Huntography: The Aftermath

   Even as I begin to press my fingers upon the black keys before me, my eyes refuse to stay dry.  Reminders surround me every moment that I plod around in this house. Reminders that where there was three, there are now two. Where three ate, now only two bowls stand, filled with food.  I am reminded of my Oscar, the puppy that I held the title of mom for over a year. The tears flow freely now so if this post begins to not make any sense, its their fault, not mine.

   Oscar was thirteen years old when we left to go hunting on Sunday with Rudy from Huntography.  By the time we got back, his age had stopped gaining in moments.  The story has been rehatched in my brain more times than I care to count since we got home and found the note on our door.  The note that told a story too terrible to recall in detail here.  The short of it is that Oscar somehow got out of our locked porch and proceeded to get into an altercation with one of our neighbor's dogs.  When the fight proved fatal, Oscar paid the price for his actions.  We arrived home, elated from the harvest of my first ever buck, on film no less, with a bow to boot, only to fall into the deepest pitfalls of despair.

   He was not a bad dog, he wasn't a monster nor was he an angel. He was a dog nearing the end of his days and while he had a good, long life, it doesn't ease the acceptance of what transpired.  I mourn for the loss of the dog who greeted me with smiles every morning, the heater in my bed when the outside freeze proved too much for the both of us, and for the canine who essentially brought DU and I together. I mourn that another family lost their best friend too, in the most terrible of circumstances.  I mourn for DU, who lost his best friend.  I mourn for Avery, who searched for her big brother for hours until I brought her to where he rests.  She cried softly next to his dirt-filled bed then retreated for home.  I mourn for Titus who has started to bark for the first time, picking up where his guard dog brother left off.

   I've spent days blaming myself for what happened, I shouldn't have gone hunting or made someone sit with them until we got back.  But the truth of the matter is that thoughts such as these go nowhere and only make my tear ducts deplete once more.  Dogs, like people, are smart.  They enjoy the company of some dogs, whereas they detest others, just like their human counterparts.  Terrifying occurrences alter one's perspective on life, changing their personalities forever; this can happen whether the subject is human or canine. People get in fights, no matter who they are. Likewise, any dog can get into a fight with any other dog, their breed and temperament aside.  Oscar was severely beaten when a robber broke into DU's home in Indiana.  After this, DU says, his dog wasn't the same.  Gone was the happy pooch who adored other dogs and every person, in its place became a wary, scared dog whose mistrust of the world overcame everything. Did this have a hand in what Oscar did on Sunday? Did he think that he was protecting his family? Did he break out only to make sure his home was safe? I'll never know and as of now, I'm done speculating.

    The only thought that is getting me through is that Oscar, after choosing his own way out of this world, went home.  God, in his infinite wisdom, knew that it was Oscar's time, that it was a part of his master plan that I dare not to question.  And Oscar, upon arriving to his Twinkie-filled paradise, requested that God do something to make us rejoice, to make us see beauty through tragedy, and to force Huntography to continue.  I believed myself praying to my granddad for a deer to poke its antler-laden dome through the brush but it seems now that our protector, our guard dog, our heater refused to allow his exit from this world to completely crush us.

    I'll save the details of my hunt because Rudy's camera can tell the tale far better than I.  All I will say now is that it was one of the most amazing moments in my life, from the harvest, to the way the event unfolded to the audience at hand.  The best part of the entire shebang is my reaction to the shot, the immediate aftermath of allowing my arrow to be released from my bow; that moment made my entire Huntography experience worth it.  Again, I would say more but we'll all just patiently wait for the DVD's release.

    Without even meaning to, I have once again fallen into Oscar's divine plan.  My tears have dried, a smile plays upon my face and I shake my head at the wisdom of Oscar's departing wish.  Over and over I have tripped into this cycle of crying about the terrible night that passed only to smile about the harvest of my first buck only to cry once more at the selflessness exhibited by our dear departed pooch.

    Tomorrow is my interview for the game warden job I have been drooling over since the first letter was laid in the mailbox.  Tomorrow, I will pull myself up by my bootstraps, dry my eyes and do my best.  I know Oscar, the ever-present protector will trot along in my wake, refusing to allow me to walk alone. But today, I will mourn a little, cry a little less, hug my dynamic duo a little longer, and remember Oscar, my smiling baby boy.

