Of Moose and Men

by
George Logothetis

Near the cut line of black spruce, something stirred. For a queer moment there was only the wind, before a loud scraping—probably the big bull raking his antlers against a tree—cut the air. Frenchy clutched his Ruger M-77 bolt action rifle and peered into the bush.

His stubby frame was dressed in insulated bib overalls and waterproof Goretex-lined boots, but he was still shivering. His teeth were chattering like an old telegraph machine, and despite his Therma-foam seat cushion, his ass was nearly frozen solid. Maybe Big Wayne was right, maybe a moose was too much for him. What was he doing here, crouching behind a boulder in northern Alberta, two hundred miles from anywhere?

Hell, he didn’t know. He’d only been hunting for a few years, chasing whitetails around the Adirondacks and bagging the occasional four pointer, but this was different. Deer don’t stand seven feet high at the shoulder and weigh half a ton. He had to admit it—and now was a piss poor time to admit it if there ever was one—but the sheer size of alces americanus, the Canadian moose, intimidated him. In fact, he wasn’t sure that he could face such a mammoth brute. He kept his eyes on the alders, scanning them for movement, realizing that there was no turning back. Big Wayne would never let him forget it if he packed up now.

That was really why he was here—because of his loud mouth friend. Big Wayne thought he was such a hard ass. The two of them had started out as deer hunters—they’d met at a local hunt club near Binghamton—but two years ago Big Wayne had made the leap to big game. He’d been on caribou hunts in New Brunswick, a wild boar expedition in Tennessee, and last fall, in the Yukon, he’d taken his first moose. (An ordeal during which he’d cracked two vertebrae, which explained the stiff, broken-backed way he hobbled around the club.) Ever since then, Big Wayne had been mocking and braggadocios, constantly berating his fellow hunters for "not being man enough," and all because he’d taken a moose. Well, Frenchy thought, he’d bag one of these goddamn Bullwinkles and shut his cocky pal up forever.
Moving as gingerly as possible, Frenchy slid out his binoculars. If he glassed the line of alders maybe he’d be able to see where the bull was heading. That way he’d be ready if it charged, and they always charged, from what Big Wayne had said. For a few minutes he scanned the bushes, seeing and hearing nothing. It was like the big bull had vanished into the mist.

A minute later, though, there came a deep, anguished, snort. Frenchy squatted with his binoculars, scanning the trees, sensing movement. Another outburst sounded, a deeply resonant moan; then, in the foreground, the leaves rustled and he saw a brownish-black hide topped by a set of huge, claw-like antlers that looked like they could scoop him up if they wanted to. Slowly, Frenchy rose to his feet, mesmerized by the creature’s magnificence. He took a deep breath. Then he steadied the stock of his Ruger against the chest-high boulder and gazed into the scope, imagining how he’d drop a .15 grain shell into the moose’s heart and lungs, killing it instantly, but when he peered down the sight, he saw nothing. He shot up, scanning the bushes. Had the rubber-lipped swamp donkey wandered into the forest?

He reached for his moose whistle. It would be foolish to tramp off after it and blow his cover, he thought. He placed the caller to his lips.

An anguished, come-hither moan approximating the sound of a cow in estrus burst forth, fading into the morning fog. He waited for a few seconds, listening, but he heard nothing. He blew again, but the mating call died in the quiet morning air.

Frenchy wondered what to do. The bull had either stalked into the mist, or was tensed and ready to charge. He breathed deep, readying for another call, when suddenly, he had an idea.

Didn’t he have a 3 oz. bottle of Moose Musk? Yes. Big Wayne had chucked it to him as he’d left the lodge this morning. He was determined not to use it, thinking he didn’t need Big Wayne’s help, but what the hell, maybe he should listen to his more experienced friend.
He fished the small brown glass bottle out of his pocket and unscrewed its cap. A rank, vaguely fungous stench leapt out at him, and he gagged. "Jesus," he cried under his breath. The shit reeked. He held it at arm’s length, retching, holding a sleeve over his nose. He considered dabbing some of the rude stuff atop the boulder, but what if he had to move?
Retching, Frenchy turned the bottle of Moose Musk upside down, spilling a few drops of the brown liquid onto his mossy oak pattern trousers. But there was a size disparity—a tiny sprinkle didn’t seem nearly enough to attract such a mammoth beast. Big Wayne had said to use it sparingly, but Frenchy wasn’t taking any chances. He shook out a few more drops until his clothing was saturated, and feeling much more confident, stared into the alders.

