First Blood

As promised, today I tell the rest of the story...

Having had unsuccessful hunting experiences this deer season, I admit I was getting a bit disappointed. I had so many conversations with God, pleading and explaining to Him why I really needed to not only see a deer, but to kill one. I had some pretty legit arguments if I do say so myself.

The lunch I had packed which consisted of potted meat and saltine crackers had long since been devoured. The pear I picked off of the ground from beneath a farm yard pear tree, gone. Various reading sources, exhausted. Only a Sam's catering flyer remained to help me while away the time remaining.

It was that leaflet I was surfing through when my cell phone rang. It was Daddy. We touched base about what all we had not seen--our stories identical. He took the time to encourage me and to assure me that dusk was "prime time," and that the deer preferred to stir during that time of day if not very early in the morning. I was instructed to keep my eyes pealed and to be alert--the next 20-30 minutes would be perfect conditions for deer hunting.  Keep in mind that I had been told earlier that the all day waits and seeing nothing was the reason it was called deer hunting, not deer killing........

It wasn't as if I were miserable. On the contrary, I was very comfortable. Warmed by a small gas heater and having four chairs/stools from which to choose to sit upon, the chilly wind allowed to penetrate my fortress through narrowly opened windows was the only reminder I was deep in the woods and not in the comforts of home.

Somewhere in the middle of Sam's sale catalogue (about the party tray section), my rifle atop a pillow perched on the threshold of an open window, I lifted my eyes from the magazine to conduct my now routine scan of my surroundings.

The scene outside the window I was directly in front of was unchanged other than the fading sunlight. I swivelled my stool around, legs still crossed, lap covered by glossy photos of party platters to quickly glance out the opposite window. There he stood in all his grandeur. A beautiful specimen--his stance as if he were posing for a photo shoot.

Daddy had told me days ago that the acorns were plentiful this year and that  the deer would have no desire to come to the feeder, therefore, I assumed (yes, I know what they say about assuming!) that there was no corn/feed in the feeder. Wrong! 

I froze. And just as quickly I was fretting over my gun dilemma. The deer was on one side, the gun gracing the window sill of the opposite--barrel outside the window.  Never have I been accused of being graceful and now I was forced to quickly and silently slide the rifle from one side of the room and place it through the window on the other side--all with my heart pounding so hard and fast it was distracting.

In a very short time I established a plan. I synchronized my movements to the dipping of his head into the trough/feeder. He dipped, I slipped; he rose, I froze. Somewhere into that hunting dance I found myself holding the gun and taking it off of safety.

Over a period of time which seemed like a millennium I had raised my rifle and had the sights with the cross hairs squarely on where I believed the trajectory of the bullet would hit the heart, just behind the shoulder blade. 

Preparing to deliver the final blow, I then realized I was aiming through a closed window. More specifically, a double-paned  glass window as to open the window, the glass must be slid to the side--the side at which I was now pointing the rifle barrel. Great.....again, I had to reposition without spooking the animal and before dying of an anxiety attack.

Taking up where we left off, we once again were in the midst of the hunter's waltz with my intended target. Quietly I placed the rifle on top of  a stack of National Geographic magazines which had been duct taped together for stability. Miraculously, the majestic animal continued to enjoy what turned out to be his last supper.

I slowly began to squeeze the trigger only to begin to panic when nothing happened. No click, no action. What else could possibly go wrong? I wondered, but didn't really want to be tested further. I regained my composure and again pulled, however, this time I pulled it with conviction. Success!

That strong, beautiful, elusive animal never knew what hit him. When I shot, he fell like a ton of bricks-not one step, no struggle, nothing but hit the ground. 

I saw it drop while still looking through the scope, but quickly lowered the gun to see it with nothing obscuring my view. Sure enough, there he was at the corner of the feeder, most likely still with corn in his mouth, though I didn't investigate that thoroughly.

Through the deafening sound of my pounding heart resounding in my head, I struggled to discern what it was I needed to do next.

Daddy. I had to call Daddy because I knew he heard the shot go off and was wondering what I saw, shot, or what caused the accidental discharge of the ammo. 

Where was that thing? That thing you talk on that has numbers. Oh yeah, phone...that's the name of that thing. Where had I put my phone? And I needed to get some images of my kill with that other small square thing. That thing you pushed a button and a bright light flashed? Yeah, the camera! I've got to take some pictures before it is too dark. Oh, where did I put those two things and why do I feel choked? I can hardly breathe.

I reached for my throat and was reminded where those two items were by two separate cords pulling tightly around my neck. I had hung both my camera and my telephone around my neck and dropped them underneath my coat and sweatshirt.

Fishing them out and loosening their grip, soon I flipped open my phone and was scrolling down the phonebook until I got to the entry entitled, "Daddy."

Daddy answered the telephone, "Go ahead," which I thought was a little different, but I didn't address his salutation. All I could get out without crying uncontrollably was, "I got him, Daddy! He's down and he's not moving!" His reply was calm and inquiring. "Where is it? and, "Is it a doe or a buck?"

"No, it's a buck, it's got horns!" "How many points does it have?" he inquired. 

I don't know, Daddy, but he's down, and he's not moving!" "Teresa, to be legal........(right about now his voice in my head sounded more like wha-wha-wha-wha-wha rather than actual words from the English language) it's got to have at least three points on one side." 

"Daddy," I said, "all I know is that he's got big horns (by that I meant not spikes, not buttons and it wasn't a doe) and he's down and he's not moving," I repeated for the tenth time.

"What do I do now?" I questioned my mentor. "Can I come and get you and bring you up here to see it?"

"Wait a minute, wait a minute. Listen to me. Calm down. Did you put another shell in the chamber?"  I hadn't, and told him so. "Do that now, get in the truck and drive around there to him and be prepared to shoot him again. He may jump up and try to run off."

I assured him that that deer was as dead as dead could be, but he simply repeated his instructions. And I followed them. Well, mostly.

Tip-toeing with  the rifle in one hand and the camera in the other, my phone still dangling from my neck, I approached my dead target cautiously.

I found myself apologizing to the creature as I snapped photo after photo like the paparazzi hounds Hollywood stars.

What a magnificent creature. So beautiful, graceful, and sure-footed while living now lay still, legs folded unnaturally beneath him.

Finishing my documentation, I ran back to the truck throwing all of my equipment in before me just before slamming the camouflaged door once I was seated.

While waiting on me, Daddy called and made arrangements for assistance with the moving and the removing of the internal organs, etc.

Before long, a dear friend of mine and a friend of hers were there tugging, lifting, shifting, loading and unloading, hanging, cutting and cleaning the once peaceful animal.

Before field dressed, the deer weighed 120 pounds--a 7-pointer, but had an obvious 8th spike which had been broken some time ago.

The work was done swiftly by experienced hands. I admire the woman who, wrist injured and in a splint, digs in up to her elbows in blood and entrails rarely asking for any assistance whatsoever. A self-sufficient woodswoman in her own right. Thank you, Samantha.........

Sleeping little last night, what time I did sleep I shot the same deer over and over in my fitful dreams.

Awakened numerous times by Maggie wanting out just one more time to make sure that the deer was still safe in the bed of Daddy's truck. When satisfied, she happily went back to bed--until the next time.

The hunting was the fun part. Today, reality set in. Work ensued. Daddy taught me the fine art of preparing the meat for processing. Personally, I prefer yesterday's adventure to today's. 

But this adventure was not about bringing home the game. My only desire was to spend time with my dad, which I was most fortunate to be given. The deer was just gravy. 

Thanks, Daddy. I love you.

A Little Off......