed by me rolling over you and the rye with my Kubota RTV and cultipacker. I think I’ll do the rolling part slowly so I can listen to you scream.
In case you haven’t figured it out yet, you’ve pissed me off and I’m not done fighting.
In short, I hate you.
love,
Mike