The 36th Short Story
The Hunter-Gatherer, Part 1: Butt Shooter
"The Hunter-Gatherer, Part 1: Butt Shooter"
ANDY'S LESSONS FROM LIFE
My 36th Short Story
For those of you unfamiliar with some of the exotic wildlife in Texas, I recommend looking at some of the pictures and captions at the end, before reading the story. It will help you understand what some of these magnificent animals look like. I hope you enjoy more of Andy's life experiences and the lessons that come with them.
FAIR WARNING: Since this is a hunting story, there are portions that some of you, who love animals, are likely to find not so appealing. I also love God's creatures and have always done my best to practice and perfect my shot before going on a hunting trip. I only hunted once a year, and it was for the purpose of putting venison in the freezer, instead of having to buy beef of a cow or steer at the grocers. I've always strived to induce the least amount of pain for the shortest time on my hunts.
"The Hunter-Gatherer, Part 1: Butt Shooter"
“Behold and respect nature, whenever you hunt.”
--Andy Skrzynski
In the crudest of caveman terms, I’ve been the hunter-gatherer in our family, while my fabulous wife prepared the food. Bonnie and I have been more than thankful for such an arrangement. If we depended on my cooking, both of us would have starved within months of our marriage in 1987.
To be clear about the caveman deal, I’ve never grabbed my lovely wife’s hair and dragged her along the ground. If I had, Bonnie would not have hesitated to pay the most expensive lawyer to slap my butt in jail.
As for the “gatherer” portion of the ordeal, I stuck to the gathering of wildlife, not packaged food from the grocery store. I have always hated stores and likely will, over the remainder of my existence.
I started hunting much later in life than most who partook in the sport. For me, it was more about harvesting meat.
My focus remained singular -- return home with enough venison to fill a good portion of our large, standup freezer. Bonnie preferred not spending so much on hamburger and steak at the grocers, and who was I to argue?
After kissing her goodbye and heading for the truck before each trip, she’d offer a wry grin and waved. “Don’t come back until you get that deer!”
Surely, a thoughtful “be careful” or “I’m going to miss you” would have added a more romantic flair, but she only had one thing in mind. While backing out of the driveway, my job was clear as the water from a natural spring. I better fulfill my hunter-gatherer task -- or else!
Bonnie got so giddy about my trips to West Texas, it often gave me pause. What does she have planned while I’m away?
I wasn’t worried in the least bit about any other man. My pressing concern had more to do with how much she’d change the house, before I got back. She loved adding a woman’s touch, whenever I was away for more than a couple of days.
Her one comment, during those last phone calls before I headed home at the end of each trip, had the habit of striking fear into my soul. Besides wishing me a safe trip, she always added, “Guess what I did, while you were gone?”
Whenever I heard those dreadful eight words, my heart froze, and my mind spun so fast, I’d go blind for a moment. Lord, oh Lord, what did she do now?
On one such occasion, I returned from my hunting trip to find that Bonnie’s artistic juices had surged during my absence. She had painted our refrigerator. Who does that? Actually, after my breathing slowed a bit, I had to admit the cream-colored background, with colorful flowers, was a refreshing improvement over that horrible harvest gold, so common for appliances back in the 1980s.
Of course, her crafty ways did not end there. Walking into the kitchen after a different expedition, I discovered she had painted all the countertops with some thick concoction that made them look like marble -- sorta.
I could not contain my initial reaction. Not again! What am I going to do with my love, when I travel? After my nerves settled and I pondered a bit more, the change began to grow on me -- just a tad.
During another trip, Bonnie decided to get “handy” on me. She performed her best impersonation of a plumber and tried to install a built-in water filter under our kitchen sink. That was very thoughtful, but I had to call a real plumber to fix the connections to our dishwasher, that she somehow messed up with her handiwork.
I just shook my head, with my eyes rolled toward Heaven, and mumbled, “Lord, I truly love this woman and I’m thankful you brought her into my life, but she does try my patience on occasion. Please forgive me.”
Oops! Bonnie must have heard my untimely prayer and shot a glare that could have killed a demon on the spot. She snarled, “At least I’m a doer and not a some-day person like you!”
Having suffered that claim a gazillion times, I simply shrugged it off. Installing the water filter is somewhere near the top of my to-do’s list. If she would have only waited another nine months or so, I’m sure I would have gotten to it; but no, she’s so doggone impatient! Fortunately for both of us, we were used to such banter and let it roll off our backs -- most times.
I first kicked off my hunting ventures during December of 2003, not long after the dot-com crash and a couple of months before my 49th birthday. My highly experienced hunting mentor, GeeDee, maintained a watchful eye for investing, and we enjoyed sharing tips about our latest and greatest thoughts on such matters.
