Pardon Me While I Go Kill A Buck
I just read an article about a guy who “harvested” a nice buck. The next day his buddy went out...
I just read an article about a guy who “harvested” a nice buck. The next day his buddy went out and “took” a good one.
Please. I killed this 8-pointer dead last fall, and I’m proud of it.
You harvest corn. You kill a deer. You take your kids to school. You shoot a buck. Then there’s the old “bag.” Well, you bag groceries. You kill or shoot game.
Pardon my political incorrectness, but we don’t need to tiptoe around the reality that when you shoot something, it dies. Trembling, you walk up to an animal that will never take another breath or step. You’re happy and sad at the same time. You knife open a deer and are shocked by the smell and the hotness of its blood on your hands. To try to rationalize all that away with the benign vernacular is to degrade the experience.
Sometimes I try to spice up my stories by whacking, busting, nailing or smoking a buck. But if you ever catch me harvesting or taking one, call me on it. That’ll mean I’m old and senile, time to quit.