The Hunt
Every winter Dad and my brother dressed in red and black plaid flannel shirts and donned their hunting boots and oiled guns to head off into the woods.
I come from a family of hunters. The area where we live is rife with white tailed deer. A good day had snow so they could track a deer if it was not felled on the first shot.
I loved deer. I was a sucker for Bambi and I wished the deer luck.
Today, the hunt was successful. Dad and my brother, Mark arrived home with a deer carcass strapped to the car. My heart sunk. They untied the deer, still warm and supple, and dragged the gutted carcass to a tree out back to hang and bleed out.
I watched in sober quiet. I admired it's long limbs and blonde coat. I imagined him running free in the woods....until today. I was too young to understand the need to cull the herds to prevent overpopulation.
I still remember the blank glassy stare as it hung there for a few days. It's horns were few, maybe a four point buck, but he was never to drink of the stream or bound with his white flag wagging ever again. Off he was sent to the butcher to make venison steaks and deer sausage. I am not fond of deer meat, but I know they used to love the bond of hunting back then.
This ends my daily freewrite hosted by 
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