My good friend claimed to be of Cherokee descent and loved the outdoors so much, he moved out to the boonies in the Hill Country of West Texas, near Junction. The scrappy countryside was dominated by scrub brush and cedar trees that readily filled the winter air with pollen that could overwhelm the strongest of inhabitants.
After a couple whiffs of the choking clouds of the microscopic specs, Bonnie and I succumbed to uncontrollable fits of wheezing and sneezing. Tears filled my eyes, while rivers of snot poured from the nose like raging flood waters. After a few nasty episodes, we learned our lessons and planned our hunting escapades with GeeDee, ahead of the peak of Cedar Season and avoided the worst of those terrible maladies.
My long-time buddy was the perfect kind of teacher -- always willing to explain things in the simplest of terms. To get me off on the right foot, GeeDee drove me to a gun show in Kerrville, less than an hour away from his ranch. There, I purchased the requisite hardware to accomplish my intended task -- a Savage .270 bolt-lock rifle with a quality scope, a hard, plastic case to protect my new weapon, a decent pair of binoculars, and a box of ammo.
When we returned to his place, he patiently taught me the proper ins and outs of how not to kill myself or others. From there, he demonstrated how to set the cross-haired sight of my scope and the best technique to practice enough to hit the spot at which I was aiming.
During my practice rounds, GeeDee often warned me not to rush my shot or end up firing too wide or high of the mark. The surge of adrenalin that accompanied the first sight of a big buck often played havoc with many a hunter’s patience, leading to the undesirable jerky trigger-finger syndrome. As I took aim, he’d whisper, “Remember; hold your breath while slowly squeezing the trigger.”
Mind you, none of that was as simple as it sounded at first to a rookie like me. Sticking with the proper techniques while steadying my aim wasn’t nearly as easy as one would surmise.
By the morning of my first real hunt, such cautions remained fresh on my mind. Dawn approached, as we settled into position. I eagerly extended the barrel of my spanking-new rifle through the living room window of my mentor’s mobile home, while I continually scanned the area for possible targets.
After a bit of a wait, a couple of white-tailed does strolled up to the corn feeder about 100 yards away. Within 10 minutes or so, several more does and a few yearlings joined the party.
Moments later, a trio of young Fallow deer succumbed to temptation and began nibbling on a few of the hardened kernels of corn. Each of the Fallows were of different colors. One was chocolate, another white, and the third had a spotted coat similar to that of a newborn white-tailed fawn. Each sported antlers, much like those of a moose, which were flatter and wider than the narrow, pointier tines of white-tailed bucks.
Before too long, I couldn’t believe my eyes. A healthy variety of more than 20 deer stood in the distance while enjoying their feast and occasionally dipping their snouts in the nearby pond to quench their thirst.
Not wanting to take the chance of missing out, I grew anxious to take a shot at the biggest of the does among the herd. GeeDee whispered in my ear, “Be patient. The bucks are a bit more skittish and sometimes wait to see what happens.”
The words barely left his lips when a magnificent white-tailed buck appeared from behind a cluster of cedars. The stout beast sported a healthy rack with several tines. Lowering its nose, the brute sniffed the ground, then cautiously approached the herd.
My heart pounded like the drums of a marching band. This is the one!
I turned toward my friend, who peered through his binoculars and excitedly whispered. “That’s a nice buck. It has at least 10 points from what I can count.”
He looked up at me. “Take your time and go for it.”
Before he could change his mind, I rested the barrel of my rifle across a bag of beans on the windowsill and peered through the scope. Holding my breath and steadying my aim slightly behind the buck’s shoulder blade, I released the safety and slowly squeezed the trigger.
Kapow! The rifle's armrest jarred my shoulder as a drizzle of smoke rose from the end of the barrel.
GeeDee hollered, “You got it!”
I quickly looked out over the pond and near the spot where the buck once stood. It laid motionless on the ground.
Lifting my fist high, I screamed, “Yay! My first buck!”
My buddy smiled. “Way to go!”
Excited to examine my first kill up close, I reloaded my rifle, locked the safety, and headed toward the door.
GeeDee waved his arm. “Whoa! Not so fast! We need to let that deer lay for a while.” He gave me a stern eye. “Many a hunter have been gored by a buck they ‘thought’ to be dead.”
He rose from the chair. “Let’s have some more coffee before heading down there.”
Frowning, I shrugged. “If you say so.” I stood my rifle in the corner.
After downing another cup, we both walked outside and toward the buck. Its eyes appeared glazed as I cautiously nudged it with the rifle. Not a muscle twitched. Thank goodness.
Counting 10 tines, I pointed at another smaller nub on the right side of the antlers. “Does this one count?”
