by Pa Rock
Indoorsman
We are now almost at the midpoint of autumn, and while here in my corner of the Ozarks we have had a couple of frost warnings and even one "freeze" warning, none have materialized and, for the most part, the leaves still cling valiantly to the trees. There are probably still a few late crops scattered on local fields and gardens, but basically the harvest has come and gone.
The crop harvest, that is.
The word "harvest" has also been adopted by outdoorsmen and hunters as a euphemism to mask the annual slaughter of the deer population. It's not a days-long campout in the woods by armed, drunken yokels seeking to get away from their wives and kids for a few days, it is a group of conservation-minded individuals who are out to intentionally save nature's beautiful and elegant deer population by wisely thinning them out, "harvesting" the excess so that the remainder may live and thrive.
Or, more likely it is some combination of the two.
Okay, I am being just a tad facetious. I live on a paved country lane where I watch the deer leap across the road and across my big yard each day, and in the evenings I watch them gathering around the mudhole that I call a pond. They relax me and add balance to my day. But I also know that deer cause damage when they dine on commercial crops, or gardens, or when they eat expensive plants like shrubbery or young fruit trees. I can forgive all that because the deer were here first, and it is us, the humans, who are encroaching upon their habitat.
But nobody likes to see an animal starve or freeze to death because of a lack of food or natural shelter space, so I can begrudgingly accept the need for a certain amount of "harvesting." I just wish it could be done without cruelty.
Missouri, where I live, has several types of deer-hunting seasons which reach across the fall and well into the winter. Those seasons vary by the type of weapon used (bow, gun, and "other?") and the age of the hunters. The seasons also vary as to whether the deer being pursued have antlers or not. At this stage in the show-me state, the first segment of the months-long "sport" is just coming to a close. Archery season, the initial portion, will end on Friday, the 13th, and the initial portion of firearms season will begin on the same day.
I will be glad to see archery season go.
Last Thursday evening as the dogs and I were dozing peacefully on the couch in front of the television. an hour or so after dark, we were rudely awakened by a pounding at the front door. Poor little Rosie is going blind and can barely see at all, but there is nothing wrong with her hearing - and she goes berserk whenever anyone knocks. I reluctantly got up and went to the door to determine the reason my calm had been shattered.
The man at the door said he was my neighbor and he had shot a deer which had been dining in his garden. He said the wounded deer jumped the fence and was somewhere on my property. He was politely asking permission for him and some of his friends to drive onto my land and look for "his" deer. The guy was pleasant and sober, so I quickly agreed. I did not want to have to deal with a dead deer in the backyard the next morning.
Poor deer - but not my problem.
The next night my son came into the house after doing some chores outside. "Don't let Gypsy (our big dog) out tonight," he said. "There's a young deer up by the chicken coop, and I don't want her chasing it."
"Okay." I responded.
Nick, who is himself a hunter, continued, "It has an arrow in its leg."
My social worker genetics kicked into overdrive. "An arrow in it's leg! We've got to do something! Let's see if we can capture it and take the poor thing to the vet."
My son looked at me like I was crazy. "It will be alright," he said. "There is no blood, so the arrow has been in his leg for awhile and he is doing fine - and the vet wouldn't touch him anyway."
Two days later and the little deer with the arrow in its leg has not been seen again, but I know that hie is out there somewhere scared and wincing in pain every time he walks too near a tree and rubs against it with the arrow. What a nasty and cruel way to begin your wondrous journey through the wooded hills of life.