Please note: Huntography, for a moment, almost ceased its 2011 tour.  The whole story, post, and crying video can be viewed here.  We never wanted Rudy to stop his efforts just because of what happened and we expressed this in the best way possible, that Oscar would not have wanted his actions to stop such a momentous adventure.  Rudy has dedicated the entirety of the tour to Oscar, a proclamation that means the world to us.  We hope that Rudy can visit again, as he has become part of the HLYH clan forever.











Rest in Peace, my baby.

Gratitude and Glorification: HLYH's 100th Post

   It is a special day here at HLYH headquarters.  

No, it isn't because I have bagged another Jackalope, learned to love Fatback, or made another awesome, crazy movie trailer (okay, the last part is true and you can view it now!).  

And I hate to disappoint but I have not been crowned Queen of the Wold or been contacted by any outdoor channels to appear on a Writing Huntress appropriate (read: off the wall, fun, funny) hunting show. 

  Today, friends, is more of a sentimental day.  

This post, the one whose words are slowly forming as my fingers find their proper place, is HLYH 100th creation! Also, I have reached 110 followers on Blogger, and almost 900 on Twitter, a feat that I had never believed would be achieved in less than a year after beginning HLYH.

I thought about the ways I wanted to celebrate, how I thought about inviting one and all to my house for a cook-out, some beverages and possibly some football, as long as everyone agrees on watching the Colts, not the Bills. 

I then figured that fitting over a thousand people in my modest log cabin wouldn't be the best idea so my brainstorming continued. 

I could send y'all something, what that something would be, I would have no idea, but given my love for all things sent the old fashioned way, the possibilities could be limitless. 

I could expedite some joy to your chosen corner of this beautiful world by whisking one of three of our pooches to each and every one of you, in turn.  I would assume that Titus would be the best canine candidate for this operation, as he adores people almost as much as I love mail and cowboy boots. 

I could write a post about all of my followers, enumerating their positive qualities, jest at those negative ones and simply glorify all that is inherently you, you supurb human being, you!

Indeed, friends, I wanted to send y'all just a small piece of the happiness that has been shown to me but I then I figured in cost, shipping, and the emotional toil that would be forced upon Titus would be too much on all accounts. 

Therefore, I simply wanted to thank you and glorify myself! 

HA! Bet you didn't see that one coming (or maybe you did, if you read this blog with any amount of religiousness then you're well aware that tooting my own horn (( I adore this expression, as I always imagine people toting their own little miniature horns around with them that produces a TOOT each time its owner pats his or herself on the back)) is one of my most favorite activities, much to your enjoyment, I am sure). 

Thank you..

  to each and every single one of you who have ever glanced, Tweeted, Facebooked or even told someone, "Hey, this chick is crazy, check out her stuff!"  I, obviously, would be absolutely nowhere, swimming in a sea of obscurity without a life jacket or broken door upon which to prop myself, without you.  So with a big heart, humble fingers and a teary eye to I tip my hat to you, dearest reader, for coming around every so often to show me just the smallest bit of love that keeps this blog going. 

To you! Cheers!

Myself, Glorified.

I am never one to point out my aptitude in writing.  In fact, I generally think that my portrayal of everything and anything that I commit to word is pretty horrific, like a car crash that you want to pull your eyes from but your neck will not allow.  It takes months fully appreciate something that I had written years prior, or sometimes not at all.  I've heard that this is a writer's curse, but since I don't feel myself a writer just yet, then I have not the darnedest what to call it. 

Either way, I am always interested to hear what people say about my odd points of view, overly-wordy diction, and the way that my hunting stories have to do with baby pictures, DMVs, lost jobs, waist-deep snow, man caves or not about killing animals at all. 

I cringe when I hear that someone I know personally is reading whatever it is that I have created that day but I gleefully hoard silent compliments that are transmitted through the internet machine by people whose voices I have never heard. 

I have had great reviews that have been cherished like a child's treasured doll or Transformer but no review has ever struck me as much as this one. 

I could go on but I'll just let my guest speak her words, letters combined which made me feel a little bit more like this writer that everyone seems to enjoy so much. 

It all started around 1 o’ clock in the morning when I interjected on the Huntress' Twitter that I should write an intro to her latest blog.

