July 22, 2009 (The original version of this article was published November 24, 2008)

Many rabbit seasons ago, the manager for E. E. Wilson—feeling sorry for my utter lack of knowledge about rabbit hunting—told me to drive down the road and ask for Jerry Ray. He, I was told, would help me shoot a rabbit. Some time after that initial meeting, Jerry introduced me to Missy Fix. Within months of that introduction I bought two male dogs sired by Missy’s dog, Laddie, who was, interestingly enough, sired by Jerry’s dog Jake.

My hounds, Hunter and Catcher, are now three-years-old. I have often considered that at some point I might breed one of them and name my pick of the litter Tracker. My (top-secret) technique of naming hounds lies in the way I register them. The names are in the form of Rabbit Common-Name Malley. So my boys are registered as Rabbit Hunter Malley and Rabbit Catcher Malley. I mean seriously—have you heard some of the names people give their dogs? What rabbit is going to fear a dog named Bright Sue's Fluffy Blue? I can see the rabbits rolling around in the briar laughing ’till they pop a pellet. When my boys hit the field, it’s more like this:

      Aeeei! It’s the Rabbit Hunter and his brother the Rabbit Catcher! Flee for your lives!

No . . . really. They do that . . . I have it on tape.

A couple of weeks ago, my youngest daughter asked me if I thought I might get another dog. I told her, “Maybe, but not right now.” Still, the next thing you know we were discussing what name this hypothetical new dog might have.

A few days later came the somber news came that one of Missy’s dogs, Shiloh, had died. We knew he was sick, so this was not completely unexpected. The one bright spot was that he had just sired a litter.

A couple of weeks passed, and I called Missy about the litter because some other hunters had inquired about where they could get a good hunting dog. That’s when Missy started in on me with that voodoo mind control of hers.

“These are the hounds you are looking for,” she stated in a voice reminiscent of Obi Wan Kenobi.

I resisted and insisted that I wasn’t looking for any hounds, but she taunted me with images of Hunter and Catcher pursuing rabbits with their own flesh and blood. Shiloh, as it turns out, was also sired by Jake, and was therefore Laddie’s half-brother. It was my responsibility as family to look out for Shiloh’s children.

Finally I acquiesced, and my youngest daughter and I made the journey down south to look at the litter. As we drove, the discussion soon turned to naming the new dog. We really hadn’t arrived at a consensus and as our conversation turned to other matters she made some statement that I questioned—knowing her it probably had to do with her homework being done—and she said, “I swear to God.”

In that I was trying to break her of this habit (and the law would not look kindly at the use of a shock collar) I teased her and said, “Now you’re going to get struck down.”

She reiterated her stance, and I joked that I better open the moon roof so I don’t get hit by lightning, and while I mimed pushing the button I said, “Strike her.”

She played back and tapped my shoulder with her fist and said, “Strike.”

I said, “No. Strike her.” At which point we both looked at each other and said knowingly, “Striker!”

Literally not one second had elapsed after that word passed our lips and we drove past Stryker Road.

Not wanting to perturb the rabbit hunting gods and risk getting hit by lightning we followed their explicit instructions on how to spell his name: Rabbit Stryker Malley.

Last week I took my three boys hunting. We hunted the same ground on which I first met Jerry; the same ground on which I have hunted with Missy; and the same ground on which their fathers and their father before them sang as they pursued rabbits on the run. Now I know there was a lot of ruckus going on out there, but I tell you I heard one distinctive, high-pitched voice yell out: Aeeei! It’s the Rabbit Stryker! Flee for your lives!