Boom

The forests of upstate New York are ringing with the sounds of death for deer.

How's that for a poetic opener?  The reality, of course, is much less poetic.  The reality is that today is the opening day of rifle season for deer, and there is a gutted deer hanging from a branch in a tree right in front of our house, where everyone who drives by can see that we will be eating venison this year.

Hi, people from New York City doing wine tours!  Welcome to the country!  Who wants to come for dinner?

The deer, of course, was shot by A.  Although Cubby was convinced he could have shot one too, were he only allowed to go hunting with Daddy.  Alas, Mommy is lame and wouldn't let him accompany Daddy to the woods this morning at 6 a.m. for the deer stake-out.

A. shot a nice fat doe a couple of hours after sunrise and then dragged it home, over the stream and through the woods, up the gully bank and down the pasture.  After recovering himself from this feat of strength, he finished cleaning it out and hoisted it into the tree.  Cubby, meanwhile, was examining the deer. ("Where's the mouth?  There's the tongue!  This is a male deer*.  What's that?  What's a windpipe for?  What's that white stuff?  What's cartilage?  Why?  Why?  Why?  Why?" ad infinitum.)

It's really too bad he's so squeamish.

So now every time I get in my car, which is parked approximately three feet from the deer, I am treated to a close-up view of the nearly-severed head with the tongue sticking out.  Lovely.

Looks like we'll be bringing some venison to Thanksgiving dinner.  How very authentic.

* Unless informed otherwise, Cubby assumes every animal is male.