“Let’s see. Take off your wedding band.” He snatched it from my hand and slipped it over the small protrusion. “Yep. If you can hang your ring on it, it counts.” A big smile crawled across his face. “Congratulations! You got yourself an 11-pointer!”
My heart pounded against my chest as we lifted the heavy Whitetail into my buddy's truck and secured the deer tag around an antler. Before I knew it, GeeDee stuck his finger in the bullet hole and smeared blood across my forehead.
I stared at him while scrunching my nose. “Why’d you do that?”
He grinned. “It’s an ancient tradition to mark the first time a rookie hunter kills a deer.”
As much as he and I played jokes on each other, I wasn’t easily convinced. “Sure, it is. You’re just pulling my leg.”
“I’m serious. It really is a tradition.”
I relented with another wry grin. “If you say so.”
After hopping in the truck, GeeDee pulled up near a faucet by the garage, and he demonstrated the proper way to field dress the deer. With lots of instructions from my friend, I assisted in the little ways I could.
When done, we dropped the buck off at the meat processor, in the nearby town of Junction. During our return trip to my buddy’s place, I smiled. That ought to be enough venison to fill the freezer. Bonnie should be happy. As it turned out, she was absolutely thrilled.
Between my second and third hunt, GeeDee had built a new house, only a few yards beside where the old mobile home once sat. Instead of scouting my prey from the living room of the previous place, the south facing window of the garage sufficed as our new blind. There was plenty of space, and the loud gun blast wouldn’t startle our partners quite as much.
The day before harvesting venison each year, I always took pride in practicing until confident with my shot. Unfortunately, my hunting episodes didn’t always go as planned.
On one particular occasion, I looked on as a smaller group of Whitetail and Fallow deer nibbled at the corn around the feeder. I had no intention of shooting one that evening and was saving myself for a bigger buck, the next morning.
Even so, I positioned my rifle through the garage window and settled the crosshairs of the scope on one of the larger does. With the chamber empty and the safety locked, I held my breath and squeezed the trigger, as if I were going to take a shot.
Other than a barely audible click of the trigger, all I could hear were the chirps of nearby birds and the crunching of corn as the deer munched the hard kernels between their molars, more than 100 yards away. Perfect! I’m ready.
Preferring not to fumble with my weapon in the dark the next morning, I loaded three rounds in my rifle, locked the safety, and rested the barrel against the wall.
Since I was well prepared to harvest venison, after my first cup of coffee the coming day, I grabbed my Nikon Coolpix camera and captured some of God’s creations before dusk waned to darkness.
One of the larger white-tailed does rose to her hind legs and plucked a few acorns from a low-hanging branch of an oak tree. As she fed herself, a couple of yearlings butted heads and pawed at each other, while nurturing their dreams of becoming majestic bucks, in the years ahead.
When I had my fill of pictures and everybody else dosed off to bed, I nestled next to my wife while hoping for a restful sleep. I knew better.
About an hour before dawn, the alarm’s blare shook me to the bone. My heart practically leapt from my throat, as I flipped the switch on the clock. Crap! Seems like I just hit the sack.
Like most nights before any fishing or hunting experiences, sleep had remained fleeting throughout the wee hours. I blinked my eyes a few times while dragging myself out of bed. Wake up sleepy head! Gotta get that coffee going.
After a few minutes, my buddy lumbered into the kitchen, and we slurped our first cups, grabbed our jackets, and quietly made our way into the garage. After carefully getting in position, without making any noise, GeeDee slowly lifted the window.
The chill of the December air whisked through the opening, while the fragrance of cedar invaded my nostrils. I hope I don't start sneezing.
Even though the sun hadn’t poked its head above the hill to the east, the faintest of light rolled across the countryside. I peered through my powerful binoculars, as my friend looked through his.
Dark shadows of a few indiscernible creatures with long, stilted legs roamed near the feeder in the distance. I whispered, “There’s something down there -- maybe four or five?”
My mentor nodded. “Yep, I see ‘em. Can’t tell if they’re Whitetails or Fallows yet, but they look pretty small.”
As dawn shed more of its orange glow across the slope, additional creatures joined the party. The trio of Fallows, from the evening before, returned. I waited quite a bit longer with dreams of that big buck, but it appeared none were in the offing, this particular morning.
With my hopes dashed and the binoculars pasted to my face, a sigh overcame me as I murmured, “That chocolate Fallow looks decent enough.”
“Yep. I agree. Go ahead and take your shot.”
I slowly settled my aim on the unsuspecting target. Just as I released the safety, the rifle roared. Kapow!
Totally shocked, I stared at my friend. “I can’t believe it fired. I didn’t even have my finger on the trigger! Did I hit anything?”
“From the way that Fallow jumped, I think you hit the rear quarter. What happened?”
