Please do not mistake me for a card holding PETA member, vegetarian or a prissy girly girl. I am married to a great outdoorsman. He has taught me the beauty of God’s creation in a way I never knew. I love it that I can hear an owl, or coyote, even a whippor will and know what I am listening to. I can sit still in a deer stand or cast my line in a mountain creek for a trout.
After all these years, I have learned to love the gamey taste of deer. A deer roast marinated in Dales and slow cooked over a fire is a perfect Saturday dinner. I love to see his smile as he retells the story of how he heard the deer, how it looked up and sniffed the air, how he sighted it in on his scope and how he shot and dropped it right there.
I don’t mind at all washing the blood off his hunting pants, taking pictures and deciding how we want the meat processed.
Can I share a little secret? It always makes me a little sad to see the doe laying there in the back of his truck. A buck, not so much, but a mama deer bothers me. I usually offer up an apology to her when he’s not looking. Something like, “I hope your baby got away and I’m sure she’ll be OK.”
I dare not tell Wayne, he would probably laugh at me. I love that outdoorsman of mine, and I’ll even go sit in the stand with him, but pull the trigger? Nope, I guess there’s just too much mama in me for that.