A sweet fragrance tickled his nostrils, hot-wiring the big bull moose’s system with an all-consuming lust. Never before in his lonely wanderings across the muskeg had a scent been so irresistible. Suddenly, as he stood raking his antlers, its inviting bouquet had wafted up to him, and the effect was palpable and immediate.

Nosing forward, he poked through the leaves, the scent a dizzying cloud. The heat of the rut flamed through his skull, galvanizing his system. He pawed the ground, stamping his hooves. He snorted deeper, his heart drumming faster. The smell was overpowering, a siren’s call of wild, carnal delight, and the hot sweet core of it seemed to emanate from behind a boulder. He stood still, eyeing the rock, inhaling deeper and deeper, savoring the silky, musk-scented perfume until he was driven to the boiling point.

He’d known it before, but never this strong. Every fall, when the temperatures dropped and ice grew on the beaver ponds, it would find him, and every fall, it was the same. He would forget all about foraging for berries or casing out mineral licks and surrender to it, following the heady swell to wherever it led, and do what instinct had made other bull moose do for untold millennia.

The feverish aroma grew richer and more churlish. It was dewy and moist, supremely penetrable, and somewhere below, he felt himself awaken. His knobby knees trembled. Saliva drooled over his thick lips. Suddenly, his entire being was possessed with a perverse calling, and he mashed his hooves into the mud until the black earth pooled around his ankles.

He kept his large black eyes with their uncannily long lashes fixed ahead, at the boulder, where the sweet vapor emanated from, inhaling it until his eyelids fluttered. Beneath him, he felt his phallus nose forward, creeping upwards, curling over his belly hairs.
The big bull took one last, delightful breath and lowered his head. For a tense second he remained still, his haunches twitching expectantly, before launching himself forward, smashing through the twigs with an agitated bellow, a randy, two-ton leviathan driven by a scent only one thing could satisfy.

But when he lumbered across the small clearing and reached the boulder, something was wrong—there was no cow! No glorious brown rump seeping with fluid; no strong furry back to drape his forelegs over as he rammed his mooseness home—no, there was only a small, leaf-colored biped, cowering on a log, clutching a shiny stick.

For a second, the bull moose didn’t know what to do. His eyes told him the smaller creature wasn’t a cow, but his nose, the divine organ whose sense governed his being, told him otherwise. The smell was definitely cow, only much stronger than he’d ever experienced. He swung his long skull downward to look at the small white creature, who dropped his shiny metal stick and shrank away.

Puzzled, the bull moose considered galloping off to find a more acceptable mate, but right as he reared back to make his retreat, another whiff of paradise swept across his nostrils.

To anyone watching the scene that played out behind the boulder, it would have looked like a twisted pantomime, or a bold new exercise in body language. It was in fact, neither of those things, but rather a sequence of biology and instinct that ran to its inevitable conclusion.

Following its mating ritual as its species had since time immemorial, the big bull —after several perplexed moments spent fumbling with a plastic neoprene pant zipper and a camouflaged black parka—positioned Frenchy directly against the boulder, mashing the squat fellow until his arms and legs splayed out against the naked hard stone. Then, breathing in more of the helpless creature’s delightful tang, the big bull mounted Frenchy.
It felt odd at first, not having that hank of reassuring flesh to spear into, but gradually, as more of the small creature’s gorgeous stank roiled around him, the bull began to adjust his thrusts, falling into a rhythm, his haunches heaving mightily as he pounded his way to a shuddering climax.

Frenchy could only gasp, emitting cries of havoc and pain every few seconds, tiny, bird-like peeps that were instantly swallowed up by the thick, hairy torso hovering over him.

Ninety seconds later, it was over. The bull moose, disoriented by how thoroughly he’d been possessed, staggered off, crashing through the trees, vanishing into the waning mists.

For a stiff, horribly rearranged moment, Frenchy remained pressed against the rock, flecked with drool and other fluids of dubious viscosity. Out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw someone standing there, someone who looked suspiciously like Big Wayne, but he couldn’t be sure, because right then gravity took over, vanquishing his weakened knees.

As he fell, his right arm flung backwards, slapping onto the ground, where it remained, a muddy hand still clutching the tiny 3 oz. bottle of Moose Musk, whose fine print, on the label, read:

Danger: do not apply to body or clothing. You may be attacked.