The Rabbit Man

Hunter finds happiness in ‘out-of-the-way haven’

The Rabbit Man, Hugh “Ed” Middleton, blows the old cow horn that calls his dogs in and signals the end of another rabbit hunt.
The Rabbit Man, Hugh “Ed” Middleton, blows the old cow horn that calls his dogs in and signals the end of another rabbit hunt.

I met him in the winter of 1987.

“Let’s get together this weekend and go rabbit hunting,” my friend Lewis said. “One of my clients invited us. Sounds like he has some good dogs. Says they had a good hunt yesterday.”

So it was that two days later, Lewis introduced us — The Rabbit Man and me.

He had no pretensions about him. “Nice meetin’ ya,” The Rabbit Man said, extending a callused hand. “Now, if we’re done with the pleasantries, maybe we can go huntin’.”

Crotchety old cuss, I thought. And, indeed, that morning, The Rabbit Man looked the part. He smiled very little, and a three-day stubble of beard roughened his furrowed face. He was a big man but looked haggard for his 65 years. He dressed in typical hunter’s garb: a plaid flannel shirt, brushbuster breeches with vinyl across the front of each leg, red suspenders where he hitched his thumbs, a camo hunting cap, a canvas coat and rubber knee boots. A shiny, black-and-white cow horn with a pewter mouthpiece dangled from a piece of twine slung over one shoulder — a come-hither signal for his dogs.

The picture stuck with me as we drove behind him to the river bottoms. What makes this man tick? I wondered. Why did he invite us here?

Not far from the community of Pine Tree, down a muddy dirt path, is a little blackwater seep the locals call Lost Pond. The name is befitting, for you might pass within a few yards of the pond and never know it is there. That is part of its charm. In its isolation, this tiny pool rarely receives human visitors.

It was here The Rabbit Man led us. As soon as we arrived, he released his dogs, whistling and bellowing to spur them on. Then, cradling guns under our arms, we followed the snuffling pack of hounds into the heart of the Lost Pond woods.

I studied the old man as we walked and watched his curmudgeonly facade transform. He reminded me of a bruised child given a mother’s kiss to make it all better. The sullen glower was replaced with a broad smile, and when we stopped, he talked.

“This here’s God’s country, or at least the closest I’ve ever come to it,” The Rabbit Man said, gesturing with a sweep of his outstretched hand. “Most folks don’t care much for it. Too muddy. Too many mosquitoes and snakes. But the swamp rabbits and cottontails like it plenty good. Lots of ’em, all through here. And me and my dogs … well, we love any place with lots of rabbits.”

He beamed as he talked, and I realized the grumpy disposition I perceived at first had not been that at all. It was more a bit of agitated impatience, an old man eager to get out of the city and back to the out-of-the-way haven where he was happy and at ease.

We hunted several hours, talking — and listening when a chase was on. The dogs yammered in the distance as they hounded the Lost Pond swampers.

“They’ve lost him,” The Rabbit Man would say when the woods fell silent. “But just you listen. Ol’ Pete’ll figure him out.”

Shortly, the clamor would start again, and The Rabbit Man would smile. He knew what the dogs would do before they did it, and though the rabbits were unpredictable to me, The Rabbit Man always inserted one of our hunting party in just the right place to cut short their escape. Only rarely did he step in himself to shoot, that privilege being appointed for his guests.

I watched him slip through the bottoms that day and knew he was more than a visitor there. He was as much a part of the swamp as the rabbits he chased — at home, fully incorporated into the landscape. When he set his hounds loose, all his pains and worries melted away.

Despite my initial misgivings, something special happened that day. A seed was planted, and over the next hunting season and the next, that seed grew into a deep, unexpected friendship. The long drive between our homes kept me from hunting with The Rabbit Man as much as I wanted, but we went afield once or twice each season. I always hated to see those days end, but it’s the endings I remember most.

“Hear those dogs, boy?” he’d say. “They’re playing my song. I hate to call ’em in.”

Then he’d pull that old horn from under his coat and, placing it to his lips, he’d sound a note, long and mellow, and the dog music would end.

The layers of character that made The Rabbit Man different from the many other rabbit hunters I know cannot be reduced to a single proposition. Yet, were I forced to choose one trait that set him apart from others, I would say it was the intense, unwavering love he had for the sport. For him, hunting rabbits was no mere passion. It was a vital function, like a heartbeat or breathing. Being in his favorite coverts, listening to his dogs chasing a swamp rabbit or cottontail, was an elixir that nourished and sustained him.

I’ve met others like The Rabbit Man, but they are a rare and dying breed. It is unfortunate that those of us who love hunting cannot devote ourselves to our pleasures in such an all-encompassing manner. We find ourselves caught up in day-to-day affairs that demand an ever-increasing share of our time. As we give ourselves over to business and family matters and other such importances, we surrender to the notion that we’re “doing what’s right,” that pleasures can be indulged only after we finish our toil.

That is why, I suppose, I felt compelled to write this. The Rabbit Man embraced his passion for the outdoors and made it a priority in his life. In that respect, he was part of a small and vanishing brotherhood.

Hugh “Ed” Middleton, The Rabbit Man, died on Feb. 19, 1991. Though I thought about it several times, I didn’t hunt with him that season. There was too much to do at home and in the office, too little time for “unimportant” stuff like rabbit hunting.

When I read about his death in the obituaries, I wasn’t surprised. The Rabbit Man was complaining more about his arthritis and walking shorter distances before stopping to catch his breath.

I spoke to him in January, listening as he complained about two new pups that wouldn’t mind him. His hound Pete had died the past season, and Scrapper was too old to chase rabbits any more. The young pups couldn’t replace the old veterans.

When I learned of The Rabbit Man’s death, I went to the doghouse and turned my little beagle pup out into the woods. I listened as she ran a cottontail across the hillsides.

Booorrooo! Booorrooo!

It was a harsh sound, primitive and untamed. But it fell on my ears like a choir of angels.

“Can you hear that, Rabbit Man?” I said, casting my eyes toward the orange sunset. “She’s playing your song.”

In the distance, I thought I heard the long, sonorous note of an old black-and-white horn.

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