The mighty deer slayer

Rick Ryckeley's picture

Cool mists of the fields lazily drifted across the road, but parted quickly for the deer slayer. The trip was about to prove fruitful. A grand trophy was close as the sun slipped past the horizon. For a moment the light refused to relinquish its grip on the day. Then the reds and purples of twilight spilled across the land. Three white tails flicked while antlers cocked, sensing the danger. The deer slayer shuddered with excitement.

The events unfolded in a blink of an eye. Frightened by the noise of the approaching slayer, the three deer left their meal of fallen acorns and started bounding across the fields. Two cleared a fence and darted across the roadway, making it to safety on the other side and hiding behind a small grove of trees. One did not. Unfortunately the buck turned right into the path of the deer slayer. And his life ended.

Without enough time to react, scream or even suck in a breath, we stiffened with horror as the large buck struck our car. We watched as the helpless animal bounced off the hood, up and over, eventually landing in the field. Humanely, the mist slowly covered the dying animal.

Shaken, the Wife and I called the police for help. The 911 operator asked if there were any injuries sustained. I said yes, there was one fatality. After an awkward pause I added, “I think the deer is dead.”

I’m sure I’ll be taken to task for the rest of this article. Many emails will be written and perhaps even a few phone calls made in protest, but I’m okay with it.

How anyone can take pleasure in hunting and killing such a beautiful animal fails me. And to call such an endeavor a sport is beyond my scope of understanding. What sport? In a true sport the other side at least has a chance. Deer don’t have guns.

Many fathers have used hunting as a bonding tool between them and their sons. Instead of teaching them to kill defenseless animals, I have a better suggestion.

If they want to spend quality time with their kids, take them to a park, a museum, or even a movie. On second thought, the killing of one deer would be less gruesome than some of the movies out now.

Just like the so called ultimate fighting craze — two guys sealed in a cage beating the fool out of each other — I just don’t see the point of the sport.

The mighty hunter rises hours before the sun, dons special clothing, and travels to a woodland location armed with a high-powered $2,000 rifle and climbs a tree to wait for his prey.

After the kill, he drags his trophy to the truck and then drives to the deer cooler for processing.

By the end of the day the hunter has “fresh” meat that cost about $125 a pound, all for the joy of the kill, and of course bonding with one’s son.

To conclude my rant on this, the senseless sport of hunting: I’m aware that the deer population has to be controlled. I don’t have a problem with that. What I do object to is the sheer glee taken by some hunters when they show off their latest kill.

When The Wife and I killed our deer we watched as the doe and fawn wondered aimlessly in the field, looking on with confusion. There was no cheering. No high-fives. And no trip to the deer cooler to have the meat processed.

To the contrary, our romantic evening out was ruined. We both were sickened by the tragic event.

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