“I’m not sure. When I was ready to shoot, I released the safety and it immediately fired.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“Whether it makes sense or not, that’s what happened.”
After thinking through different possibilities, my actions from the previous night rose to the forefront. I stared at him. “The trigger must have been engaged, when I was practicing yesterday. I was taking aim and pulled the trigger, when the safety was locked. Somehow it must have gotten stuck.”
“That might be possible, but the rifle still shouldn’t have fired. All I know…,” he hesitated as a sly chuckle rolled out from his mouth, “...is that you’re a butt shooter.”
My jaw dropped. “I’m not a butt shooter!”
“Oh, I think you are! Let’s go down and see if we can find the poor thing.”
We set out and attempted to track the wounded animal but could only find a few drops of blood here and there. Finally, the trail dried up, and we couldn’t find any trace of blood or where the Fallow took off.
After giving up hope of finding it, my buddy sneered, “Yep, it’s confirmed. You’re a butt shooter, for sure!”
Unable to refute the evidence, I could only shake my head and lower my chin. He’s never going to forget this. I’m going to have to live with this one forever. Great.
Sure enough, on the next trip out to his ranch, all I heard was butt shooter this and butt shooter that. For the first several minutes, he never spoke a sentence without that dreaded moniker.
Fortunately, an opportunity to redeem myself arose from out of nowhere. A large Axis buck, with a gorgeous spotted hide and slender, sweeping antlers, wandered into an opening in the distance.
We both grabbed our binoculars and looked it over. A monstrous, reddish-purple growth hung from the side of its head, as it turned our way.
GeeDee spoke up. “That poor sucker has been returning here a lot lately. I described him to my neighbor, who’s a veterinarian. It’s most likely cancerous, according to him. He suggested killing it next time it came around, because the tumor is starving it to death.”
Sure enough, the poor creature appeared very lean with its ribs protruding through the hide of its sides. The downtrodden animal stood more than 150 yards away -- longer than any shot I had ever taken.
Needing redemption after the prior year’s butt-shooting incident, I replied, “Let me do it.”
“You sure? That’s a pretty long shot.”
“Yep; I’m confident I can hit it cleanly.”
“Okay. You know the routine.”
Having never taken such a long shot before, I looked at my friend. “Should I aim a little higher?”
“That won’t be necessary. It’s not too far. Take your normal shot.”
I set up, carefully took aim, and fired. The unsuspecting buck tumbled where it once stood.
Though glad I shot it cleanly, my heart felt no cheer -- only the satisfaction of putting the poor deer out of its misery.
GeeDee called his neighbor, and the vet arrived within a few minutes. After examining the disfigured beast, he looked up and confirmed his earlier suspicions. “You guys did a good thing by putting it down. It was suffering a lot and wouldn’t have lived much longer anyway.”
This particular trip turned out to be a mixture of sad and fun times, and luckily, Bonnie had accompanied me on this expedition. That was a blessing, because then I didn’t have to worry about her reconfiguring our house in some manner, while I was gone.
That would have been fine enough, but my dear wife didn’t always wait to surprise me, when I was hunting or fishing. No sirree, that would be way too predictable.
On one occasion, she decided it was time to outdo herself, when I was at work. Bonnie shamelessly conspired with her mom, while they were unpacking, after we moved into a renthouse during our last year in Austin, Texas.
As was typical of most hunters, after shooting their first deer, I had the marvelous head of that 11-point buck mounted. I prominently displayed my trophy over the fireplace, for all to see, in the last home we owned in Austin.
Such a rustic intrusion never sat well with Bonnie and her finer tastes. She regularly reminded me, “That thing does not belong in our living room! It doesn’t go with anything in here!” Of course, with my lack of any fashion sense, I wasn't bothered in the least bit.
During the latter part of the afternoon, after my dear wife and mother-in-law had finished unpacking in our new rent-home, I returned from work. Adhering to my bad habit of putting off Mother Nature for far too long, I quickly scooted myself to the bathroom, as usual.
I feverishly lifted the lid and seat of the toilet and let that yellow stream fly. Partway through my glorious relief, I glanced up. Lo and behold, my mounted buck head stared me in the eye.
In a flustered state of disbelief, I hollered, “Bonnie! What’s this thing doing over the toilet?”
Her giggly voice replied from a distance, “What on Earth are you talking about, Sweetheart?”
Before I could zip my fly and wash my hands, my conniving wife and her mom were cackling up a storm in the living room. The moral to this story is obvious. NEVER leave your treasured belongings where your spouse and mother-in-law can get their devious grubs on them!
*********
That's it for now! I hope you enjoyed my latest.
Thank you for your amazing support!
