I fantasize about killing wild boars.

I do.* 

I fantasize about killing wild boars with my bare hands. 

Realizing that this is probably not something that most people fantasize about, I feel the need to elaborate.  First of all, you should know two things.  One, a sounder of wild boars have taken up residence on the land where I do the majority of my horseback riding, and, two, I enjoy reading fantasy novels. 

I tend to be dramatic.  If I see a tarp or a trash bag while I’m out on the trail, I immediately think, “dead body.”  I imagine mountain lions will chase after me in the woods like they did Pa in Little House in the Big Woods.  One time, a mannequin in the barn scared the living Hell out of me, because I thought it was a dead body and that the ranch owners were mobsters of some sort who would kill me if I told anyone about it.  See what I mean by dramatic. 

Knowing this about me, it isn’t that hard to believe that I tend to think about worst case scenarios and such as I’m riding horses on the trail.  Leading up to hunting season, I imagine either getting shot, or having my horse shot out from under me by drunk hunters.  I often imagine being tossed from my horse and breaking a leg or arm with no cell reception in the middle of nowhere. 

Horses hate wild boars.  Wild boars are dangerous. Even though I follow Gibb’s rule #9 when I’m out on the ranch, it isn’t lost on me that a knife wielded by little old me is not going to do much but annoy a two hundred pound wild boar sow that is protecting her young. 

The best fantasy characters are taken down by wild boars.  Remember Robert Baratheon and the poor hunting dog from The Once and Future King?

That is why I have to fantasize about killing the damn things with my bare hands.  If I didn’t, I’d be too scared to do my job.  I like my job.

*I did not kill the wild boar pictured, but it is one of the big ones (six and a half feet long/300 lbs.) I used to encounter on the trail.