On the Death of a Deer - A Reflection

I had to kill a deer tonight. 

I didn't want to. It had gotten its rear leg caught in the fence and, suspended between the freedom of flying through the air and the racing over the earth below, it had torn the earth in vain, trying to free itself from the woven steel.

I had seen it from a hundred plus yards away, alerted to it by my dog. It must have happened some time earlier in the afternoon. I watched for just a moment from my porch, realizing what it was, knowing what happened, fearing what the final answer would need to be. Responsible citizen that I am, and timid hunter that I also am, I called the county game warden for assistance.

As a back-story, and a small interlude, I have no issue with hunting animals for meat and, when necessary, for management. I used to enjoy bird hunting but haven't done it in over 20 years. My last venture deer hunting was in 1996, Barney Fife style, a singular cartridge residing in my breast pocket, rifle empty and slung from my shoulder. I made a mistake of not showing the rifle cleared when I got back to camp because it had never been loaded. After being chastised, and then when I tried explaining, my uncle and host looked disappointed. This stemmed from about ten years prior to that when I shot, wounded and lost the biggest buck I have ever seen (before or since then). I am man enough to admit, I had the shakes - Buck Fever, they call it - so bad, I probably would have missed the inside of a 5 gallon bucket with another bucket full of golf balls. But, as luck had it, I hit the deer that time. I know I hit it because when I approached it's fall-down spot in the fading sunlight, it leaped up with blood all over its shoulder and chest area, heading into the woods. I looked until my flashlight died and went back the next day to try to find it and administer a coup de grace. Sadly, the blood trail ran out before I found him. I never actively hunted a deer again. If I can't cleanly kill, I have no business shooting and wounding it.

I traded away that rifle. I needed the money for Christmas, as I recall. Later, I inherited my Dad’s old .30-30 Marlin. Except for a little plinking, it’s never been used for hunting.

So, back to today. The warden was tied up with bow season stuff and asked that I try to free the animal. I called a guy at church who has more field-smarts than I have. He came over and cut the deer loose. Sadly, it's leg was broken, like the warden predicted, and it couldn't run, walk, or polka. It was heartbreaking to see. As an added insult, it had injured itself further trying to escape the fence. We watched it for a few minutes hoping it was just needing to get blood flowing again, but knowing it was more than just a gimped-up leg waiting to wake up.

A half-hour later, I called the warden back, like he had asked. He authorized me to put it down because he just couldn't get out here in the reasonable future. "Have a gun?" I lied: No...sure don't. In fairness, a shooter is responsible for every bullet. With a touch of paranoia that a ricochet could ruin my life (and bank account), I didn't feel too bad. The deer is a ward of the state; a state official can put it down. He told me to call the county sheriff, and they would send a deputy. I did, giving the pertinent information. I hung up, sat on the porch, watched the creature flail unsuccessfully, trying to run, unable to escape, and waited.

The deputy arrived in a reasonable time. I showed him where the deer was, and he went out to do what was necessary. A short time later, a flat, sharp crack became the period on the buck's short life, ending its miserable, traumatic afternoon. The deputy came back to the house, thanked me for calling, and insinuated I could take care of the carcass, removing it from the school grounds.

Sigh. Thanks a lot.

I went inside to get a drink of water and find someone who would let me haul the animal out to their pasture to become feed for the wild animals. Probably 45 minutes had passed since the deputy put the deer down. Having found a willing, local rancher, I got into my truck and went to play the part of the knacker-man with the dead deer.

Except it wasn't dead. It was sighing heavily. The British would say, and in this case it was a literally apropos description, that it was a bloody mess. To be fair, it was probably more dead than alive, but it was still alive, nonetheless. Swearing and crying at the animal's terrible misfortune, at the deputy who tried and failed (did he have buck fever, too?), and at me having the rotten job ahead, I went back to the house to correct my lie to the warden and do what had to be done. (Is that a finable offense, saying I didn't have a gun when I in fact did?) I got out the old thirty-thirty and found a box of Winchester ammunition that was labeled "Western Auto: $9.95" - probably leftovers from my Grandpa, since I was a Remington man back in my big game career - and drove back to the deer.

I am proud to say I did not miss. I did not twitch, flinch, or jerk. The heavy bullet did what it was designed to do, and from a few feet away, it did it efficiently and effectively. This time, the deer was dead, even though it took its body a few seconds to get the message across to its systems. As the thunderous explosion faded into the air, and my ears stopped ringing, and the breeze blew, and the birds sang, and the bugs made their bug sounds, I watched the deer die. That rifle killed its first deer tonight. Funny...Dad bought it in 1992. One deer in 31 years. I would have been content to keep the record at zero.

The rancher arrived, thinking I might need some help. We loaded the carcass into his truck and he said he knew exactly the spot to go - he could unload it himself - and he left me standing in the fading evening sun.

There was blood on my hands. Sticky, red blood. I didn't smell it. I didn't need to. It would smell of iron and a sick, salty-sweetness that is only the odor of blood. Life is in the blood, Deuteronomy says, but it was on the ground, seeping, coagulating, giving life to nothing. The red color was in dark contrast to the white limestone surrounding the deer, as uncomfortable a death-bed as one could ask for, second only to a damned fence.