The Killing

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The Killing


The Killing

 

Finally warm, gorgeous weather made its way to Bend but we spent the entire day packing, running the last of our errands, doing laundry, and cleaning Curtis and Sheri’s house. I appreciated our time in town and the use of our good friend’s home. The mini-visit to the ranch, however, really made me realize I’m ready to seriously move “home”. We didn’t leave town until a bit after 7 PM, which flies in the face of one of my safety rules for living in the boondocks: don’t drive in the evening because it is more dangerous on the highways, and the last 6.5 miles into the ranch on cinder and dirt roads with no help around for ten miles is just asking for trouble.

 

We had to witness a young dear get blasted by a mini van right in front of us. Somehow the car barely noticed and just kept going. So much fur was flying and the poor fellow got spun round and round that Bob was certain it lay dead on the side of the road, crumpled and bent. I insisted we turn around and check it, and a good thing we did. The yearling’s hind quarters were shattered but the lovely doe was still alive. Bob came back to the car and I could tell by his movement that the deer was still alive. I had opted to stay in the car, though I’ve been through this experience a number of times, but I was getting my pistol out to go shoot it when Bob reached for it and said he would do the deed.

 

I’ve been a hunter in the past and I have no problem with the concept of respectful hunting, especially when one needs the meat. I was never able to pull the trigger when I went deer hunting with my dad but I quite enjoyed bird hunting when I was younger. Ethically, if one is going to eat meat, then I think a person ought to be able to take the life of an animal themselves. Not only to be part of the whole process but to control the killing and make sure it is humane, and for me, a spiritual act.

 

I’ve carried a small .38 handgun with me for 25 years. It is for my protection but I’ve only needed it two times in a quarter of a century to dissuade men from doing bad things. I’ve used it a dozen times or more to put animals out of their misery that have been wounded by thoughtless humans. Thankfully, I’ve been lucky and never hit an animal while driving, save a bird or two that were killed instantaneously. On the other hand, Bob had never shot a gun until he met me; rather odd for the son of a big city policeman. I’ve always wished he knew more about guns than he does as I believe it is an important skill to have when living in the rural America. And for the record, I believe there should be extremely stringent licensing laws for any type of gun ownership. Far more than what we have in America today.

 

Last year, when it became necessary to do something to control the ground squirrel population around the cabin, Bob took up my .22 rifle and taught himself how to shoot. No small feat for a person with only one eye. As usual with anything athletic, Bob’s aim became as good as mine within a few weeks and we’ve been able to keep the rodents from destroying our yard through vigilance with a gun instead of poison, which injures far more than the critters. Still, for Bob to offer to put down this deer was shocking but I didn’t hesitate for a second to hand over the weapon. It can be much harder to kill a deer than one thinks, especially with a smaller caliber weapon than a large hunting rifle. Not knowing exactly where to shoot for maximum results, it took three shots directly to the head from an inch or two away, to finally end the suffering animal’s life. Back on the road again we talked about the experience for both of us; how it was both gruesome and exhilarating; about how awful it was to kill a beautiful animal, and how awesome it was to be able to help stop pain. We also talked about how it felt for Bob to be the one to do the killing. A man’s job, one he knows I can do, and have done, but one that he wanted to do for me, and for him.

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