A Rite of Passage...

I have one day left of hunting deer during rifle season and after that I'll be heading out to the bush for archery season.

I didn't have any success while hunting this year which left me feeling rather deflated once again. I haven't ever even SEEN a deer while in the bush, with the exception of the deer others have pulled out.

On Sunday morning my father thoughtfully started my car for me before we headed out to the bush. I loaded up my gun, a pocket full of ammo, a thermos full of coffee and a ridiculous orange hat and headed to the bush.



Three quarters of the way there, I looked at my ignition.

It was at that point I realized that my father had thoughtfully started my car with the wrong set of keys. The keys that have my gun lock attached to them were sitting in the kitchen.

A more prepared person would have a set of wire cutters or a screwdriver or THE PROPER KEYS on hand.

Not I. In a fit of rage, my mother and I turned the car around and went to retrieve my keys. I was now missing prime hunting time and my opportunity to see the perfect deer.

We returned to the bush and I was rather pissed. The sun had come up at this point and there was little likeliehood of seeing deer. I now have a day job, something I've been praying for since time began, and as a result, I have no free mornings to go hunting.

In a huff, I began stamping my way to my spot, clanking my thermos against my chair because I was certain no deer would appear.

Then I heard Big Brother's voice.

He had shot a deer and needed my deer tag. It was my last day in the bush and using my tag was the best decision since elsewise it would go to waste.

My elation at that point knew no bounds. A deer! We had a deer! I would now get to miss out on time spent sitting not seeing any deer and get to go help pull a deer out of the bush.

At this point, Big Brother asked me if I wanted to clean it.

CLEAN A DEER? I get to clean a deer?

It would be an honor to clean a deer. It would mean the acquisition of new skills and a lesson that has been passed down through generations of hunters. I would get to use my hunting knife for the first time and see if I could actually do something with some modicum of success.

Big Brother talked me through the process. At first I felt exactly like I did in tenth grade biology when I was dissecting a pig. You have to make smooth, clean cuts and not harm the meat or the intestines.

Things started to get a little yucky when I sliced open the rumen with my ultra-sharp knife. I wasn't strong enough to cut through a piece of bone and I wasn't strong enough again to properly clean the windpipe. Big Brother stepped in a time or two so he could lend a hand when the perfect deer he had shot was at risk of being ruined by my lack of experience.



Afterwards we stopped and surveyed our work and had to take pictures of our job well done.

I've been praised and congratulated every time I've told the story of my first field dressing/deer cleaning experience. I recounted the story to one friend of mine and upon hearing that I managed to clean the deer without vomiting, he actually invited me to go hunting with him come archery season.

Some people say that hunting is barbaric, wrong, and disgusting. And I suppose that they are right, there are elements of all those things involved. I, however, just had a bonding experience with my family and was granted the opportunity to engage in a cultural aspect of my lifestyle that I've never had access to before.

And I feel pretty damn good about myself.

I Am Trying Not to Despair...

Oh, Dixie.

I love my little Muppy. And I openly call her Muppy in front of the whole wide world simply because I love her.

Years ago, this happened.

Dixie is now nine and I fear that she may have lost her mind, if not just a little bit. She chased a rabbit the other day, quite out of character for her. I think she's just having a bit of an identity crisis and has forgotten that she is a deer hound.

Well, today Dixie chased another rabbit. (How do we know it was a rabbit? Good question. Dixie is such a fabulous deer hound that she has a particular howl for deer, and a different howl for everything else. The howl she let out today and the other day were not her deer howls.)

And now that she is off chasing the rabbit, she has not come home. She didn't meet the gang back at the trucks to go home.

And now my muppy waits, alone in the forest, for my family to return in the morning.

I'm doing surprisingly well. I am not weeping uncontrollably or laying in the fetal position on the living room floor. I feel like someone should give me a token for such behavior on my part.

I can't imagine a life without Dixie, a life without squealing "MUPPY! Muppy muppymuppymuppy" in such a fashion that Dixie goes crazy and spins in circles howling her delight. I can't imagine not having my cuddle buddy lay beside me on the couch. I don't know what I will do with myself should my beagle not return to me.

But I am keeping my spirits high. She has run away from home before, and now she has run away again.

