On Wetting Oneself Part Deux

Summer is my favorite time of year.

But I also like when summer has just about worn you out and then that light little breeze comes along and you're like, "damn, fall is pretty rad, too." Sadly, in Texas, it only lasts like a day or two, but the point is that God made seasons for a reason. You get plum burnt out on one season too much. Especially summer. Geeeeeeeez. Enough already.

And then there's deer season!

Every hunter starts to get that itch around September and October. The "I need to kill something other than these blasted fire ants" itch. The need to be enveloped in camouflage and sit for hours in a deer stand, watching nothing but branches and weeds move and thinking to yourself, "Holy crap! Was that a deer? No... Shit."

That hunter...is not me.

While I know several men and women who participate in the ridiculousness of getting up at four AM and spreading around doe urine and rattling antlers and snorting buck snorts... it is my personal conviction that going outside with a gun, some corn and a jacket tends to do the trick.

Oh, and my Dad.

Dad pretty much tells me what to do and I do it. He does that really annoying hunting voice like on the hunting shows where you would rather strangle yourself than hear what the hunter has to say (like that hissing whisper voice you did when you were a kid and were supposed to be in bed and you didn't want your parents to hear down the hall but you wanted it to be loud enough for your sister to hear in the next bed): "Well... we decided to cut around through the back pasture... cause we know the bucks wonder up into the north part of the field...and we did a few snorts and rattles... and BY GOD if that sonofabitch didn't come a runnin'..."

One of the first hunts I can remember with my Dad was at my Hey-Hey's place. I was pretty small, young enough to only remember the traumatic parts of the trip...

Dad was hunting on the bank of a tank and had set me up in a mesquite tree ("Stay there. Be quiet") while he laid out on the bank and looked out over the prairie at the deer, waiting for el guapo to show his big ugly face, I guess. I remember it being pretty cold and me being a tiny little thing, I had to pee pretty quick.

"Dadddd!" (in the hiss whisper) "Daddy! I hafta go to the bathroom!"

Dad, compliant, mildly annoyed, rises from belly position and takes his tiny girl below the bank to take care of her business and returns her to tree perch with a "Stay there. Be quiet."

Now I don't know much about time and the world around me at this point, but I'm going to say about twenty minutes later, the same situation unfolds. Only this time, Big Boss Man is much more agitated and much less compliant to little girl's requests. Little girl senses her father's anger and becomes worrisome, frightened, and wants more than anything in the world to not disappoint her Dear Old Pa.

The wind continues to blow on the tip-top of the bank, while Your Humble Narrator is in precarious mesquite tree, and Pee Urge Number Three comes along.

Now, I'm a smart little gal. I know that if I tell my pa I have to pee AGAIN, he is going to get all huffy puffy at me, yank me out of the tree, set me behind the bank, and probably miss the shot of his life due to his whining little bratty kid who can't hold her pee in. So, I did what any good child would do and I pissed myself. I mean I really let myself have it. The flood gates opened and there was no stopping the warm, youthful flow of relief. I surely can't remember if I did it out of fear or spite. My tiny little jeans soaked and me, a tad pleased, a tad ashamed.

Father of course, after hefting his child out of the tree and discovering that she had pissed herself, felt terrible (only after, of course, scolding me for pissing myself) and probably had a considerable time explaining himself to my dear old mother, who must've not allowed such goings on any longer because I don't remember going out with Dad again 'til I was ten or eleven when I got to kill my first deer. Also about the same time I stabbed Dear Old Dad while gutting said deer...

Now that's a whole other blog...