Andy Skrzynski
ANDY'S LESSONS FROM LIFE
My 36th Short Story
For those of you unfamiliar with some of the exotic wildlife in Texas, I recommend looking at some of the pictures and captions at the end, before reading the story. It will help you understand what some of these magnificent animals look like. I hope you enjoy more of Andy's life experiences and the lessons that come with them.
FAIR WARNING: Since this is a hunting story, there are portions that some of you, who love animals, are likely to find not so appealing. I also love God's creatures and have always done my best to practice and perfect my shot before going on a hunting trip. I only hunted once a year, and it was for the purpose of putting venison in the freezer, instead of having to buy beef of a cow or steer at the grocers. I've always strived to induce the least amount of pain for the shortest time on my hunts.
"The Hunter-Gatherer, Part 1: Butt Shooter"
“Behold and respect nature, whenever you hunt.”
--Andy Skrzynski
In the crudest of caveman terms, I’ve been the hunter-gatherer in our family, while my fabulous wife prepared the food. Bonnie and I have been more than thankful for such an arrangement. If we depended on my cooking, both of us would have starved within months of our marriage in 1987.
To be clear about the caveman deal, I’ve never grabbed my lovely wife’s hair and dragged her along the ground. If I had, Bonnie would not have hesitated to pay the most expensive lawyer to slap my butt in jail.
As for the “gatherer” portion of the ordeal, I stuck to the gathering of wildlife, not packaged food from the grocery store. I have always hated stores and likely will, over the remainder of my existence.
I started hunting much later in life than most who partook in the sport. For me, it was more about harvesting meat.
My focus remained singular -- return home with enough venison to fill a good portion of our large, standup freezer. Bonnie preferred not spending so much on hamburger and steak at the grocers, and who was I to argue?
After kissing her goodbye and heading for the truck before each trip, she’d offer a wry grin and waved. “Don’t come back until you get that deer!”
Surely, a thoughtful “be careful” or “I’m going to miss you” would have added a more romantic flair, but she only had one thing in mind. While backing out of the driveway, my job was clear as the water from a natural spring. I better fulfill my hunter-gatherer task -- or else!
Bonnie got so giddy about my trips to West Texas, it often gave me pause. What does she have planned while I’m away?
I wasn’t worried in the least bit about any other man. My pressing concern had more to do with how much she’d change the house, before I got back. She loved adding a woman’s touch, whenever I was away for more than a couple of days.
Her one comment, during those last phone calls before I headed home at the end of each trip, had the habit of striking fear into my soul. Besides wishing me a safe trip, she always added, “Guess what I did, while you were gone?”
Whenever I heard those dreadful eight words, my heart froze, and my mind spun so fast, I’d go blind for a moment. Lord, oh Lord, what did she do now?
On one such occasion, I returned from my hunting trip to find that Bonnie’s artistic juices had surged during my absence. She had painted our refrigerator. Who does that? Actually, after my breathing slowed a bit, I had to admit the cream-colored background, with colorful flowers, was a refreshing improvement over that horrible harvest gold, so common for appliances back in the 1980s.
Of course, her crafty ways did not end there. Walking into the kitchen after a different expedition, I discovered she had painted all the countertops with some thick concoction that made them look like marble -- sorta.
I could not contain my initial reaction. Not again! What am I going to do with my love, when I travel? After my nerves settled and I pondered a bit more, the change began to grow on me -- just a tad.
During another trip, Bonnie decided to get “handy” on me. She performed her best impersonation of a plumber and tried to install a built-in water filter under our kitchen sink. That was very thoughtful, but I had to call a real plumber to fix the connections to our dishwasher, that she somehow messed up with her handiwork.
I just shook my head, with my eyes rolled toward Heaven, and mumbled, “Lord, I truly love this woman and I’m thankful you brought her into my life, but she does try my patience on occasion. Please forgive me.”
Oops! Bonnie must have heard my untimely prayer and shot a glare that could have killed a demon on the spot. She snarled, “At least I’m a doer and not a some-day person like you!”
Having suffered that claim a gazillion times, I simply shrugged it off. Installing the water filter is somewhere near the top of my to-do’s list. If she would have only waited another nine months or so, I’m sure I would have gotten to it; but no, she’s so doggone impatient! Fortunately for both of us, we were used to such banter and let it roll off our backs -- most times.
I first kicked off my hunting ventures during December of 2003, not long after the dot-com crash and a couple of months before my 49th birthday. My highly experienced hunting mentor, GeeDee, maintained a watchful eye for investing, and we enjoyed sharing tips about our latest and greatest thoughts on such matters.
My good friend claimed to be of Cherokee descent and loved the outdoors so much, he moved out to the boonies in the Hill Country of West Texas, near Junction. The scrappy countryside was dominated by scrub brush and cedar trees that readily filled the winter air with pollen that could overwhelm the strongest of inhabitants.
