You can tell when House is hunting because he will have a powder horn and bullet pouch around his neck and his squirrel rifle in the crook of his arm. Otherwise, he might look as though he's simply on the way to the forge or the post office. There's no fuss about it. Hunting is seamlessly integrated into the warp and weave of House's life—off for an hour or two after chores, before the sun goes down, him and his dogs. He wears jeans and running shoes, a green-and-black plaid jacket, a grimy Red Man ball cap—what he's been wearing all day in the shop. He whistles up Liddy and Fred, and steps off the cabin porch, and he's hunting. "Come on, let's go, find us some varmints," he sings out as the dogs prance and pee. It's a term House tosses about frequently—varmints—and I never quite figure out if it refers to squirrels, anything but squirrels, or everything including squirrels. Whatever shows up, though, opossum or raccoon or rabbit or squirrel, is likely to get shot, and just as likely to wind up in a black iron stewpot.