After a handful of tweets back and forth, I agreed to write a review of her hunting blog instead (this was probably the safest bet, as to not embarrass her. I, on the other hand, am a completely different story- let the embarrassment live on!) Now, it should first be known that i am not a huntress. I am quit far from it, actually. I'm a tiny Italian girl from Niagara Falls, New York that plays bass in the band Billy Draws Two. I draw comics of myself in awkward situations, and my idea of an exhilarating night is successfully completing a quest in a Dungeons & Dragons campaign with fellow nerds. Hunting was certainly nothing I had ever given a thought to if it didn't involve a gray and "traffic cone orange" plastic gun pointed at a television screen.
However, once the key was turned; the gears haven't stopped turning. Instantly, I went to her blog with a plan. I would read her latest entry, from first letter to last punctuation mark... and nothing else.

This is where everyone is turning their heads to the side like a confused puppy, so let me explain. By diving right in without any background information I can guarantee a raw, good quality review. I know absolutely nothing on the subject matter, so I will have no critique other than the quality of the writing and the blog it's self as a whole.

The page opened in a new tab and there was the beautiful paint covered face of the girl whom I've known for several years now. Clad in camo and laced with shrubbery, those pale, yet piercing blue eyes stole all focus there might have been on anything else in the picture. Personally, I would have gone with a picture of yours truly to open the page, but to each their own (I jest, of course. In all honesty, a great shot for the top of the site!)

With my coffee in hand, I began reading her latest post “A Chain Reaction (In Three Parts).”

After finishing reading, tossing my now empty Tim Horton’s cup in the trash, and pushing my glasses up the bridge of my nose; I began to reflect.
For the first time, in a very LONG time, I had no critiques on structure what-so-ever! I had almost forgotten that this lovely lady has a BA in English and loves writing as much as I do with the natural ease that comes to us. She has such a unique tone while writing that you don’t feel like you’re reading a blog. You displace yourself, to wherever you heart see fit, and it’s personal. Maybe it’s over coffee, at a bar, in the locker room, polishing your guns (you DO polish those, right?) Your mind wanders to where you find comfort and instead of reading, you’re having a conversation. To benefit your imagination of where I was, we were sitting in the kitchen of a mutual friend’s house, drinking vats of wine in over sized glasses, with junk food scattered across the table while the Golden Girls thanked us for being their friends on TV (Fun Fact: this was usually how we conversed and shared about our days- over wine, in someone else’s kitchen, while someone else cooked for us. We are not lazy- we are royalty. Suspend disbelief!)

While reading I found myself completely enveloped, with tiny bursts of chuckles at her witty tolerance of minor malfunctions. With such good writing, and such a strong narrative voice, I had a strange feeling of disconnection when I reached the end of the post. Like saying goodbye to your gaggle of friends after an unexplainably good time and all you’re left with if yourself and a quiet room after you close the door behind them.

Now, I do realize that maybe I got lucky with my scientific method of review: this particular entry had very little to do with ACTUAL hunting, but more the journey for a state license so she can do so without the pains of an empty wallet. By chance I was saved from trying to understand the elements and art of the hunt.

In conclusion (because every 8th grade English teach INSISTS you write your concluding paragraph this way) you should read this blog. Plain and simple. Even if you do not hunt, even if you don’t understand the first thing about a bow or a gun or a…. slingshot? (See, I’m making an example of myself in my example… Case in point!) The content is understandable and educating, the author hilarious and compassionate, and overall it’s simply nice to read.

So here’s to you, hunters and huntresses! I intend to keep reading, and learning, and perhaps someday you’ll see me out there!
Cheers!
-Rosie 

@alonerocker
Bassist, writer, and nerd extraordinaire.

Reflections of Harvey Mallard

   There are times that the world seems to come together succinctly, with no help from anyone except the all mighty himself.  I've felt it before,  from when my parent's divorce turned into the greatest blessing in the world to when I met DU.  Those celestial bonding impacted my life in ways that I never would have fathomed previously. It was a horrible event and a chance meeting that turned into something that shaped the person I am today. Without these occurrences, this blog would never have existed.  In the same token did this story come to be, a chance reading, a comment, and a story that would've been missed, then forgotten forever.  Fortunately, the big guy upstairs knows better.

