I've
kept this true tale of anti-adventure
bottled up inside of me since 1999,
and I think it's time to set it loose,
with an emphasis on the word
"bottle".
My
dad was a great archer. He was Ohio
State champ in 1967 and 1969. The
shelves and closets in our house were
crammed with trophies of some sort,
some of them tiny little pins, others
as big as my mom's potted palm tree.
You can guess which one got more
attention.
Dad
loved bows and arrows and the archer
culture so much he would often muse
about shooting an apple off of my
head, but my mom wouldn't have it.
Kill-joy.
Anyway,
I set up stand in McCelray's corn
field, with permission of course, and
will never forget what played out that
day.
It
was about 2 in the afternoon, and I
was getting all hungry and fidgety,
ready to throw in the towel, when a
doe ambled out of the brush about 50
yards away. I silently notched an
arrow and stealthily elevated my
bow, sighting the arrow tip on the
doe's heart.
Wait...something's
not right here...
Our
eyes met. The doe wagged it's bushy
tail like a Cocker Spaniel, and,
nose down, in a gentle, unhurried
stride, walked ever so gingerly
toward me.
Something
told me not to shoot...
The
doe walked within 20 yards of me and
stopped. I raised my bow and sighted
down the shaft once again. A doe in
estrus is no pushover. A 90 lb. doe
in heat can kill a man with the kick
of its razor hooves.
We
looked at each other for awhile
longer, I dropped the bow again. Al
last, the doe's posture became
clear.
A
lot of houses surrounded the farm
where I was hunting, and it was my
guess that this doe was a
"house deer" that was
probably used to getting handouts of
bread and crackers from some
farmer's wife or daughter, and was
looking for a free meal. At ease, I
sat down on a fallen Maple log to
contemplate this unlikely man-deer
moment, the doe and I exchanging
glances like strangers in the night.
No future in deer hunting for this
sorry one-man outfit this day.
After
a few minutes, I packed it in. I got
up, gave the Whitetail a shoo, and
headed back to my car. Looks like
frozen cheeseburgers and chicken
again this winter. I'm not sure how
my dad would have swallowed this
tale, but I'm sure he would
approved. He was a true sportsman.
It's one thing to have a 12 point
200 lb. rutting buck trying to turn
you into a martini olive, but not a
domesticated doe.
Dad
would have given me that easy laugh.
I'm
sure mom would have given me that big
hug.
Copyright
Mark Motz
* * *
* *
Mark Motz is an
amateur writer/musician based in that
Venice of the north coast, Cleveland
Ohio.
