Ruminations and ruminants
Two ruminants, to be certain. Colby managed to strike down two does a few weekends ago with his crossbow. Sitting in tree-blinds, waiting, sometimes enduring extreme temperatures, at length the deer eventually tread into his treacherous path. How could they know? (It rains candy every day, twice a day, at this exact location!) An advantage of using arrows (for crossbows, they’re called bolts), is that they’re quiet. One deer is struck, through the back of the shoulder. The four-blade razor arrowhead (or broadheads when referring to crossbows), finds the skin, meat, heart, lung, meat and skin again then lands hard enough on the ground beyond to make sparks on the abundant flint that litter the terrain. Oh the familiarity with arrowheads this landscape must feel. If you’re a keen enough observer, this particular region of the Texas Hill Country- located just southwest of Junction- provides lucky sleuths a wealth of arrowhead pickins. One deer stumbles off, bewildered, punctured. Some of her companions skitter out of her way, but most continue with their corn gorging. A half hour passes before our great white hunter lumbers down from his position in the oak tree ambuscade locale. Surely that girl has laid down to rest by now.
Back at the ranch house, the busy ladies of hustle-bustle-cook-n-clean are hard at work simulating some forgotten rituals of bygone eras. Women’s work never being done is a well understood, if not loved, adage. At long last, the rumble of ATV on the dirt road outside could be heard. The womenfolk, including yours truly, made their way outdoors and onto the porch to check out the action. (Babies on hips included.) Colette squealed a little and pronounced, “Daddy. Daddy! DADDY!” Then, “Dee, Dee, DEE!” (“Dee” translating to “deer” in toddler-speak.) She spied those spindly legs without delay and toddled right on up to get a closer view. I scoured the ground for snakes and scorpions in her path, allowing her to slake that curiosity although I did have to wonder if this was going to scar her tender little heart. (Turns out she still just don’t know a dead deer from a teddy-bear). Aside from the pulpy, red star-mound on her chest and strange position, this doe just appeared as the beautiful creature she was. Still as stone. I felt her soft ears and considered grimly how many meals she would make for my family and friends.
At length I noticed the part that just won’t leave me alone. It looked like raw, colorless bacon, languishing in the early afternoon heat. It hung from her mouth, thin and straight, and ended in a small puddle of reddish clear liquid pooling on the metal grate of the ATV. ”Is that her tongue?”, I asked Colby. ”Uh huh”, came the reply. And in we all went to have some lunch before the menfolk would have to go back outside to take her apart.
It’s probably because I’m pregnant, and in only the nascent first trimester at that, but it’s all I can do not to excuse myself to the restroom for a nice little barf recounting this story. I’m hoping that in the next six weeks or so, my internal, gastrointestinal equilibrium will be restored. Then, friends, it will be time for chicken-fried deer. For now, perhaps some saltines and Sprite…