   The story I posted earlier this week was just like any other story, to me at least.  Another story that implanted itself in my brain, stewing for the perfect moment to make its grand entrance. And just like every other thing I have ever published, save a few, I was not the biggest fan of the piece.  Yes, the diction was lovely and sure, the story was kind of neat, but beyond that, it could've been better.  As you may know, I am the biggest critic of my own work.  While I sat, stewing about the post, a woman worlds away was doing the same thing.  But instead of looking at the story through my eyes, she saw it through her's.  Those eyes took my story in and it transformed into her own.

Rita and her husband pheasant hunting 

   Rita R. Schimpff is the sole owner of Heritage Game Mounts, a Texan company that supplies everything hunting aficionados need, from mount plaques to the mounts themselves. Just by glancing at her website, it is clear that she and her husband love the company almost as much as hunting itself.  Rita connected with me via Twitter after she read over Mounted in North Carolina.  She was quick to remind herself that the harvest of her first duck occurred more than 25 years ago.  Once she mentioned this, I asked if she'd like to write it up for me to post.

   So, without too much pop and circumstance, here it is.  Rita's account of her beloved Harvey Mallard, the first duck she ever had the blessing of harvesting..

Reflections of Harvey Mallard

Reading the Writing Huntress' tweet describing her excitement about her first duck made me think back to my first duck.  I told her it was 25 years ago but that did not seem right.  I went to look it up and I could barely believe when the years added up to a stately 31. 

When I met my husband, I immediately felt lucky that not only did he love to fish and hunt, but so did his family and friends.  While many men would exclude a woman from their party, my husbands group did not, they took me in, accepting that I would be along for the ride.  They are all gentleman hunters, whether or not I am among them or not.  While they may have cleaned up their language a little more around me, they still kept things racy enough to be fun.  Gentlemen they were, overly-nice they were not.  The guys were quick to pick on anyone who fell behind or could not keep up.  After 36 years, we still hunt and fish together, for this I am extremely lucky. 

 Howard, one of the brood, had a gorgeous family ranch near Bandera, Texas, which was not far from San Antonio.  We had all kinds of fun out there, but the one hunt I remember most was my first duck hunt. 

Up in the dark for the drive to Bandera.

Cold. 

Lots of coffee and homemade cookies

(A peace offering that helped with the acceptance thing but didn't save me from being picked on).

The guys set out the decoys in the dark.  Then, we waited, laying on the cold tank dam, still and quiet.  I shall never forget the sound; all of a sudden in the dark coming over my back, low and fast helicopters.   With no warning the sound came,  muffled then so quickly it was loud; they were right on top of me!  The splash, plop followed, one or two at a time.  Then the quacking.  I could almost touch them, if I could see them.  More came in, shots rang out.  I was a little startled and curious at the light coming out of the end of the barrels, the others could see by the dawn's light.  Slowly, the sun came up.  Someone shouted if I was going to shoot.  YOU HAD BETTER GET WITH IT he yelled, ARE YOU WAITING FOR AN ENGRAVED INVITATION? 

31 years makes the memory of those words a little softer than they probably were. 

I remember my nose and fingers being so cold.  I have a glove on my left hand.  Those days, my hunting clothes lacked any sense of fashion.  A ski jacked because it was warm and brown, but the yoke was cream. My knit cap was a pretty jaunty thing, left over from trendy days as a college art student.  So were the expensive, once to die for Frye boots, a throwback from my pseudo-hippie days.  The gun was the best part of my outfit, my husband's Winchester 20 gauge.  I had started using it so much he just gave it to me.  My dowry had not included any guns or fishing equipment.  Although I had enjoyed the outdoors with my grandfather, I would not inherit those treasures until later. 

I was a wonderful hunt, lots of ducks and one, beautiful specimen Mallard, my first duck harvest.  I always have and always will scrutinize the take.  A couple of those long-lost hunt's Mallard curly tail feathers still adorn my hat band. 

Howard teased me that I might as well go ahead and give my kill a name if I was going to play with it that much.  We named him Harvey, and I am sure there was a story there that has been forgotten.  We shared Harvey, like a child of divorced parents.  Howard had him mounted but I was allowed to keep him in my home.  I kept his beak and legs painted, touched up after years of wear.  One day, after he had been remarried, Howard wanted custody of Harvey.  I get to visit my little duck often.  The next time I do so, I'll have to ask Howard how Harvey's name came to be. 