After a couple whiffs of the choking clouds of the microscopic specs, Bonnie and I succumbed to uncontrollable fits of wheezing and sneezing. Tears filled my eyes, while rivers of snot poured from the nose like raging flood waters. After a few nasty episodes, we learned our lessons and planned our hunting escapades with GeeDee, ahead of the peak of Cedar Season and avoided the worst of those terrible maladies.
My long-time buddy was the perfect kind of teacher -- always willing to explain things in the simplest of terms. To get me off on the right foot, GeeDee drove me to a gun show in Kerrville, less than an hour away from his ranch. There, I purchased the requisite hardware to accomplish my intended task -- a Savage .270 bolt-lock rifle with a quality scope, a hard, plastic case to protect my new weapon, a decent pair of binoculars, and a box of ammo.
When we returned to his place, he patiently taught me the proper ins and outs of how not to kill myself or others. From there, he demonstrated how to set the cross-haired sight of my scope and the best technique to practice enough to hit the spot at which I was aiming.
During my practice rounds, GeeDee often warned me not to rush my shot or end up firing too wide or high of the mark. The surge of adrenalin that accompanied the first sight of a big buck often played havoc with many a hunter’s patience, leading to the undesirable jerky trigger-finger syndrome. As I took aim, he’d whisper, “Remember; hold your breath while slowly squeezing the trigger.”
Mind you, none of that was as simple as it sounded at first to a rookie like me. Sticking with the proper techniques while steadying my aim wasn’t nearly as easy as one would surmise.
By the morning of my first real hunt, such cautions remained fresh on my mind. Dawn approached, as we settled into position. I eagerly extended the barrel of my spanking-new rifle through the living room window of my mentor’s mobile home, while I continually scanned the area for possible targets.
After a bit of a wait, a couple of white-tailed does strolled up to the corn feeder about 100 yards away. Within 10 minutes or so, several more does and a few yearlings joined the party.
Moments later, a trio of young Fallow deer succumbed to temptation and began nibbling on a few of the hardened kernels of corn. Each of the Fallows were of different colors. One was chocolate, another white, and the third had a spotted coat similar to that of a newborn white-tailed fawn. Each sported antlers, much like those of a moose, which were flatter and wider than the narrow, pointier tines of white-tailed bucks.
Before too long, I couldn’t believe my eyes. A healthy variety of more than 20 deer stood in the distance while enjoying their feast and occasionally dipping their snouts in the nearby pond to quench their thirst.
Not wanting to take the chance of missing out, I grew anxious to take a shot at the biggest of the does among the herd. GeeDee whispered in my ear, “Be patient. The bucks are a bit more skittish and sometimes wait to see what happens.”
The words barely left his lips when a magnificent white-tailed buck appeared from behind a cluster of cedars. The stout beast sported a healthy rack with several tines. Lowering its nose, the brute sniffed the ground, then cautiously approached the herd.
My heart pounded like the drums of a marching band. This is the one!
I turned toward my friend, who peered through his binoculars and excitedly whispered. “That’s a nice buck. It has at least 10 points from what I can count.”
He looked up at me. “Take your time and go for it.”
Before he could change his mind, I rested the barrel of my rifle across a bag of beans on the windowsill and peered through the scope. Holding my breath and steadying my aim slightly behind the buck’s shoulder blade, I released the safety and slowly squeezed the trigger.
Kapow! The rifle's armrest jarred my shoulder as a drizzle of smoke rose from the end of the barrel.
GeeDee hollered, “You got it!”
I quickly looked out over the pond and near the spot where the buck once stood. It laid motionless on the ground.
Lifting my fist high, I screamed, “Yay! My first buck!”
My buddy smiled. “Way to go!”
Excited to examine my first kill up close, I reloaded my rifle, locked the safety, and headed toward the door.
GeeDee waved his arm. “Whoa! Not so fast! We need to let that deer lay for a while.” He gave me a stern eye. “Many a hunter have been gored by a buck they ‘thought’ to be dead.”
He rose from the chair. “Let’s have some more coffee before heading down there.”
Frowning, I shrugged. “If you say so.” I stood my rifle in the corner.
After downing another cup, we both walked outside and toward the buck. Its eyes appeared glazed as I cautiously nudged it with the rifle. Not a muscle twitched. Thank goodness.
Counting 10 tines, I pointed at another smaller nub on the right side of the antlers. “Does this one count?”
“Let’s see. Take off your wedding band.” He snatched it from my hand and slipped it over the small protrusion. “Yep. If you can hang your ring on it, it counts.” A big smile crawled across his face. “Congratulations! You got yourself an 11-pointer!”
My heart pounded against my chest as we lifted the heavy Whitetail into my buddy's truck and secured the deer tag around an antler. Before I knew it, GeeDee stuck his finger in the bullet hole and smeared blood across my forehead.
