Boyfran shot a deer today. He knows I want to build gardens and that deer and rabbits and mice threaten that goal. He’s also a chef with a love of fresh red meat. But while I changed into pants and boots, planning to help him retrieve it, the dying animal made its way back to the thicket.
Chris tracked it part way. Later I re-traced the steps and heard it chuffing and panting. I wish we had made a clean kill but that wasn’t the case. Our friend and teacher Rick will search for it in the morning, see if the local pack of coyote-wolf hybrids didn’t get it first. It took them a few weeks to find my dog’s grave, so maybe we stand a chance. And we left human tracks everywhere.
Elsa cat was hunting something tiny as we came back to the house; I hope it was mouse or shrew or mole in nature.
I had the chance to charge thru the scrub woods and get scratched by thorns and caught by thicket growth. I made my way thru gloaming woods, discovering limestone clearings and secret man-made trails. It was a throwback to my young years and I felt bright and alive.
I respect agriculture but I feel so very paleolithic, myself. I should have carved my first flute before turning 8 years old, learned to weave baskets and fish traps, hunt small game and know where all the medicanal herbs grow.
Instead, we lived in apartments and suburbs and I learned how to avoid snobs and beat up cowardly bullies. Now I have a desk job, but I run miles thru tame forests and imagine harsher times.