Harvey is still, just as he was 31 years ago, absolutely gorgeous. 

I am so lucky. 

Rita Schimpff**

* A big HLYH thank you goes to Mrs. Schmipff for her story.  It was a blessing to read and even more so to publish for the enjoyment of all who follow this modest blog.  Your story was lovely and I can't thank you enough.

** Rita Schmipff is the founder and owner of Heritage Game Mounts, LLC, a company that provides elegant European mounts, deer mounts to showcase your price trophy antlers.  Rita is an enthusiast of hunting, fishing, cooking, interior decorating and Boykin Spaniels. 

The Metamorphosis of a Duck Dog

  I have always wanted to own a dog that loves water more than peeing on every bush in the neighborhood or humping anything within a four inch radius.  Watching Dock Dog competitions make me want to run out and cheer the athletes on, their little legs kicking ferociously against the tide just to bring whatever it is that his master has thrown back.  When we hunted with buddies who had true-blue hunting dogs, I loved watching the canines throw themselves into freezing water all for the love of the sport.  Avery, our rescued black lab, been looking less and less like a duck dog everyday.  She won’t retrieve, she won’t swim, she continually sleeps in the blind and does not seem to understand why other dogs chase whatever it is that falls out of the sky after mom shoots.  I figure this is some type of karma, directly related to a dog who has gone to the happy hunting ground.

   My childhood dog was a retired greyhound named Howie whose favorite pastimes included sleeping, ignoring our family and eating pasta.  Howie ran into our lives after his race days were long behind him.   After his last round the track came to an end, he became a blood donor dog.  This stint also ceased and Howie found himself in a peculiar spot; he couldn’t race anymore, nor could he be of service to transfusion-needing fellow pooches.  Where he ended up was a rescue society for aged greyhounds looking for a good home.  What Howie received could, in some cases, be argued as a good home while some may classify it as boarding on psychotic.

   By the time that we adopted our boney, huge pup, he was ready for a good rest.  He had been beaten (and had the racing scars to prove it), abused and forced to run in circles to increase the bank accounts of greedy drunks at the track, for which he received nothing in return.  Howie gave his blood to help out his brethren then placed in a foreign shelter all by the time he reached 6 years of age.  Hence, it was perfectly understandable that he yearned to spend the rest of his days surrounded by people who love watching him sleep. Howie never knew a real home so I assume he loved ours, even if we were a little eccentric in his upbringing. He could be found easily in our house, either in the kitchen playing a convincing vacuum or slumbering near his monstrous bed. 

   If there is one thing that Howie did not do, it was fetch.  Obviously, he was not bred to do such a degrading activity and one could see his attitude towards the dog pastime anytime a ball was thrown in his general direction.  Instead, he ran. Mostly he ran in the backyard but more often than not, he ran from us. I believe I’m leading you to conclude that he was abused in some way by our family but that is certainly not the case.  We did little things, like dressing him up in wigs and dresses that made him look like a terribly skinny, long-nosed, extremely unattractive woman.  Given his unnatural affinity for pasta, Wednesday spaghetti nights were Howie’s favorite.  Besides being allowed to pull the tendrils of pasta from the strainer, our poor pooch also engaged in an activity we lovingly called “Throwing Pasta at the Fridge and Watch Howie Try to Pry it Off”.  We also played “Put Peanut Butter on Howie’s Nose and Watch him lick if Off” and the classic, “Tie a Balloon on Howie’s Harness and Watch him Try to Evade It”.  Our decrepit greyhound went along with our shenanigans as a rescue dog does, seeing them as ridiculous habits of the weird people who fed him.  Howie never barked, growled, or bit at any of us.  He simply loved his life and the insane people in it, even if we put Christmas ornaments on his ears or wrapped him up in blankets like a gigantic burrito.

   Howie passed away when we were both 14.  In his advanced age, Howie could no longer function and the day came when his legs refused to comply with the directions of his brain.  My mom cried for days and the house felt too empty.  He was the greatest dog ever, even though he didn’t fetch, swim, or respond to any command, except to come for food.  While some may see that as a useless dog, I found him to be the greatest companion who listened to my adolescent whining, no matter what.  In the years since his passing, I’ve thought about how the retired greyhound saw his life.  I haven’t come up with any conclusions but I know how I saw him, as an unconditional tissue, ever present to shoulder the burden of a teenager's woes .

