Okay, so it’s hunting season, and the big strong men in this particular area of the country get their jollies by knocking off deer. Which is fine, if you like that sort of thing and find your manhood enhanced by shooting animals that practically eat out of your hand. If you hunt for sport and not for hunger, I mock you. I mock you, I mock you, I mock you.
Which basically begins my story.
My mom and I decided to take a nice evening walk around the new farm. We were enjoying the nice breeze, the setting sun, and lo and behold, I suddenly saw our newly adopted dog, Lucky, run out of the woods.
“Aw, he’s got a stick,” I said. “He’s sooo cute. Come here, Lucky!”
Lucky did not want to come to us, which should have been our first clue that something was afoot. But we begged and cajoled, and finally, he began a slow and steady approach that quickly had us scratching our heads and saying, “That doesn’t look like a stick.”
And it wasn’t a stick. You know why?
Because it was a LEG.
That’s right. A LEG. Lucky had a fresh, tender, sawed-off-at-the-joint deer leg, and let me tell you, that thing was hot off its owner. I don’t know where he got it, and I don’t want to know how. Only, that he wanted to give it to me, and boy, that was surreal.
I wish I’d had my camera. I suspect someone in the neighborhood (one of those big strong men) was dressing his catch and Lucky got a little too involved. Gack! I don’t know where the leg is now—I think he buried it in the woods. I suspect that it will make another appearence in the near future, probably at a highly inappropriate time.