Here's hoping that Dixie returns home safely once again.

Well, That Was A Letdown...

I have been hunting now for four years. And I use the term hunting very seriously here because I have HUNTED with ferocity in hopes of at least SEEING something worth shooting at in the bush.

But I've yet to see a deer.

I fought tooth and nail to get two consecutive days off of work so I could go hunting. I dressed up in my Blaze orange and put my gun in Da JEEP and loaded down my pockets with slugs. I had a cup of warm coffee, a knife clipped to my belt, and my trusty hound dog at my side.

AND I DIDN'T EVEN SEE A DEER.

I'm feeling a little deflated about the whole situation.

Dixie, however, had a grand time chasing a rabbit. This is a terrible habit for a deer hound (As her time is better spent chasing deer) but I figure out of hopelessness, she just wanted to chase something. I feel for her and several times contemplated shooting at a squirrel, or a tree, or into the open sky but chose not to as this is considered poor hunting etiquette.

She did chase a deer today, howling her way through the forest like her beagle-y little self, but sadly she took it about eight thousand miles in the opposite direction of us, so no deer was to be had.

Da JEEP made it through with flying colors. I was so pumped to get to use the four wheel drive for real, to tear it through the mud and laugh in the face of other hunters who would surely be stuck in the mud.

This was not the case and after driving a little ways with the 4X4 turned on, I stopped and turned it off because all it was doing at that point was burning gas. A person could probably make it in with a Honda Civic if they so desired, that is how dainty the road has become.

But, if nothing else, I braved the four a.m. alarm clock ring, the freezing elements and the whipping winds to bond with nature and make some decisions about my life while hoping that the elusive ten point buck would walk out in front of me.

A Plan...

I have a plan of sorts.

And really, I'm aggitated that I have to even make a plan for this sort of thing. Like, really? I'm twenty five years old. That's right. I'm TWENTY FIVE YEARS OLD. And I still have to plan this sort of thing.

Four days ago, I wrote this post.

I was feeling deflated and confused and then elated that I had done something so productive as to have clicked my mouse and make my desktop pretty.

(This is, in fact, the sort of thing my life has come down to. Sigh)

I wrote that post after another date with The Cowboy.

(Only instead of riding up on a wonderful steed and riding double into the sunset, he drives up in a North American car. If only he'd shown up in a golf shirt and flip flops with a Mitsubishi Lancer, I don't think I would have nearly as much trouble with this. But he does things with his spare time like hunting moose and he doesn't look at me in horror when I talk about things like mud and guns and blaze orange. And I have to say, I'm a sucker for someone who digs blaze orange.)

I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT IS GOING ON WITH THIS GUY.

Does he dig me like I dig a twelve guage shotgun? Does he think that opening day of deer season is the best day for a date all year? Does he want to sit by the river decked out in camo with pockets full of bird shot, talking in whispers until dark? How would he feel if I took his car out and spun the tires on the gravel? How would he feel if I took out my JEEP and spun up some mud?

I have all these pertinent questions to ask and now he's off chasing Bullwinkle eighty thousand miles away.

And I know he's in his blaze orange.

At any rate, I have a plan. It took me days to come up with this plan, lots of thinking and calculating and practicing while I drive down the road in my oh-so-sexy JEEP.

I'm going to call him.

That's right. Twenty five years later, I am grown up enough to come up with a plan that involves calling a person on the phone.

Only I have to wait until he returns from his chasing of Bullwinkle.

And while that happens, I am going to write this essay that has been weighing on my mind and also? Also?

I'm going to stop being a crazy person.

Don't say I have no goals, dammit.

Drawn to a Close...

Deer season is now over for me, and I have to say that I'm a little sad because I didn't get to shoot my fancy new gun at anything. I contemplated taking out a squirrel or two, or maybe a road sign on the way home, but my redneckedness only goes so far.

Davey shot his first deer this year, on Saturday while we were all out together. Dixie, my wonderous Little Muppy, brought the deer to him just as she is supposed to do. I have to say that I'm more than a little pissed that she didn't bring the deer to me, because she is after all MY DAMN DOG. He hit the deer with a perfect shot, right where all the experts say you're supposed to hit it. We ended up having to track it for a period of time through brush and prickly ash that tried to take both the eyes right out of my head a large number of times.