    Years later, Howie’s spirit seems to have infiltrated Avery’s little brain. She loves sleeping, eating and playing, which is to be expected with a puppy.  But just like her racing predecessor, she won’t fetch.  I’ve worked with her tirelessly, thinking that if I believed it enough, Avery would begin to shape herself as the duck dog I hoped she would turn into.  She shows small, brief explosions of greatness when she brings a dead trainer back or respond to a simple snap of the fingers but she refuses to swim.  Granted, she will walk to where the water gets deep, but she just will not pass the threshold of the black abyss.

    Two weeks ago started like any training day with Avery; nothing much happening except her small self, chasing whatever passed by her black nose.   I had just gotten a writing job with an amazing company so even her initial reluctance to act like a duck dog did not deter my efforts.  I brought her over to a small creek that joins our two equally small ponds.  Figuring she’d feel a bit safer with more land outlets to fall back on, I picked up a stick and threw it. What happened next defies explanation:

   It seems that all of the sudden, her puppy brain made some deep connection with her natural instinct and she realized, fetching is fun.  Not only fun, but mom freaks out every time I bring her a stick!  (If you haven't realized yet, DU and I subscribe to the belief that excessive praise is seriously excessive.)

   Howie was on the receiving end of an interesting hand.  He was fast, so he raced.  He was healthy, so he helped. And when he was in need, we were there.  While we may have had some fun with him but, we loved him for the dog that he was.  Avery seems to be walking in the paw prints of her predecessor, with a couple of differences. Howie wasn't given the chance to have a life filled with people who loved him until he was almost too old to enjoy it.  Avery, on the other hand, was rescued early and seems to be turning into a duck dog before our very eyes. 

 

The Perils of Sleeping In...

    MmmmmmMMMmMmmmm Bed is so comfortable..... wait.. What time is it!!?!?!??!?

  We've all been there.  Whether it be late for work, overslept for school or missed an entire day by giving into the luxurious temptations of a ultra-plush bed- sleep can seriously screw things up.  You can get fired for it, demoted, reprimanded and the like.  However, sometimes oversleeping is exactly what you need.

   When I get sick, I sleep.  When I'm upset, I sleep. I sleep when I'm cranky or when nothing seems to go right. On a rainy day, it takes ten tons of dynamite to get me out of the warm confines of bed.  I guess it runs in my blood, as my mom is a narcoleptic.  She slept through a lot of my childhood.  She wasn't the kind who would fall asleep at the drop of a hat into a pile of spaghetti but the kind who slept hard- for days.  Weekends would be spent going to bed at 8, getting up at 4, making dinner, and going back to sleep.  It must have been hard to live like that- never feeling fully rested and always tired.

   My Indiana man had planned to return home this weekend, leaving me the task of taking care of the 3 babies and house.  However, he put off the trip till Saturday afternoon to enjoy the last day of early duck season.  Friday night was date night.  We went to a movie and Bass Pro Fishing to pick up some last minute things.  That and Bass Pro just reeks of a perfect location for a romantic date night.(You may think I'm using sarcasm to draw you to a conclusion that I was unhappy about being there- I'm really not.  I love that store and wish to figure out some way to live there.)  Retreating back to our abode, we set our alarms and drifted to sleep, thinking that they would rouse us from slumber at 1am.

  Fast forward to 4:30 when we woke with a start, fascinated by the time on the clock. Thinking the clock was lying and playing a joke on us, I closed my eyes tightly then opened them.  4:31. Shit.

  I was a little irritated.  I had really wanted to go hunting.  But since it would take an hour to get to the launch, another forty-five minutes to get in place and put the blind up- time was of the essence and we did not have that luxury.  By the time we would have been in place, the ducks would have already been settled to wait out the mid-90 degree day.

   I settled back in the comforter and felt Indiana man's signature arm-under-my-pillow move closely followed by the I'm-going-to-break-your-ribs-bear hug with the other arm.  Tucked deeply away from the hustle and bustle of the world, I told myself that life can't be all that bad and there was definitely a reason we over-slept that morning.

