Talk of the Town - Yes, deer October 16 2003

Seasonal widow bares all

As we look down the barrel of another hunting season, attention focuses on the intrepid sportsmen who stalk nature’s most lethal cotton-tailed beast. But what about the women they leave behind? All I did was ask my friend Janie a

simple question.

Q: So how was your weekend?

A: Fred’s getting ready for deer hunting, so I didn’t see him much. It’s a good thing we have an SUV; he needs it to lug all that stuff into the woods. He’s spent a fortune on hunting gear this season — camouflage tarpaulins, camouflage overalls, camouflage hats. Soldiers in Iraq don’t need that much equipment. It evens out, though. If Fred spends $700 on a new shotgun, I charge two outfits at Nordstrom’s.

Does he buy anything else?

Another big expense was a tree stand, this metal platform you put way up in the branches. It comes with metal grippers for climbing the tree. I always remind Fred to tie himself off once he gets up there.

Do what?

Make sure he’s fastened to the tree. These guys are up well before dawn, so they wind up dozing off in the tree stands. Some of them fall out. Last deer season, one guy dropped 15 feet into the bed of his own pickup, which was also camouflaged. No one could see him until full daylight. He had so many broken bones, he sounded like a maraca.

Ouch.

Fred just got done painting his tree stand in camouflage colors. Now keep in mind — I was amazed by this — deer are color blind. Which leads to the question ...

Who is all this camouflage for?

They say women dress to impress one another, but I think a lot of guys are doing the same.

Cherchez le homme.

But the worst thing Fred bought — the absolute worst — was this whistle that sounds like a baby deer in distress. Here are these big men with huge guns, and they’re exploiting the mother instinct in a doe. I told him: “There’s some eternal damnation in store for you on that one!”

How long does Fred hunt?

He and his friends go off every autumn and shoot up the woods for about five weeks. There are 15 of them, and they each pay $350 to hunt on someone’s land for the season. They can come back the next year, as long as they don’t break the rules.

What kind of rules?

They’re out blazing away with shotguns at anything that moves — what rules could there be? No tanks allowed? No napalm? Then the hunters have to take time off around the holidays — so they don’t shoot anybody trying to cut down a Christmas tree.

A nice sentiment.

... Before they recommence firing for a few more weeks.

Does Fred ever bring home a deer?

Parts of it. That’s the deer meat — the venison. You have to bring back venison. Otherwise, it’s just slaughter for pleasure, and nobody will admit to that. And guess who gets to cook it?

You?

Did you ever eat venison? I made it one time — I mean I had to, what with all that deer meat clogging up the freezer. And you know what Fred said to me? “It tastes gamey!” Well, yeah! It is game!

So it’s all about food procurement?

That’s one of their excuses. Another one is overpopulation. “There are too many deer,” hunters always tell you. So they have to cull the herd to keep the deer from starving.

Sounds reasonable.

Albert Schweitzer with a shotgun. If you adopt their logic, it’s time to start firing at rush-hour traffic on I-75/85. That’s way overpopulated too.

Is Fred successful in the field?

He hasn’t killed a buck yet. The more points on the antlers, the better. Fred says he’d mount the head for display in the living room. I told him: “I don’t care if it has a thousand points of light, you’re not putting a dead animal’s head over my fireplace.” I’m sorry, but I’ve evolved past that stage.

Are there women deer hunters?

A few, supposedly. I know I couldn’t shoot anything with big brown eyes. Which is not to say that hunters aren’t meeting women. Some of them use deer hunting as an excuse. They’re interested in bigger game.

Such as bear?

Such as bare — as in, very few clothes. At a bar with adult entertainment.

So did you and Fred ever agree on a place for the deer head?

Let’s just say I told him where he could put it.

glen.slattery@creativeloafing.com

Glen Slattery and his big brown eyes live in Alpharetta.