I’ve been a little busy but wanted to thank all of you that sent Thanksgiving wishes and text messages.
I was chasing deer and shooting a deer and so forth. She’s about 85 lbs. field dressed. She and I tangoed for a bit, ending with her tangled in some deadfall where they’ve been logging on my parents’ farm. It started with my dad telling me that my gun was shooting about four inches high. The second thing was I took a downhill shot, which is never prime. So, I ended up shooting her in the spine, which I hate. It ruins the best part of the meat and its not within my “one shot, one kill” policy.
She took off on her two good legs and disappeared over the flat. I bolted in another one and attempted the still the tremors, or “buck achers,” even though she wasn’t a buck. I slid down the hill, onto the road, and then over onto the next flat. All I can say is that I shot at her again, then again, then again, and I’m not sure with the sight off whether any of those hit her, or whether it was the last shot, because ole girl was still moving on. She made another flat and flailed down that embankment, over the logging road to the deadfall.
I knew on the other side of that deadfall was a steep 40 yard drop to the next gas road. By this time, the tremors had well subsided and I was just getting pissed, not to mention, just aggravated that she wasn’t dead. Not to brag, but the last two deer died instantly because I shot them in the heart. Beaders make good shots, I suppose, because we have such steady hands and good eyes.
I lined up the last shot, with adjustments, and she looked like she had succumbed, made one last effort, then died. FINALLY! At some point I had landed the kill shot, not a heart shot, but a lung shot plus the bleeding out from the spinal wound. My magazine was empty, so I loaded my extra shells, just in case she really wasn’t dead and tried to get a hold of my dad on the walkie-talkie. After being reasonably certain she wasn’t going to gore me to death with her razor sharp hooves, I began trying to untangle her. While doing so, I saw someone walking in the holler below me. Damn trespassers.
After three or four attempts to raise someone at the farm, my dad, brother, and nephews showed up. Ah, the calvary. The boys and I got her untangled, then with me shoving from underneath and them pulling, and more untangling, in which I finally broke off part of the offending hoof, Ms. Doe was pulled free, appropriately gutted, appropriately admired, then my dad went out looking for the trespasser, I took my niece for a walk up the holler, we ate turkey, I went out looking for Mr. Buck and didn’t find him. I’ll take another shot at it today, and hopefully its only one shot.
I could have shot a doe as I walked up the first hill, but I didn’t think that was very fair nor much of a hunt. I could have shot another one as I made the treeline on the point, she was about 10 yards from me, and looked at my so quizzically, I laughed instead, before she snorted and took off. As I walked out to look for Mr. Buck, while still in the “compound” area, a group of does stood staring at me, perhaps knowing they were safe for another year. It was a beautiful day.