I stared at him while scrunching my nose. “Why’d you do that?”
He grinned. “It’s an ancient tradition to mark the first time a rookie hunter kills a deer.”
As much as he and I played jokes on each other, I wasn’t easily convinced. “Sure, it is. You’re just pulling my leg.”
“I’m serious. It really is a tradition.”
I relented with another wry grin. “If you say so.”
After hopping in the truck, GeeDee pulled up near a faucet by the garage, and he demonstrated the proper way to field dress the deer. With lots of instructions from my friend, I assisted in the little ways I could.
When done, we dropped the buck off at the meat processor, in the nearby town of Junction. During our return trip to my buddy’s place, I smiled. That ought to be enough venison to fill the freezer. Bonnie should be happy. As it turned out, she was absolutely thrilled.
Between my second and third hunt, GeeDee had built a new house, only a few yards beside where the old mobile home once sat. Instead of scouting my prey from the living room of the previous place, the south facing window of the garage sufficed as our new blind. There was plenty of space, and the loud gun blast wouldn’t startle our partners quite as much.
The day before harvesting venison each year, I always took pride in practicing until confident with my shot. Unfortunately, my hunting episodes didn’t always go as planned.
On one particular occasion, I looked on as a smaller group of Whitetail and Fallow deer nibbled at the corn around the feeder. I had no intention of shooting one that evening and was saving myself for a bigger buck, the next morning.
Even so, I positioned my rifle through the garage window and settled the crosshairs of the scope on one of the larger does. With the chamber empty and the safety locked, I held my breath and squeezed the trigger, as if I were going to take a shot.
Other than a barely audible click of the trigger, all I could hear were the chirps of nearby birds and the crunching of corn as the deer munched the hard kernels between their molars, more than 100 yards away. Perfect! I’m ready.
Preferring not to fumble with my weapon in the dark the next morning, I loaded three rounds in my rifle, locked the safety, and rested the barrel against the wall.
Since I was well prepared to harvest venison, after my first cup of coffee the coming day, I grabbed my Nikon Coolpix camera and captured some of God’s creations before dusk waned to darkness.
One of the larger white-tailed does rose to her hind legs and plucked a few acorns from a low-hanging branch of an oak tree. As she fed herself, a couple of yearlings butted heads and pawed at each other, while nurturing their dreams of becoming majestic bucks, in the years ahead.
When I had my fill of pictures and everybody else dosed off to bed, I nestled next to my wife while hoping for a restful sleep. I knew better.
About an hour before dawn, the alarm’s blare shook me to the bone. My heart practically leapt from my throat, as I flipped the switch on the clock. Crap! Seems like I just hit the sack.
Like most nights before any fishing or hunting experiences, sleep had remained fleeting throughout the wee hours. I blinked my eyes a few times while dragging myself out of bed. Wake up sleepy head! Gotta get that coffee going.
After a few minutes, my buddy lumbered into the kitchen, and we slurped our first cups, grabbed our jackets, and quietly made our way into the garage. After carefully getting in position, without making any noise, GeeDee slowly lifted the window.
The chill of the December air whisked through the opening, while the fragrance of cedar invaded my nostrils. I hope I don't start sneezing.
Even though the sun hadn’t poked its head above the hill to the east, the faintest of light rolled across the countryside. I peered through my powerful binoculars, as my friend looked through his.
Dark shadows of a few indiscernible creatures with long, stilted legs roamed near the feeder in the distance. I whispered, “There’s something down there -- maybe four or five?”
My mentor nodded. “Yep, I see ‘em. Can’t tell if they’re Whitetails or Fallows yet, but they look pretty small.”
As dawn shed more of its orange glow across the slope, additional creatures joined the party. The trio of Fallows, from the evening before, returned. I waited quite a bit longer with dreams of that big buck, but it appeared none were in the offing, this particular morning.
With my hopes dashed and the binoculars pasted to my face, a sigh overcame me as I murmured, “That chocolate Fallow looks decent enough.”
“Yep. I agree. Go ahead and take your shot.”
I slowly settled my aim on the unsuspecting target. Just as I released the safety, the rifle roared. Kapow!
Totally shocked, I stared at my friend. “I can’t believe it fired. I didn’t even have my finger on the trigger! Did I hit anything?”
“From the way that Fallow jumped, I think you hit the rear quarter. What happened?”
“I’m not sure. When I was ready to shoot, I released the safety and it immediately fired.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“Whether it makes sense or not, that’s what happened.”
After thinking through different possibilities, my actions from the previous night rose to the forefront. I stared at him. “The trigger must have been engaged, when I was practicing yesterday. I was taking aim and pulled the trigger, when the safety was locked. Somehow it must have gotten stuck.”
