That is my precious baby boy. Not even two years old. Sitting on his daddy's lap. In the back of a pick-up. Next to a very dead deer.
Better than Christmas
If you’re like me and from the ‘burbs, you probably won’t understand what I’m about to share. In fact, I still don't understand it, and I’ve lived among it for over two years. But I am coming to realize that there is a day in one hunter's life (hopefully each year) that takes the cake to Christmas. That is the day that a buck is defeated.
For my husband, this day came just four days after Thanksgiving. Every year my husband spends the weekend plus the Monday after Thanksgiving hunting on his parents’ farm. This year was no exception. Following turkey dinner with the fam, I headed toward our plush suburban community excited for Black Friday Christmas bargains while my husband headed toward 400+ acres of rustic solitude excited to spend countless hours alone 20 feet above ground in a tree. Talk about a culture clash.
The weekend proved lame for my husband. He saw only one eligible buck, but by the time my husband took aim, the smart, antlered beast darted off. My husband was totally bummed, but I was silently giggling.
That brings us to Monday. My husband assured me he'd be home early, He would make one last attempt in the tree, but knowing he had already missed his shot at 200 pounds of solid meat, he figured he'd be in the car by noon. Looking forward to seeing my husband after the long weekend, I was somewhat alarmed when I received a mid-morning text message: “Big Bucks Down on the Farm.” Not quite knowing what it meant, I picked up the phone.
Sure enough, my fears were confirmed. My husband and his equally bloodthirsty father each conquered one of nature's finest. Scenes from Bambi flashed through my head.
And how lucky did they get? Damn lucky. This was the biggest buck my husband has ever killed - something about 14 points and 150+ on this hokey Boone Crockett hunters scale. Seriously, where do they come up with this lingo?
So 9 hours later (why make it home in time for dinner when your trunk is full of dead deer meat?) my husband pulled into our driveway accompanied by slabs of ruby red god-knows-what that he promptly, proudly and carefully transferred to the freezer as if they were donor organs for a life-changing transplant. And to my horror there was even talk of a taxidermist - excuse me??? We weren't stuffin' anything with the intention of hanging it from my rosedust painted walls - doesn't a pregnant woman get any respect?
But for those of you disgusted, much like I was, there is a happy ending in sight. See, in the state of Ohio, a hunter can only shoot one buck a year. That's right, folks, his buck-hunting days were over, at least until next season. Good news for me - I got my husband back (at least for a couple of weeks before he started obsessing over killing ducks). As for my hubby, he was happier than a lil' kid on Christmas morning. And that is when I realized I could do this hunter's wife thing. Sure, I have no desire to hunt or step foot into a taxidermist's office, but I'll gladly take a happy husband. Especially one who finds happiness perched in a tree all morning as opposed to drooling over naked women hanging from poles. Hunting makes him happy, and a happy hunter means a happy hunter's housewife.