From the heart

I am the deer tagging station out here on Frenchboro.

Why??

 I. do. not. know.
 I don't know how I got roped into 99% of the crap I do out here.
But, it is what it is.

What this means, in practical terms, is that I do not get a hot meal until November 26th, because no sooner do we sit down to eat than a dead, bloody, gutted deer arrives on the doorstep with a Dude dressed in camo and orange, toting a gun.

(Total exaggeration. I've only tagged 7, and not seen one gun. And all but one Dude remembered to take off their boots when they came in the house. They get big points for that!)


Now, I grew up in Boston. There was no hunting, and the only time guns were present were at robberies, which I did not attend voluntarily. There were no dead animals hanging in the garage, unless someone's grandfather was making prosciutto, and those were just 'parts'.

And then I met and married The Big Guy.
Oh. My. Culture. Shock.

I am now a seasoned Hunting Widow (translation: I cannot find my husband from October 30th until November 26th, or whatever particular days are designated for deer season).
Nobody takes out the garbage.
 Bright orange clothing appears in the laundry, with stern notes that say 'DO NOT WASH ME WITH SOAP!!!!' (How does one wash without soap??)
Empty gun cases are strewn across the living room floor, also with stern notes, 'LEAVE THIS OUT SO I CAN PUT THE GUN AWAY SAFELY WHEN I GET HOME!!!' (Because the empty gun case is lonely without said gun??)

And I no longer flinch, after 20 years, those mornings when I stagger bleary-eyed out to the garage refrigerator to get coffee cream and plant my face inside the gutted carcass of a frickin' deer hanging spread-eagled from the rafters, for some reason always directly in front of the fridge door.

I've gone hunting with him a couple of times; it's just not my thang.
(can't knit)
And he won't walk in the woods with me holding a loaded gun, CAN'T IMAGINE WHY, so in my estimation, I'm not 'hunting', I'm 'walking'.
(Seriously, I went twice. He waited until we walked upon a deer, and handed me one bullet. Like Barney Fife.)


The first time I hunted, we walked for three days in the freezing cold until I thought I would die of frostbite for a couple of hours in the woods by the beaver pond off Eastern Beach Road.
I was "not as quiet as the Big Guy would have liked".
I was ambivalent about the shooting part...if I'm totally honest, his sister was visiting and I was taking advantage of getting a break from my two rambunctious hellions ummm,  was forcing her to babysit just one freaking time couldn't come up with a valid excuse NOT to go.
I shlepped myself through the woods with him, kicking rocks, whispering loudly, checking my phone for distress calls, and once, whistling (which earned me The Hairy Eyeball from He Who Hunts).
Despite my best efforts, we ran into a deer.
The World's Stupidest Deer, as it would turn out.

The Big Guy handed me my one bullet, and moved behind me. Distrustful husband.
I took aim. I draaaaagged my foot across the trail, disturbing some pebbles.
Dumb Deer did not move.
He was, in fact, staring at me.
I coughed.

The Big Guy was strangling and choking, trying to hold back a scream.
I turned to look at him (giving Moron Deer the chance to run away)- his face was beet red and bulging.
And he was glaring at me.
I sighed, and thought to turn back in time to see the white arse of that deer running away...but NO.
Dipsh!t Deer was still standing in the path, staring at us. Perhaps it was my bright pink winter coat with the orange vest over it. I had apparently stunned it.

When The Big Guy poked me in the back, and whispered 'Do you want me to take this one?', my competitive streak kicked in.
I picked up again, and took aim.
Numskull Deer was still standing there, staring.
I sighed a weary sigh, closed my eyes, and twitched my shot juuuust a hair to the left...
and looked up to see that that Dolt Of A Deer had jumped up, to the left, and caught my bullet in it's neck.

Yup, I shot the world's Stupidest Deer.
It was a mercy kill, really.

When a knife was produced, and I realized what came next, I bolted out of there claiming an immediate need for a bathroom. The next time I saw Dimwit Deer, he was in quart baggies in my freezer.

I went one other time. I can't remember what we did with the kids, but we were gone for all of an hour. Walked into the woods, bumped into a nice doe, loaded it into the truck, and was home and in the shower within the hour. Not very exciting, and nothing I feel the need to do again.

So I don't hunt. But, that's OK. He does.
 Useful skill, food acquisition, and all that.
And in trade, he cannot complain about the staggering amount of luxury yarn that comes into this house.

If you just can't wrap your conscience around the idea of hunting...look away.