All I seem to do these days is write about my real life … on Wednesdays.
But I feel you need to see this; this real moment of my life.
It was a cold, frozen morning. Mr. Duncan and I snuggled within the tiny, frostbitten blind—I with my hot cocoa and he with his dry oatmeal— wondering how long it would be before a deer made its way across the field in front of us. The first hour passed full of snuffled laughter and the clinching of frozen fingers. Slowly, the second hour passed more quietly except for the occasional snore which escaped the sleeping hunters.
Then it happened.
His excellent hearing caught the quietest sound: a young buck gingerly walking from the woods. Quickly, I was woken up and, stumbling around like a blind mole, was given my glasses and told to look out the tiny window. Excitement made my breath run short; raising the gun, using my scope exactly as instructed, I looked out.
“I can do this. We could use the meat. He looks so young. It will make dad proud. But he is so cute.”
Lower the gun, raise the gun, lower again.
“I can’t do it, Dalton.”
“You know you don’t have too.”
Raise the gun. Lower in resignation. Raise. Lower. Raise. Lower. Peek out at the beautiful buck, with Dalton peeking right next to me, raise the gun. Lower. Raise up.
“Aim where you were taught. Breathe. Breathe. Ready ….”
The gun-shot was so loud my poor hunting partner, who I had forgotten to warn about my final decision, feared his A+ hearing no longer existed. The deer darted away, over the hills and through the woods, quite literally, until he dropped near my dad’s whereabouts.
And that is the story of my first deer.