Trophy Hunting

December 2006

The Ozarks are in the winter equivalent of the “dog days of summer.” It is that period following the excitement of the holidays and before the joy of spring. A time which is defined by really nasty weather. Nothing to do; but, throw another log on the fire and carve on a chunk of wood. Now that might not sound too bad to those of you who know how I feel about woodcarving. But, throwing another log on the fire means a trip out into the wintry weather. It brings a realistic view of the dwindling supply of firewood and the sure knowledge that I am going to have to face the January cold. The prospect of cutting firewood in the winter’s cold does place that hot, sweaty, tick infested August day in a different perspective. Oh well, at least there won’t be those itching chigger bites to contend with.

So, I sit by the fire, carve a little, and reflect on the pleasure of venison sausage and cheese. The meat is prepared by my frien’ Eldon Shrock who owns Das Butcher Haus. Where I take my hogs, calves, deer and anything else bigger than a squirrel, for processing. My days of standing at a kitchen sink preparing meat for the deep freeze have long since passed.

I gotta another frien’ (I do have more than one), this one not being overly religious has no problem being described as of the damn good variety. Since he has had both hips replaced, Steve is relieved from the expectation that he personally should wander the hills in pursuit of wild game. Which led to his comment, “I sure do miss the taste of venison.”

Diana and I lease the hunting rights on the ranch (provides us with travel money). Invariably, one of the hunters would kill a deer and ask me if I wanted it. This led me to stop hunting. I prefer to think of it not as some say, “….to stay by the warm fire and have my venison arrive in shrink wrapped, labeled, frozen packages”; but, because one deer in the deep freeze is plenty for the two of us. Anyway, there are way too many does on the ranch. Arkansas has a lottery for the few doe permits that are given out and we have not had a lot of luck drawing them. So, I asked for, and the State gave me, some doe permits that would not count against an individual’s quota. In Louisiana we call this lagniappe pronounced lan-yap, it means, a little something extra). I thought, “Why not use one of these permitsfor Steve?” Good Idea! Put out the word to the hunters, “doe wanted”.

Now, my frien’s, Richard (brother) does not always pay a lot of attention to what I tell him. At least this is why I think he shot a buck instead of a doe. After years (a lot) of deer hunting, I am reasonably sure he can tell the difference between the sexes. Although his not wearing his glasses adds a little bit of question to this statement. This might also explain why he shot the one he did.

The story begins in the late afternoon of a cold, wet, day with me sitting before a roaring fire enjoying a hot buttered rum (strictly for tradition’s sake), carving on a cooperative piece of wood. I heard a shot, then another, and another. Telling Diana, “That’s got to be Richard (he tends to shoot until the game quits moving or he runs out of bullets)”. I departed on the 4 wheeler.

Well, Richard got one. Or actually, I got one. Well, somebody got one. Richard fired the first, and second, and third shots. The deer had been knocked down; but ran into some thick brush.

Ahhh, the excitement of the chase, “I hear him!” I told Richard, who promptly handed me his rifle and said, “see if you can get a good shot.” I took the gun before I realized that the deer was straight up the side of the mountain! Richard still denies this was a factor in his relinquishment of the weapon.

Now, pride demanded pursuit. I charged into the brush and up the slope. I finally got above the deer and in position for a clear shot. When I was learning to shoot (many years ago) I was told to take a deep breath, let out half of it, put the front sight on the target, and gently squeeze the trigger. Well my frien’s that was difficult the first time I tried it. And it is even more difficult after having run up the side of a mountain. I was reasonably sure I could do the squeezing the trigger part if I didn’t pay to much attention to the gently part. I tried to get the sights to hesitate somewhere between the sky and the ground. I decided I was having way too much trouble breathing full breaths to worry about the holding half a breath part. As the sight picture swept rapidly across my quarry, I squeezed the trigger. The next downswing of the scope revealed that I had, indeed, delivered the “coup de grace”. Just in case this dead deer started showing miraculous regenerative powers, I started sneaking up on him, prepared for another sensational shot.

I started to feel a little apprehensive when I saw the antler! Where’s the other one? I could not believe it! We had shot a unicorn! Well, it only had one horn (and that one didn’t look like much). It barely complied with the State’s demand that there be 3 points on one side (only one antler left little room for error). It was also the smallest buck I have ever seen. I have seen dogs much larger than our trophy.

Richard commented, “You killed the poorest deer on the place; but, he shouldn’t have been allowed to breed anyway,” Expecting, but not waiting for my protest he quickly added, “You are the one that delivered the killing shot.”

I started to rethink my aversion to butchering at the kitchen sink as questions started charging through my thoughts. Do I want to take this up to Eldon? Do I want to pay the standard $75 for processing this thing and get maybe 30 pounds of meat? Why did Richard have to shoot this deer? Why didn’t he kill it? Why didn’t I stay in the house? Above all, “Why in the hell did he have to shoot it on a Sunday????”

My friend Eldon is a Mennonite. His place is closed on Sunday. Most folks around here work during the week and hunt on weekends. This includes Richard who left me to deliver the deer for processing. Staying with the subject of majorities, most folks around here also butcher their own kills They only resort to Das Butcher Haus when they have one that they want to show off, usually on Monday morning. Big Bucks. 9 point. 11 point. 12 point. All headed to the taxidermist. There I was with........well, no bragging specimen.

It is not always advantageous to have “a frien”. I tried to hang back. Eldon saw me, “Paul you got a deer.”

“Yes, but I can handle it.”

In spite of my continuing protestations, Eldon called one of his employees. “Go help Paul unload his deer.”

My only consolation was that (the designated helper who appeared to be at least 95), “won’t have trouble unloading this one”.

Now my Frien’s, it might seem like I had not planned ahead. But, I had. Instead of my old Dodge farm truck, I had brought the big, crew cab Ford. The one that is real high off the ground. The one that makes it difficult to see into the bed.

My designated partner, in spite of his looks, spryly jumped up onto the bumper, and looked for my deer. There followed what the movie makers call a “dramatic pause”. He looked back at me, back inside the truck, back at me and, in a voice that seemed impossible to come from such a small body, called out, “Oh my God! You sure that’s a deer? I think you shot the Grinch’s dog. I guess not, that thing on is head is not tied on. I guess it ain’t a stick!”

Absolutely, every hunter on the place ran over for a look. They happily lent a hand in moving the unicorn from my truck to Eldon’s locker. I still think this could have been accomplished with less laughter, fewer comments, and certainly faster than the hour or so it took.

Finally. Inside. Quiet. Cool. Then Eldon saw it. Do all Mennonites have loud voices? “Paul, I’ll cut the horns…..uh, horn off for you to take home.” How in the hell did that many people squeeze in here? What is so fascinating about the removal of a deer horn? Why do some folks think the Mennonite’s are a dour, non-humorous people?

I called my frien’ Steve. Told him to pick up his deer. Told him how much the processing would cost him. Told him he had no idea how much that damned animal had cost me! They say that "pride goeth before a fall"? Well, I ain't got any left, so I ain't worried about the descent.

Time to throw another log on the fire. Time for another hot buttered rum. Time to end this epistle from Paul.