It’s deer season again in Texas, which means I only see Hubby and Oldest after dark. While they have not trenched plumbing and electrical lines out to the deer stand, they have put furniture and food out there. And no, the boys haven’t tagged a buck this year, but they did scare the furry pants off one that stood still for too long.
I vote for a hunting-with-truck season to be added to the calendar. With the males in rut, running around like hungry men in a bacon store, I could have bagged two already:)
Youngest has a hard time processing the concept of hunting. It’s one thing to learn the origins of the meat you eat, it’s another to see it. He will currently only eat chicken… “cause they’re annoying.”
I have had many first-grade-level discussions about the gift of hunting and the responsibility of using the animal to it’s fullest potential if you kill it. Which got me into a pickle the night my truck plowed over an armadillo that was running, much faster than I thought possible, across the road.
A horrible wail erupted in the back seat and I immediately tried to console Youngest with explanations of how there is no way I could have avoided the animal and that he died quickly.
“But now we have to EAT him!”
I hit the brakes. “What are you talking about?”
“We have to eat the animals we kill.” More wailing.”I don’t like marmodillos, they’re too crunchy!”
*shaking with silent laughter into the steering wheel*
“You don’t *wipes tears from eyes* have to eat the ones *choking down giggles* you kill with your *not gonna make it* car, Sweetie.”
I didn’t make it. I couldn’t drive for five minutes. It was the kind of laughter that hurts, you know, when you can’t catch your breath and your ribs feel like they’re gonna burst.
Thankfully Youngest forgave my ity-bity murder with strict instructions that I never do it again. I just hope he told the marmodillos…
|Picture courtesy of www.odditycentral.com.|