Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Hubby and I live a semi-hermit like existence in the country. We have five acres of woods and weeds as high as an elephant's eye. If I want to walk on our property, I would have to carry a machete. Since I'm not yet committed to building my upper body, I walk on a neighbor's property.
See the picture? He has it mowed for just that purpose. "Come on neighbor," this path says to me. But there's some wee, tiny fine print and you should always read the fine print, you know.
IT'S HUNTING SEASON FOR DEER! I was on my third loop of the path, breathing the crisp air, enjoying my privacy and communing with nature, when neighbor shows up in full hunting regalia. Actually, he sort of looked like the Cookie Monster in camouflage...with a gun. It seems that I was not alone. I was being observed by men in trees...with guns.
Neighbor informed me, in a sweet way, that it probably wasn't a good time for me to be out walking. It seems that my orange vest was a nice touch, but my gray hooded sweat shirt sort of looked like a deer tail. I'm thinking he was being polite about the gray sweatshirt. They probably saw my gray hair bobbing above the weeds.
He reassured me that deer hunting season, the one where the hunters use guns, would be over next week. "And what can they use after that?" I asked. " Let's see," neighbor said thoughtfully, "there's seasons for muzzle loading, bow and arrow, sticks and stones, table knives, nerf guns, and Nancy Sinatra tunes." So I exaggerate a little, but hunting doesn't stop, just the weapons change.
I don't know what the bag limit is for my species, but let me say one thing to my predators. I am a stringy, bitter tastin' critter and my head won't look very impressive on your wall. Let me walk in peace and the spirits will look kindly on your hunting. Deal?
And by the way, I hear the deer got their hooves on some claymore mines. Be vewy, vewy afraid.