Do not read if have pet deer

I have been enjoying deer hunting for about 18 years now. While I do find that shooting a wild animal is enjoyable and gives me a rush of adrenaline and excitement, I do not consider myself one of those sport-type hunters. You know the ones, they put out doe piss the night before a hunt and rattle antlers and wear abundant amounts of camouflage. That has never been my style. I go out once a year and kill a deer and that is that. I am no trophy buck hunter. And this year, I had to go kill a deer out of necessity. As in, it was necessary that I eat for the winter - and after having taken a job at the Capitol, which I thoroughly enjoyed throughout the 83rd Regular Legislative Session, I found that it did not contribute much to my bank account, and hence, my freezer was empty, thus making my annual deer hunt a matter of "have to" instead of the normal enjoyable outing with my Dear Ole Dad. 

Now when I go out to shoot this annual deer, I dust the cobwebs off my Remington .22-250 bolt action, my Pops and I walk out to his backyard, sit for a spell, and I kill a deer. It has been much like this for as long as I remember. My very first deer, we pulled into my Hey-Hey's place and the deer was standing in the very field my father knew him to be in, so we drove down to the deer and I shot him where he stood. Some would argue that this is not hunting. I think this is the best kind of hunting. It also prevents you from freezing your ass off and being miserable. 

So, there we are, sitting in our fold-out chairs in a clump of trees in the yard, whispering about who I have been dating and what's been going on in Austin, etc., etc., when out come three little does. At this point, I have never killed a female deer. I do not know why, really the opportunity has never presented itself. But today, I don't care what is on the other end of my rifle as long as it will feed me for a year. 

I can't see them very well at this point in the evening so Dad and I are trying to figure out which one I can see and which one I am going to aim for. Dad is literally talking in a regular voice which throws me off considerably, however the deer seem unfazed by this loudness -  they actually seem not to care we are there at all. (Father refers to this time as "The Golden Hour," the exact moment of dusk where apparently you could clap, yell, and do the River Dance at the deer and they would not appear to mind.)  

Per my dad's loud instructions, I wriggle around to a spot I feel I can accurately kill something, position myself on my knee and fire at the only deer I can properly see. 

"You missed!" Dad says. 

I do not feel this is true. But I reload and reposition in order to get a second shot. However, my dad has already thrown up his .3030 and shot one of the deer, without warning, shot ringing in my ear, and then says, "I don't miss."

I am hurt. 

But my face is one of those that is not hurt but disgusted. "WHAT THE HELL, DAD!?" How dare he think I miss. I do not miss a deer. That happened one time and it may as well have been the middle of night. I shot his leg. Can't he just let that one go? Does he have to remember everything?

I remain calm. Maybe I did miss. Probably not, but I will possibly not know because Dad just shot the deer I shot at. We discuss which deer I shot at and what we come up with is absolute confusion. There is no telling at this point, unless one of the deer comes over and explains, which one was which and if I missed or if Dad shot my deer or a different one. Utter chaos. 

We remove ourselves from our grove and check out the scene. I find a dead deer. Dad claims this as him own. More disgust from me and dirty looks in the dark. I wander off into someone else's property in an attempt to find another dead deer. No luck. More theatrical remarks out of earshot from Dad. 

Dad collects his kill. I help, reluctantly. We decided that I may come back out tomorrow morning and attempt to find a blood trail. But mostly, at this point, I am coming to terms with the fact that I missed a deer. But I will return tomorrow. And not to find a blood trail, it will be to kill the asshole deer that evaded me to begin with.

The next day. I take dad's truck out by myself and drive into his place. Two deer, same deer, standing by same edge of trees where they last saw their friend Marguerite. They are most likely wondering where she is. 

I load my gun and walk toward them. They are dumb. They stare at me and invite me to kill one of them. Given my miss last night I do not dare take a standing shot with no stable base. So I go sit down. The two dumbasses have run off a way but come back in about twenty minutes. To the exact place where their buddy was killed. Luckily, I can see everything in the dead of the morning. And for these two, every hour is apparently The Golden Hour because they don't seem to give a flying fuck I am about to shoot at them. I stand up and lean on a tree and fire. They both look at me. They are confused. I am confused. I fire again. More confusion on both ends. This is my last bullet. I have never needed more than three bullets in my life so I am disconcerted at this point. I take a deep breath and fire again. Nothing. The deer stare at me, completely unaffected and unharmed. Not even a wound or a bit of fright on their end. They are still standing there so out of sheer anger and confusion, I yell at them so they will leave. They are literally taunting me by still standing there. I sit down in my chair and in the middle of my little patch of trees, I cry. And it's not just a whimpering pathetic crying, it's really crying. I am boo-hooing in the country. 

What I think of first is that people surrounding the area, farmers and land-owners, have heard the three shots and know that I missed. They stopped their chores to listen to the sounds of my three failed bullets and they are going about their business now, laughing at me. People will be talking about it in town later, at the pharmacy, in the bank. Based on who was where and who heard what, they will be able to figure out it was on the Whaley's Place. And that poor Whaley girl who doesn't know how to shoot a deer. 

Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum are out by the tank now, laughing at me too. They have by now figured out what happened to Marguerite and congratulating one another on their revenge. They high-five and skip around and eat acorns and laugh at me as I pull myself together and walk back to the truck. Now I have to go out to my dad's work and explain to him that his daughter cannot hit the broad side of a barn. 

Dad's friends are at his Deer Processing Plant, which make for an even more humiliating experience. I recount my story, holding back tears of shame, as the men look on, interested, pitying, and internally, surely laughing. Father is in disbelief. No child of his is a Misser. 

"Give me that gun," he orders. 

A brief moment of hope in this nightmare. Is it possible my gun's sights have been knocked off? I will not blame my inability to fire a weapon upon the weapon. I will take my shame and wear my scarlet letter until I am vindicated only by killing of another deer. But now the men have a project and excitement fills the room. One grabs a barrel for a prop to place a target, another makes a bulls-eye on an old bag of deer corn, and dad prepares the yardage for the experiment. I follow them outside, half excited, half nervous as hell that my rifle will be spot on and I will be the idiot who can't shoot right. 

Dad misses the mark twice. I am not a failure. My gun's sights were off by a good half-foot and then some. I receive high-fives and "you'll get him tonight"s. I am encouraged. Shaken and without confidence, but my gun is in order and my Hey-Hey lends me a rifle bipod to rest it on and while I am mildly humiliated, I am grateful. Both father and father's father know the import of this night's hunt. I kill Tweedle Dum that evening and rejoice. A perfect shot. I thank the deer for giving me food and my perfect shot back. All is well that ends well. 

Now, if you found this post completely un-relatable and completely un-funny, here's this.