Dad vs Deer (The Farmhouse Stories Pt.2)

    The north and west side of the College farm was bordered by property owned by Red River Army Depot.  Beyond our fences was nothing more than acres upon acres of thick pine forests with fire lanes cut through them.  On a few rare occasions we would see army tanks rolling down these wide paths, making test runs we all assumed.  More than not it was just a lot of wild animals.

    My dad would sit on the back porch with a case a beer at his feet and a rifle in his hand.  He would watch for coyotes mainly, not wanting them to get near the sheep.  I would sit with him sometimes and watch.  Dad would just scan the field and sip his beer.  A coyote would slink across the pasture, trying its damndest not to be seen.  When he eyed the wild dog trying to sneak, he would slowly raise his gun, take aim and fire.  Most of the time, the coyote would be taken off its feet and knocked back a few yards.  There were those instances where the beer had gotten the best of his judgment and vision.  If he missed he would quickly jam another round in the chamber, find his target and squeeze the trigger.  If the dog was not dead then, it was definitely running in the opposite direction.

    Any time there was a confirmed coyote kill my dad would hop on the three-wheeler and make his way to the dead animal.  All of the coyote carcasses ended up as some sort of deranged fence ornaments.  He would hang the bodies over the back fence to sort of ward off any other coyotes in the area.  I am not sure this did anything but feed the vultures.
    My dad also liked to hunt deer from that very same spot on the back porch.  This helped fulfill his need to be a self-sufficient outdoorsman, I guess.  I do know it helped put food on the table for a handful of hungry kids. 
     Most of the deer killed on that property where killed illegally but there was absolutely no one around to tell on us and I’m sure that if there had been my dad would have not given a fuck either way.
    It was barely past dusk and he was already six beers deep into his cheap aluminum fold-out chair.  He eyed the field with the last remaining bits of sunlight assisting him.  All of us kids played our games in the front yard.  We spun circles looking up at the evening sky until we couldn’t stand any longer.  Those of us who enjoyed the feeling more than the others, went off to live harder lives.  We all bolted straight up from where we were when we heard the report of the rifle. 
    Dad came from around the back and leaned his rifle against the side of the house.  “I got one!  Who’s coming with me to collect?” he hollered excitedly at us.  We all hopped up out of the grass and gathered around him.  I know I was a proud son.  “Ya’ll get in the truck and I’ll be right back.”  We all ran and jumped into the cab of the trusty rusty Chevrolet. 
    My dad grabbed his rifle from where he left it and went inside.  He returned shortly, half-skipping towards the truck while he adjusted a newly bought belt-holster.  He got behind the wheel of the truck, cranked the engine and let the old beast lurch forwards.  There was a gate almost straight ahead that led to the pasture where the deer was lying.
    Once again the golden rule of farm life, ‘the one closest to the door opens the gate’, rang true.  I jumped out just as excited as my father.  I opened the gate and let the truck pass.  I was sure there were no cattle in that area but closed and latched the gate anyway.  I rejoined the group in the truck and we took off through the tall grass with nothing but two hi-beams and my dad’s half-drunken arrogance to lead the way. 
    We made heavy tracks in the grass as we made our route. We came to and circled around his latest kill.  He backed up to the body and killed the truck.  The lights stayed on with none of that incessant noise that comes with new cars.  We all piled out of the truck.  My dad made his way to the rear.  Curious me, I climbed out of the door and onto the toolbox in the back while the other kids ran to the front of the truck to dance in in the high grass and hi-beams.
     I watched as my dad slowly walked up to the creature with his right hand at the butt of his gun.  It was a .38 that he had even let me try out.  My first bout with the gun was a tough one, but I held firm.  My confidence began to waiver by the fact that I could not hit anything to save my life.  My only reasoning led me to believe that if I brought the gun closer to my face would I be able to get a clearer view of my target.  That was my mistake.  Although I was clear on the recoil aspects of the gun I was more than over confident in my forearms.  The hammer of the pistol reached back just far enough to kiss me on the bridge of my nose.  I was left with a trickle of blood, a single tear, and a few of my dad’s buddies having a good laugh.
     He came around to the side of the deer and watched it closely.  There seemed to be no life left in it whatsoever and apparently he thought so as well.  The hand on his gun butt began to relax.  With a stride only hubris and alcohol could provide, he walked towards the truck and lowered the tailgate.  He gave me a small wink and turned once again to what had really brought us out there.
     He swaggered over, bent down with nothing but legs, and ripped the thing from the ground.  He had a hold of it by all four legs and I watched him as he sauntered over carrying its full weight.  With a squat and a sudden thrust, he threw the deer onto the cold metal of the truck bed.  In an instant the deer came alive.  We were both shocked as shit.  I leapt from the toolbox to the ground and ran towards the other kids.  I craned my neck over the body of the truck and saw the deer standing completely upright in the bed.
     Hooves came down on my dad.  He raised his arms in that defensive motion that is natural to all things that fear death.  With the rain of hoof beats on his forearms, he managed to wrestle it out of the truck.  The deer hit the ground sideways and jumped up for another round.  My dad was almost done with. Those few dozen fast punches from something sharper than any man’s hands, had taken its toll. I could tell the faintness he was feeling from yards away.
     In a last ditch effort my dad drew the gun he had been toting.  Fire flew from the barrel as the deer struck him with everything it had.  It looked like a series of S.O.S. flares going off with no one near enough to save him. We all ducked for cover not knowing exactly where the bullets would land.  Finally, with the last bellow from the .38, the doe hit the ground hard.  My dad quickly re-holstered the weapon and held his arms where he could see.  The flannel jacket that he had been wearing had been ripped to shreds.  Shallow trickles of blood seeped out and colored the cotton red.  He shook it off as only the men of yesterday could.
     Shocked and pissed, he reached down, grabbed the deer and hoisted it once again into the bed of the truck, this time with no fight.  All of us that were only witness to the situation neatly gathered in the cab of the truck and rode silently home, with the man that fought the deer.