Last year I shot a doe on opening day.
My infant son was home crying, refusing a bottle and
struggling with what would be his first of many bouts of croup, with his
capable yet exhausted dad and bitter big sister reluctantly consoling at his
side. His text stated he’d been crying
off and on, for hours; yet I was at a colleague’s farm with a dear friend,
laying in a damp draw a few hundred feet apart, on the border between field and
forest, at the cusp of sunset. There
were mere minutes left before shooting hours were over.
I knew, with detailed
certainty, that there was a large herd of deer hanging out around here, with
many doe and fawns and at least four trophy bucks that would likely reveal
themselves at sunset. I knew I was at
least an hour from home, and my baby was refusing a bottle, and my pump was
just sitting there in our truck a short distance away as my breasts engorged
with his milk, and he was sad and sick and hungry. And I knew that, should a clear shot present
itself of an adult deer, I would take the shot.
If I could help it, I was not going home empty handed after all that.
So, I shot a doe on opening day.
She was the fourth or fifth animal to exit the forest for
the fields. The first few were smaller
doe and fawns. They walked out over a sandy mound that I had walked over not
15-minutes prior. I had observed fairly
fresh piles of their tell-tale little round turds and extensive hoof prints,
and had decided, in those moments of observation, that with 45-minutes til
shooting hours ended, it was go time.
On each occasion directly before I harvest a deer there has
transpired a short span of time when there is a noticeable pivot in the
atmosphere. This time was no
different. The trigger of that pivot
varies – a loud and telling branch
snap, a distinct musky odor on the air, the angle of the sun on hoof prints and
scat piles – yet the sensation remains consistent: heightened hearing, smell
and vision; a feeling of raised hair on any exposed part of my body, as if
those hairs can also see and smell and hear; deep, measured, calming breaths;
cold sweat with a warm body; rifle in my ready position; tight torso with a
hint of butterflies queasy in my stomach – the hunt is officially on.
When the first animal became clearly visible to me I was
sort of dazed and amazed. Deer are sneaky;
at times they seem to appear out of nowhere. Suddenly there were deer, right there where I had just walked and
observed, I knew it, this is so on, oh my baby boy, oh f-it I'm not going
home empty handed, inhale, exhale, holy shit there are so many of them coming,
should I wait for a monster buck or just get a big doe, inhale, exhale, wow is
it getting dark fast, yet I can still
see them so clearly through my scope, they are so close, inhale,
exhale, this could be a dark gut and drag, inhale, exhale, there are many fawn
with them, don’t shoot a fawn or a yearling, this doe looks larger, is it the mother, I have no idea, breathe damn it, they are pausing,
breathe again, they sense me, breathe better, go fawn, run to the field, okay
mama, come on out a little further, breathe smoothly, inhale, exhale, inhale,
exhale, notice your cross-hairs gently bobbing up and down, steady now, lean
into the bank for stability and composure, a little further mama, inhale,
exhale, great shot, take the shot, safety off, inhale, exhale… I’ve
shot her, she’s run a little way, deer scattering to forest and field, rest a
moment, don’t chase, did I even hear my shot, I don’t remember, it was quiet
and loud, did my rifle even kick, get up, find her, fast, it’s getting dark
fast, man my boobs hurt, are they leaking, it’s time.
I shot that doe on opening day.
By all accounts it was a great shot. The deer was not far from where I shot
her. The blood trail was easy to follow;
she was a few yards into the woods, the bullet went in and out, and I’d find
out later it took out part of her heart.
It was a great shot. It was
getting dark fast, this was no joke, and I had forgotten my head lamp. I texted my husband first – shot a doe, home was fast as I can, will
text as we leave the farm. I texted
my hunting partner – that shot was me,
found deer, need help, just a few hundred feet past you. Texted landowner’s wife – that shot was mine, nice doe, we’ll check in at the house on our way
out. And then I got to work.
The first time I gutted a deer was five years prior. I was
out hunting with a buddy, and neither of us had ever killed a deer, nor gutted
one. I had witnessed it once prior, with
the gal I was hunting with on this occasion.
And I had been talked through it at a cocktail party by a capable
hunter, but that was it – no books, no videos.
On that first day five years prior I also shot a doe. It was actually a lot easier to field dress
than I had expected and the cocktail party talk-through had proven full of good
tips. About 20-mins later my hunting
buddy shot another doe and we gutted his, too.
