Imagine if you will...

rank upon rank of camouflaged men marching toward you, weapons at the ready...you wake to the sound of gunfire getting ever closer...barking dogs in the distance...truck after truck full of heavily armed yahoos speeding past your house....total strangers coming to your door, eager to know where your property lines end and where they might locate your neighbors....

No, you're not in Fallujah, honey. You're in rural Nebraska and it's pheasant season.

It's not a desert out there, it's corn stubble. And that's not depleted uranium glinting in the morning sun, it's empty Busch light cans. And those aren't angry religious fundamentalists struggling for control of the country, they're � hmm. Never mind.

'Tis the season to don your flame-orange chapeau when you go out to get the mail, and to ditch earth-tone clothing as a personal safety measure. It's also a good time to worry about the cats when they don't come in at kibble time.

For those not in the know, a pheasant is a beautifully colored, chicken-sized bird with long tail feathers and a propensity to fly into car windshields. It was imported as a game bird, but being woefully inadequate at both Monopoly and Boggle, now runs helplessly through the underbrush, trying to hide from the slavering dogs and rednecks that relentlessly pursue it � until, in full panic, it leaps into the air in a desperate attempt to escape. Then, well, bang, and that's pretty much it.

Hubby shot one last year, out by the old hog ponds, and it fell into the shoulder-high underbrush. He couldn't find it, so I threw a coat over my jammies (since it was about 15 degrees outside), put on my new suede boots, and went tramping. No luck. I froze my hinder off for an hour looking for a stupid hunk of poultry that didn't have the common decency to expire in plain sight. Facing a trip back through the weed jungle without a machete, we decided to shortcut across a frozen hog pond. Hubby assured me it was fine, as he'd been back and forth a dozen times that morning.

Crossing the pond was uneventful, as promised. Until I reached the center. Then a very subtle buckling, a slight surge and ripple, gave me a sudden urge to pee. Treading with more care, I made it all the way to the far shore � except for the last two yards. My foot broke through the surface ice, and suddenly I was three feet deep in a pig shit slurpee. I have never been so grateful for my fat left thigh, which wedged into the ice hole and stopped my descent.

A true redneck, hubby was reluctant to set down his gun, and made a half-assed one-handed attempt to lift me out. I gently counseled him to use both hands, and, if necessary, get the truck and a rope. The other option was building a small hut around me and waiting until spring, which was strangely unappealing.

He did finally manage to lift me out, with my leg looking like a core sample from an ancient outhouse. And as I stripped down to nothing in the frigid morning air, stooping at the standpipe to rinse 30 years of porcine excrement off my clothes, another truckload of pheasant hunters came up the drive.

Thank god for back doors.

I fucking hate pheasant season.