Keeping My Head Down
Today is the first day of deer hunting season here in Pennsylvania. For many, it’s a national holiday. Maybe even a religious holiday.
Not for me. I don’t hunt. I cry when a dog or a cat or a horse (or Bambi) dies in a movie. The only way I’ll go to a movie where an animal dies if I’m tricked into it.
We own a DVD of Dances With Wolves. I only watch it to a certain point, and then I have to leave the room.
I own The Horse Whisperer on DVD, too. But I start it halfway through. Which is fine because Robert Redford doesn’t show up until then anyway.
I can’t watch fictional animals die, so there is no way on earth I could go out and shoot a real one.
But around here, I’m the odd-man-out. I grew up in a family of hunters. And I married into a family of mega-hunters. Hubby celebrates this day with his uncle and cousins at the family hunting camp.
I’m happy for him. I stay home with the cats. Two small felines and I take up the entire queen-sized bed all night and love it.
During the day, it sounds like war rages right outside my window. I live in the country. Cattle graze in the field next to the house. Pasture stretches from my backyard to our wooded hillside. But on this day every year, my peaceful country home might as well sit in the middle of gang territory. When I had horses, I used to tie blaze orange ribbons around their necks and in their tails just so no one mistook them for deer.
As I write this, dusk is falling. And I still hear gunshots. How the heck can these guys see what they’re shooting at?
Excuse me. I think I’m going to go online to see if I can order some bullet-proof body armor.
Happy (and SAFE) Hunting, everyone.
Not for me. I don’t hunt. I cry when a dog or a cat or a horse (or Bambi) dies in a movie. The only way I’ll go to a movie where an animal dies if I’m tricked into it.
We own a DVD of Dances With Wolves. I only watch it to a certain point, and then I have to leave the room.
I own The Horse Whisperer on DVD, too. But I start it halfway through. Which is fine because Robert Redford doesn’t show up until then anyway.
I can’t watch fictional animals die, so there is no way on earth I could go out and shoot a real one.
But around here, I’m the odd-man-out. I grew up in a family of hunters. And I married into a family of mega-hunters. Hubby celebrates this day with his uncle and cousins at the family hunting camp.
I’m happy for him. I stay home with the cats. Two small felines and I take up the entire queen-sized bed all night and love it.
During the day, it sounds like war rages right outside my window. I live in the country. Cattle graze in the field next to the house. Pasture stretches from my backyard to our wooded hillside. But on this day every year, my peaceful country home might as well sit in the middle of gang territory. When I had horses, I used to tie blaze orange ribbons around their necks and in their tails just so no one mistook them for deer.
As I write this, dusk is falling. And I still hear gunshots. How the heck can these guys see what they’re shooting at?
Excuse me. I think I’m going to go online to see if I can order some bullet-proof body armor.
Happy (and SAFE) Hunting, everyone.
Comments
Mason
Thoughts in Progress