Since then I’ve shot two more bucks on solo hunts. So this was to be my fourth personal field
dressing and the sixth in total. Not
having a headlamp could be tricky, but I was prepared to be quick about it.
When I found her she was on her side in an awkward position,
so after silent observation to ensure she was truly gone and a prayer of thanks
to her for feeding my family, I gently moved her to a more normal side
position, placed grass in her mouth for her journey, and quickly got to
work. I kept on my orange cap and vest,
ensured my safety was back on and set my gun aside, laid down my orange pack,
laid out my knife kit, bear spray, baggies for organs for my daughter (at age 6
she especially liked to dissect the heart), baby wipes, drag rope, phone and no
headlamp. With the doe flipped her on
her back, I stood with a foot in either armpit and began an incision down the
length of her torso, along the breast bone, down over the stomach area and
toward her teats and sex. Normally this
is a fairly easy cut to make, the body is warm, the fat is still slippery and
you just have to go for it. Today was
not normally.
I shot a still-nursing doe on opening day and spilled her
milk over her body and my hands.
I SHOT A NURSING
DOE. I SPILLED HER MILK AS I CUT HER
OPEN. OH THE IRONY!
Here I stood, baby at home crying and sick with croup and
refusing a bottle, my pump in the truck a short distance away, my engorged
breast seeping milk through my camo, and I just took mama’s milk away from one
of those fawns. Really? REALLY?!
Yes. Really. And
it was getting dark quickly, and I didn’t have a head lamp, so I finished the
job as efficiently and cleanly as I could.
My hunting partner helped out, she talked me down from what easily could
have been a bad adrenaline trip. Working to clean out the insides, knowing I
was leaving behind a meal or two for bear, wolf, coyote, eagle or fox helped me
say focused. We spread her chest with a large
stick to help cool off the inner chest cavity, tied her front legs around her
neck with the drag rope, and hoisted the loops around our shoulders for a drag
to the truck. It was not very far, yet
it did seem longer than it should have.
I got chilled during the drag.
Although she weighed nearly 100-pounds cleaned out, that wasn’t much
between the two of us, yet I was sleep-deprived, worried about my boy, and sad.
It was a flat drag, but I kept stumbling and fretting about her fawn. When we finally hoisted her in the bed of the
truck and got in the warm cab, I sort of asked-told my friend, “Another doe
will nurse her fawn, right!?” “Right?!?”
“RIGHT!!!?” We both agreed yes, with
absolute certainty and no good scientific reasoning to back it up.
It was pitch black by now. I drove quickly to drop my friend
off. When we got to her mother’s ranch
on the river some other friends were there.
They had been fishing and floating a stretch nearby for the day. There were high-fives, glasses raised, backs patted. I told them the story with tears welling in
my eyes as I hustled out the door. They
walked me to the truck and said not to worry.
Don’t let it get me down. The
fawn was certainly fine with the herd. I
left with nearly an hour of dark, solo driving ahead of me, still chilled,
getting tired, wanting to nuzzle my baby boy up to my breast and fall asleep.
The next morning my daughter bounded out to see the
doe. She jumped right up in the back of
the truck bed with her. Then she spent
some time in the kitchen playing with the heart before we sliced it up and made
fritters. Later that day we took the
animal to a local butcher. He is always
very proud of his female customers. This
year he told me he was about to be interviewed about opening day, normally
about how many folks were bringing in their animals to be processed. He was especially excited that it was a
female reporter as he liked to talk about how women are generally a better shot
than men, and usually hunt without ego.
Although he is an odd, short, man who always smells a little off from
handling wild game, he is a wise and sweet man.
I decided to tell him about the milk. As I began, the butcher’s head processor came
out from the back. He is a thin, older
hunchback with stained hands, a wrinkled hollow face and generally gruff
manner. I gave them an abbreviated version
- told them about my sick son at home not taking the bottle, then seeing the
fawns yet shooting the doe anyway. And
finally about slicing through her milk sac and spilling it on her body and my
hands. I started to choke up again. I explained how I was concerned for the
fawn. And how it was so odd to be
nursing and to kill a nursing doe. The hunchback leaned over toward me and put
his arm on my shoulder. He said to me,
“It’s okay, mama. You’ve done nothing
wrong. Hunting season is at this time
because the fawns are ready to wean.
That baby is just fine and you’ve brought in a fine animal for your
family.” He turned and headed back to
his work. And with that, my suffering
lifted.
I shot a doe on opening day last year.
