Deer Me

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Tim is going to West Virginia to go hunting with my brother next week, an annual tradition. Don't get me started on his lame explanation as to why he needs to leave Saturday morning when hunting season doesn't start until Monday. Something about male bonding (beer). Please don't point out how hunting season coincides so very nicely with Margaret's chilly fall soccer tournament, the same way last spring's male ski trip (beer) coincided with her very rainy spring soccer tournament.  I mean, I love crying and cursing the GPS lady as I try to find far-flung soccer fields on my own.

Oh well. This post isn't about my marriage; it's about the big ole buck that is standing in my yard, right outside my office window at 9:30 on a Wednesday morning. It has a huge 10 point rack, and like his buddies who sauntered by earlier, seems undeterred by the traffic noises and barking dogs of suburbia. Pretty as they are to look at, these deer spread Lyme's disease all over the region and eat my plants. As an outraged Margaret said when she was little, "The deer ate our Pasta!" She meant hosta.

But just as this post is not about my marriage, it's not about the the moral ins and outs of hunting either. I've never killed a deer and don't plan to, unless you count the time I hit one with my car on the way to school. Anyway, I convinced the kids and myself that, "She's fine! Really!" I don't want to get into all that here.

It's just that I'm a woman of thrift and ease.

It's seems like a lot of hoopla to travel five hours away to hunt something that hangs out on your lawn in broad daylight.

I think it would save a lot of time and money and gas if it were legal for me to go outside and bonk this deer on the head with one of my comfortable shoes. No need for a license or equipment or travel time. Think of the money saved on beer alone.

Somehow I think Tim would go anyway.