My husband got his archery deer Saturday morning. It was also the opening day of pheasant season.
It’s a whitetail, in case you’re itching to know.
He called me when he had his buck, and I sped over to snap shots.
I kept asking, “Drag him over to the light!”, “Great! Now over to the cornfields!”, “Go a little further this way!” Clearly someone else does all the dirty work for me when I hunt, because I didn’t even consider it weighed over 300 pounds.
Seriously, I get all the glory when I show off the horns on one I harvested, but don’t do any of the gutting, heavy work. I am such a girl (and I mean that well). A girl who is glad to be married to a man who does it for me. If you have ever been part of the gutting process … well, you’d understand.
Not to mention in late November’s opening morning of rifle season. We wake up in the calm of early morn during South Dakota winter temperatures, layer up in camo, throw on an orange beanie and head out to hunt. It doesn’t take long before I am hungry, cold and hungry. My sweet enthusiasm turns into the likes of a sow bear startled with her cubs. I … need … food. I … eat … you … now. Fortunately, my husband is great at the “just one more look over this bluff,” and I fall for it every time. He is saved from certain death again.
Back to the story. As I was on my way home, he was hauling the buck in his pickup to Deer Camp for some showing off to fellow hunters. It is important to go through the back-slapping, point-counting, score-predicting tradition. Along with the harmless provocation, like, He’d a been better next year, boy!
Men love that stuff, apparently. For some, it’s in their blood.
As for me, a warm home, good food and undeserved bragging rights is in mine.
I know hunting may not be something you appreciate. As much as I dislike offending people, I gotta keep it real. This is our life.