In which I report on hunting season

In an earlier entry, I mentioned my beloved friend, David, who very generously sent me some of his most prized hunting trophies. (He appreciates my love of dead things; I appreciate--platonically, of course--his fabulous chest hair. Seriously, it's good. He pretends to be embarrassed that I'm always telling him to take his shirt off, but secretly I think he enjoys it.) Added to the charms of his person, he is a talented chiropractor. When he visits, he scarcely manages to drop his bags before I'm demanding an adjustment.

But excellent chest hair and mad chiropractic skills are not his only claims to fame. Hunting season in south Texas is in full cry right now, and David called to say that on opening day he bagged a ten-point buck. Very nice indeed. And then a few days later, he dropped AN EIGHTEEN-POINT BUCK. I want pictures, but I've never known David to exaggerate, so I'm certain that sucker was every bit as big as he said. (It scored 195 on some hunting scale that I am supposed to know about, but actually don't.)

Unfortunately, I caught a note of wistfulness in his voice, and he admitted that this has ruined him for hunting, perhaps forever. Most likely he will never again even SEE a buck like that, much less have the chance to drop it--with one perfectly-placed shot to the neck, by the way. I was suitably sympathetic. I called him Ahab and told him to come home because he had caught his white whale. (Actually, he's spending this weekend in a deer blind, so he's not THAT ruined.) If nothing else, he could give up hunting deer and move onto chachalacas or pheasant. They aren't much of a challenge--pheasants are so stupid they will walk in FRONT of the car instead of diving for the brush on the shoulder--but they have pretty feathers. Besides, they would be pretty under glass in my living room.