  I gave into sleep a little while later only to be woken up again to the sound of loudly thumping tails. I knew the culprits were the two big puppies, as the little one is crate trained across the house. I unconsciously felt the presence of two wet noses mere inches from my face and the sound of smashing tails metronome-esque against the wood bed.  Not-so-silently pleading with me to get up and let them outside, both went nuts when I sat up.  Obviously the universal sign for "Mom's up and the only thing she'd love to do right now is to stand outside in the freezing cold and watch us pee"- I could only laugh as I watched the abundantly overjoyed display; Two dogs, two insane tails and wiggling bodies- both jockeying for the first position out the door.

  The rest of the mid-morning was spent hanging out in bed, getting breakfast and preparing for Indiana man's departure.

  I was happy then that the wail of our alarm clocks failed to push us into the hunting world.  The morning was how I wish all my mornings could be.  Funny, warm, filled with love.  Oh and of course, full of puppy kisses and wet noses.

My First Deer.

Since we're getting all acclimated and all, I should probably share with you my first experience harvesting a deer.  This is pivotal, as I was not really sure of my love for deer hunting until the moment that deer dropped.

     It was a cold Thanksgiving morning.  My boyfriend at the time and I were at a turning point in our relationship.  After a year of  relatively good times,things were starting to go sour.  We were living in sin in an apartment that I was paying for.  I paid for everything from rent to heat to food.  I didn't expect much from him because he had been burned months before which included skin graphing and the whole nine yards. Unfortunately for our relationship, he was not only still feeling the physical effects of it but also the emotional toll in not being able to take care of me.  He was the alpha male kind of guy, one who needs to be able to take care of everything- no matter what.  The weekend after opening day I came home to a half-empty apartment.  It felt terrible because at first, I felt relieved.  Relieved that I wouldn't have to hear him complain everyday, wait up for him or have to be the one to tell him to get the hell out 

    Once the initial shock melted away, I was sad, lonely and angry.  I had moved to the town I lived in essentially so we could be together. I worked hard to pay for everything and wasted money that needn't be wasted on a guy like him. Most of all, I was angry because I didn't know what would come of my hunting season.  We had been hunting his friend's property and I wasn't sure if I would be allowed to continue hunting there.

      I eventually got a hold of him a little later. He told me how much he loved me and that we'd be together but he needed to move out in order to be less of a burden on my shoulders.  A complete cop-out if you ask me, but since he didn't ask, I didn't mention it.

      Weeks went by and I went hunting every morning and afternoon I could. Some days he'd be there, some days not.  But every time I saw him, a part of my heart would ignite.  That part got smaller and smaller as the months went by and eventually went out.  But we're not there yet.

      And then there was that Thanksgiving morning.  It started like any early morning hunt. 4:00am. Freezing cold walk outside to let Titus pee and a quick run upstairs to throw my camo on.  After driving to the land, he and I walked to the stands.  Sounds easy, but through a dirt road flooded and up to my knees in freezing cold water, walking turns into an aerobic workout.

     The morning was relatively quiet and nothing moved.  Once everyone descended from their tree stand thrones, the men decided a push was necessary to get the deer moving.  [A push is when a group walks through thickets and woods while making enough noise to make deer a county over move.  Hunters placed on either side of the thickets attempt to get any deer that come out]  I was told to scale a monstrous stand and wait. 

    The guys started screaming and singing as they walked through the brush.

    I stood and waited, my gun shaking in apprehension as my hands refused to calm. 

   Then came the moment the deer decided to peek outside the thicket.

    I breathed and calmly lined the cross hairs.

    A second later it was done and I could barely move.

   Numbly, I cocked the shotgun just in case.

    Once the push was over, the guys came out yelling and high-fiving one another as I looked down from the stand.  Encouraging me to come down and survey my handiwork, I shakily put my safety on and climbed down. Walking over to the guys circled up, I saw the mound of deer in the brush.  I quickly knelt down and patted her stomach.  I said a quick prayer and thanked her for the meals she would provide.

   The whole ordeal took only a second but forever I had been changed.

    I felt empowered.  I felt like there was nothing I couldn't do.  And I fell in love with hunting.

    Later  after the hunt was over, I did a makeshift Thanksgiving dinner and extended an invite to my soon to be ex-significant other.  He said he'd call when he was done with another push.

     He never called.

    But that night, I ate my small dinner and drank deeply from a cheap bottle of wine alone. For the first time, I wasn't sad and I knew all would be well.  As long as I could hunt, life would be good.