I had a rabbit’s foot when I was young. My parents or Uncle Pete gave it to me. I was told carrying it would bring me good luck.

Maybe it does work. After all, I’ve lived through perilous times and survived some ill-advised events. Like the time in New Mexico’s Pecos Wilderness when I ignored advice to stay on the switchback trail, instead choosing a shortcut down the steep mountainside. About ten steps into my shortcut, I lost my footing and went helter-skelter, rapidly downhill for about 50-feet of elevation, ending the descent with my head inches away from a huge, jagged boulder.

Did the rabbit’s foot bring me luck by missing the rock? Or did my not having my rabbit’s foot cause my uncontrolled, downhill acceleration?

Who knows?

The origin of rabbit foot luck is unclear. Some say it sprang from a “hoodoo” belief that included ritualistic killing of a rabbit during a full moon. Others say it required a NEW moon. And if the rabbit can be dispatched atop a grave, all the better.

But before you jump to the conclusion that New Orleans voodoo queen Marie Laveaux was involved, there’s no evidence of that. Blind Lemon Jefferson (no kin), the respected Texas Blues singer-songwriter, sang about rabbit’s foot good luck pieces, but people in Europe, Africa, and other realms believed in rabbit’s feet long before Laveaux and Blind Lemon came along.

Rabbit hunting is fun. Living in South Texas, we harvested and ate quite a few. Cottontails are great, fried or baked. We shot rabbits out of a friend’s spinach field one night. There must have been a hundred when our headlights illuminated it.

But one hunt was UN-lucky. I was a new guy in town. Word got around that I liked to hunt, and I got invited to hunt rabbits with some guys from the courthouse. We headed south on 281 to one of their friends’ ranch. Somewhere south of Premont, a coyote dashed across the highway, and someone yelled, “STOP!”

Everybody bailed out and scurried to the trunk for their rifles. I was concerned, but being a guest, said nothing about the illegality of shooting from a roadway. I figured the coyote would be safely out of sight in the King Ranch brush before anybody could shouldered a rifle, anyway. I don’t remember taking mine out. I noticed the car keys inside the trunk.

The last man getting his rifle slammed the trunk. Someone asked if anybody grabbed the car keys before it shut. No one answered. We just stood there looking like armed but helpless, bad little boys.

It took almost an hour to take out the back seat and help the smallest guy through the narrow opening for the keys. That cut our shooting time short. We hunted until dark, dropping a few jackrabbits and a cottontail. Few eat jackrabbits, but I took one home for a grateful basset hound.

I’ve wondered if not having my rabbit’s foot caused the unlucky delay. ¿Quien Sabe?

JJ