“That might be possible, but the rifle still shouldn’t have fired. All I know…,” he hesitated as a sly chuckle rolled out from his mouth, “...is that you’re a butt shooter.”
My jaw dropped. “I’m not a butt shooter!”
“Oh, I think you are! Let’s go down and see if we can find the poor thing.”
We set out and attempted to track the wounded animal but could only find a few drops of blood here and there. Finally, the trail dried up, and we couldn’t find any trace of blood or where the Fallow took off.
After giving up hope of finding it, my buddy sneered, “Yep, it’s confirmed. You’re a butt shooter, for sure!”
Unable to refute the evidence, I could only shake my head and lower my chin. He’s never going to forget this. I’m going to have to live with this one forever. Great.
Sure enough, on the next trip out to his ranch, all I heard was butt shooter this and butt shooter that. For the first several minutes, he never spoke a sentence without that dreaded moniker.
Fortunately, an opportunity to redeem myself arose from out of nowhere. A large Axis buck, with a gorgeous spotted hide and slender, sweeping antlers, wandered into an opening in the distance.
We both grabbed our binoculars and looked it over. A monstrous, reddish-purple growth hung from the side of its head, as it turned our way.
GeeDee spoke up. “That poor sucker has been returning here a lot lately. I described him to my neighbor, who’s a veterinarian. It’s most likely cancerous, according to him. He suggested killing it next time it came around, because the tumor is starving it to death.”
Sure enough, the poor creature appeared very lean with its ribs protruding through the hide of its sides. The downtrodden animal stood more than 150 yards away -- longer than any shot I had ever taken.
Needing redemption after the prior year’s butt-shooting incident, I replied, “Let me do it.”
“You sure? That’s a pretty long shot.”
“Yep; I’m confident I can hit it cleanly.”
“Okay. You know the routine.”
Having never taken such a long shot before, I looked at my friend. “Should I aim a little higher?”
“That won’t be necessary. It’s not too far. Take your normal shot.”
I set up, carefully took aim, and fired. The unsuspecting buck tumbled where it once stood.
Though glad I shot it cleanly, my heart felt no cheer -- only the satisfaction of putting the poor deer out of its misery.
GeeDee called his neighbor, and the vet arrived within a few minutes. After examining the disfigured beast, he looked up and confirmed his earlier suspicions. “You guys did a good thing by putting it down. It was suffering a lot and wouldn’t have lived much longer anyway.”
This particular trip turned out to be a mixture of sad and fun times, and luckily, Bonnie had accompanied me on this expedition. That was a blessing, because then I didn’t have to worry about her reconfiguring our house in some manner, while I was gone.
That would have been fine enough, but my dear wife didn’t always wait to surprise me, when I was hunting or fishing. No sirree, that would be way too predictable.
On one occasion, she decided it was time to outdo herself, when I was at work. Bonnie shamelessly conspired with her mom, while they were unpacking, after we moved into a renthouse during our last year in Austin, Texas.
As was typical of most hunters, after shooting their first deer, I had the marvelous head of that 11-point buck mounted. I prominently displayed my trophy over the fireplace, for all to see, in the last home we owned in Austin.
Such a rustic intrusion never sat well with Bonnie and her finer tastes. She regularly reminded me, “That thing does not belong in our living room! It doesn’t go with anything in here!” Of course, with my lack of any fashion sense, I wasn't bothered in the least bit.
During the latter part of the afternoon, after my dear wife and mother-in-law had finished unpacking in our new rent-home, I returned from work. Adhering to my bad habit of putting off Mother Nature for far too long, I quickly scooted myself to the bathroom, as usual.
I feverishly lifted the lid and seat of the toilet and let that yellow stream fly. Partway through my glorious relief, I glanced up. Lo and behold, my mounted buck head stared me in the eye.
In a flustered state of disbelief, I hollered, “Bonnie! What’s this thing doing over the toilet?”
Her giggly voice replied from a distance, “What on Earth are you talking about, Sweetheart?”
Before I could zip my fly and wash my hands, my conniving wife and her mom were cackling up a storm in the living room. The moral to this story is obvious. NEVER leave your treasured belongings where your spouse and mother-in-law can get their devious grubs on them!
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That's it for now! I hope you enjoyed my latest.
Thank you for your amazing support!
Andy Skrzynski

An exotic Axis buck. Notice how the antlers of an Axis are very long and swooped back as compared with a Whitetail. They also have beautiful spotted hides and a prominent white chest. Originally imported from India, they had to face tigers as predators, so they are much more skittish than Fallows and Whitetails. They are also quite a bit larger than Whitetails and have more tender and less gamey venison. GeeDee captured this picture on his ranch in West Texas.