65 years ago the most wished-for Christmas gift for this Jewish, 3-year-old suburban girl was a hunting rifle. Not just any rifle, but a gen-u-ine- Roy Rogers rifle, perfect for hunting pretend bears in my post-war suburban development.

This Christmas, it looks like Santa might be bringing me a genuine hunting dog to go with that toy rifle that still hangs in my office.

Nowadays my only hunting endeavors have been searching for a new dog in my life.

Now it turns out the sweet, gentle labrador retriever from Louisiana that I’ve been courting that may soon be joining my family, was once trained for hunting.

Of course, as an anti-gun advocate, my gun-slinging days are far behind me, but I imagine how excited little Sally might have been to have a real dog join her on her pretend hunts in the wilds of Hempstead Lake Park on Long Island.

Big Bang Theory

Sally Edelstein Christmas 1958 with my brand new much asked for Roy Rogers Rifle

How I became fascinated with guns at such a tender age is a mystery. Sweet little Jewish girls my age played with their Betsy Wetsys dolls not shooting a Davy Crockett Old Betsy Rifle.

My childhood gun-loving ways were always a curiosity in my family of Jews, especially American Jews who have a long-standing aversion to guns.

There was never, ever a firearm kept in my house nor did I ever know anyone who owned one. The last time my Astoria-born father ever held a rifle was likely in basic training during WWII, and it is just as likely he never fired a single shot during his service in New Guinea. Neither a hunter nor a fisherman, he had no interest in guns.

My bald and bespeckled uncles were more interested in books than bullets and the closest I ever saw a cousin shooting a gun was at a coin-operated Penny Arcade game on the boardwalk in Long Beach.

We’re Going On A Bear Hunt

While my older brother huddled on his bed alone in his room obsessively making long lists of baseball statistics, my non-hunting father, braced the winter cold and diligently accompanied me on many of my hunting expeditions, from our local Belmont Lake State Park on Long Island to upstate New York trips to Bear Mountain.

Without the benefit of a dog acting as a lookout for wild animals or birds, my dad was my lookout. Fumbling for his binoculars, he’d peer through them across the dense forest for our pretend prey. These were unique times of bonding together, and later we would regale my mother with our tales as we returned home to the soothing smell of Campbell’s Tomato soup being heated up for her hunters,

By the time my family got our dachshund Prince, I had outgrown my interest in guns, moving on to Barbie. Though dachshunds are bred to chase, scent, and flush out badgers, my little wiener dog was more likely to flush out used Kleenex from the wastebasket than any furry critters. The only prey he was interested in was a Ken-L Ration- treat.

Louisiana Lab

Now my mind wanders picturing this possible new dog in my life hunting ducks and quail in the marshes of Louisiana.

Because it’s a closed adoption I can’t help but wonder who his family of origin might be.

Maybe my new adoptee’s original family were the successful Robertsons, the scions of Duck Dynasty. They were always out hunting with their retrievers. Maybe this soulful labrador called Mo who was more into cuddling was just too laid back for this gun-totin, duck call tootin’, bible-thumpin, family?

Cuddling is now the very characteristic this long-time reformed, hunter needs.

The only hunting I’ve been doing of late is the search for peace and deep canine love in my life.

Now,  just maybe, the hunt may be over.