Beers and Deers

They’re Back! My wife saw a bunch of them in the store today buying up their beer, getting ready for tomorrows opening day deer hunt.

Joy! Nothing like living in a very narrow valley surrounded by high hills in the center of a couple thousand acres of Ohio forest during hunting season. I won’t use the the same old worn out cliche, “It was like a war zone” . . . but it will be.

Already my wife says she heard a round cutting the air as it zipped over her head the other day during the kiddy hunt. This is the pre-season hunt reserved for Bubba’s kids. They get the woods for themselves for a couple days. You know in order to have a little quality time with pa killing and gutting deer.

Now before I take to my bunker and before you begin to think I’m a tree hugger pacifist (well, maybe I am) let me explain my position a bit.

I’m not really against hunting, per say. The county I live in is rather poor and we get hundreds of guys spending thousands of dollars every season for the pleasure of hunting in these hallowed hills. These guys are hunters. They do their thing, pack up their deer kill and go back home to the suburbs to eat and brag on it. These guys get a pass. Nor am I against owning guns. I have a couple of them myself.

Here’s what really pisses me off about the whole thing. Down at the end of the valley where the corn fields start the local yahoos like to sit in their trucks and scan the opposite hillside for deer. Once they see one they get out and try to shoot it. Usually just getting their fat asses out of the truck creates enough racket when the empty beer cans hit the hard pan, that the deer run over the ridge and disappear down the other side, but once in a while Bubba Beer Belly gets lucky.

Don’t know how he gets up to the deer, but the carcass usually ends up not far from where he parked his truck. Last year there were three baby deer carcases in the two foot wide creek that follows the road. Christ, my German Shepard is bigger than those deer were.

They drive up the country road sitting in the back of pickups holding their weapons between their legs looking like they were in Beirut. They scan the hillside behind my cabin looking for a way to get up there. They see me, stop and ask.

Get back asshole! This is my turf!! . . . I think as I saunter down to the road, smile and answer politely that, “No, there is no hunting allowed clean up to the top of the hill.” (Can’t you read the signs you illiterate son-of-a-bitch!) “Yes, I know, but I am sorry. Absolutely no hunting . . . See you guys. Be careful.” (Hope you shoot your damn toes off!)

Now in case you think I am a nut case, off season I usually offer these same guys a beer if they happen to come around. They are just regular Joe’s like I’m used to. Same as the guys I grew up with. But during deer season all bets are off, it’s killing time and the more gunshots I hear the more protectionist and paranoid I become. I don’t hunt four leggeds though, I love the beauty of the deer too much to slaughter him. Now those fat, beer basted, two leggeds? I’m keeping them in my sites for later when times get really tough.

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