I begged. I pleaded. I thought I had convinced Hubs that Saturday morning was the perfect day for sleeping in.
Until the gunshot shook the morning awake.
Most people would leap out of bed with shots ringing out across the countryside, but me? I threw my arm over my eyes and groaned, “Crud, he got one.”
I threw off the covers, cursing the first day of deer season with every word I know. Not because I’m not a fan of hunting season, but because I had a momentary lapse of support for my brilliant Hubs due to lack of sleep. Once I tugged on my shoes, stuffed my hair in a ball cap, lugged the body-sized cooler down from the attic and drove to the local gas station to procure the ice, I was practically jumping up and down for joy at Hubs’ perfect shot that took down a gorgeous doe.
You would have thought it was Christmas morning the way our boys bolted down the stairs, still on pulling on their pants, to witness the miracle of hunting on their own land. An experienced neighbor helped Hubs clean the deer while Oldest and Middle Son watched. Middle Son proclaimed that he deserved a full fledged man-card because he helped clean the deer without throwing up.
That’s what we in the country like to call real world experience.
Hubs is still basking in the glow of Heroic Hunter, at least until everyone finds out that he only sat out in the near freezing temperatures for ten minutes before the doe walked right into his sights.