While we were out with Dixie, I noticed that she was peeing quite frequently, a sign that is not a good one because in 2003, Dixie almost died from having bladder stones. Several hundred dollars later, she was restored to her chipper old self. She wasn't acting like herself yesterday, and today when she came home from hunting, she laid on the couch with me feeling quite feverish and looking very pouty.

I'm taking her to a vet tomorrow to see what they can do. The surgery will cost over a thousand dollars, and while I really can't put a price on my love for Dixie, I can't make a thousand dollars spring from my ear next Tuesday, either.

I'm very scared at this point in time because if the condition is worse than it was last time, there may be nothing we can do. I fear that it has gone to her kidneys because she has an odd swelling on her back. It could just be backfat, because she is a bit of a pudgy little beagle, but I'm scared that it indicates something much more serious.

My irrational self wants to sell a lobe of my liver on the black market and fly her to some fancy schmancy surgical unit like they do on the Discovery Channel. My more rational self knows that this just isn't possible.

As soon as we get to a vet, we'll have more information to work with. I wait with baited breath until then.

Look Here, Bambi....

I spent a collective eight hours outside in the freezing cold this week, before the sun was up and while the dew was still frozen on the grass. It seems, though, that Bambi and his ilk have chosen to stay out of the woods lately, and other than a mink, I didn't see any glorious wildlife creatures.

Dixie has not been speaking with me lately, choosing instead to look at me with forlron, beagle-y little eyes that simply scream "You assholes went hunting without me and now I am going to pout in this kennel until --". And it would have been a complete thought, I swear it would have been, except that at that moment, my Dad took out some kibble and she forgot entirely about mad. For the time being, anyhow.

I took a nap today after work, and I woke up an hour earlier than expected, which is a fairly odd occurrence for me. I woke up because something was not right, and as I sat there on the couch wondering why my slumber had been cut short, I realized that it was not a problem with my attire, nor the arrangement of blankets, nor the temperature of my body; it dealt entirely with the fact that Dixie was not sleeping on my left shoulder, causing it and my left arm to lose the totality of their mobility and sensation. Waking up like that, with complete function in my left arm, was such an odd experience. When you add to that the fact that not only did I wake up with sensation, I woke up without a face full of beagle hair and not smelling like dog, I think part of my heart broke off and shattered into a million pieces.

The good news is that Deer Hunt 2007 will continue on Saturday and possibly Sunday. I finally have a FULL weekend off work, and of course, the only thing I can think to do with my time is to get up at four a.m. and head out to a freezing cold bush to sit in the elements with a gun, dressed in blaze orange.

Not a lot of people's dream vacation time, I know, but one that works for me nonetheless.

Guns! And Deer! And Blaze Orange!

Deer season was off with a bang today, and the 'rents and I were out in the bush before six a.m. to see it through.

Before I went hunting, however, I had to run to the barn at four and feed the horses. I love how Zydo and I are more and more alike each day. Every time I run down to the barn to visit him, he's napping. When I get there in the middle of the night? Wide awake. Oh, insomnia-pony. How I love thee.

The road into the bush has been fixed up by the logging companies this morning, to I only had a medium case of whiplash once we off-roaded our way in. My father is now concerned because if the road gets much better, soon every city person and their Aunt's Honda Civic are going to be in there, and the deer will all run away. Apparently, someone fixed up the roadways through his friend's hunt camp, and that happened to them. (And not to have anyone thinking that I'm picking on Honda Civics, I'm sure there is a great number of Mazda Proteges in there, too.)

At any rate, there was only one or two boring little water holes to go through, whereas usually there is a veritable pond or two awaiting us. It is usually around pond time that SuperNan starts screaming and clinging to whatever she can get her hands on, including but not limited to the barrel of a gun or two. Fortunately, we are very safe and sober hunters, and our firearms are locked up tight until legal shooting time. Oh, being a law-abiding citizen. How I love thee.

I didn't manage to shoot a deer this year, but on Saturday and Sunday the whole gang is coming out, including the wonderous Uncle Dixie and her deer-finding powers.

I'm pumped. If I shoot a deer this year, expect many gruesome pictures of myself, my trusty skinning knife, and a pile of intestines right here on my blog.