Deer, oh deer.

I drained the last of a cup of coffee and carried all my stuff to the car.   Larry was off to an early appointment; I was just heading out to the office.

Backing out of the garage, I turned and headed out the driveway when something to my right caught my eye.  Ah, yes.  My husband mentioned there was a deer hit last night and it ended up in our yard….this must be the one.  So sad.

I stopped, rolled down the window and was amazed that the deer could be in that curled position, almost looking comfortable, after being hit by a car or truck.  Then the animal raised its head to look me right in the eye.

The deer cocked his head, huge brown eyes staring at me.  I panicked!  What am I supposed to do now?  Oh, my gosh!  That deer isn’t dead….he’s hurt.  It’s too big to take to the vet, and it might have some real objections to me struggling to tuck him into a convertible, anyway.  

Sitting there, as we stared each other down, my racing mind arrived at the disturbing fact that there really wasn’t anything I could do.  This beautiful creature had stepped into the path of the four wheeled world; there was nothing I could do to help him now.

Feeling sad and a little nauseous I took my foot off the brake and rolled out of the driveway.  

Once at work I texted my husband and called a neighbor.  The neighbor is a hunter, I thought he would know what to do.  Of course he did; the highway patrol came to put the animal down and our neighbor took the deer to have it processed.

I guess that’s not all that different from sitting in a tree stand with a gun or a bow and arrow, but looking in an animal’s eyes head on would be a deal breaker for me.   I could never shoot an animal unless it was to save my own life; I certainly couldn’t put an end to his to make a coat rack out of his antlers.

This squeamishness isn’t new for me.  As a child I watched my grandmother kill chickens and my grandfather butcher hogs.  I can remember looking for a glass in the farm kitchen and encountering a pig’s head on a counter waiting to be cooked down into ‘head cheese’.   Those experiences made me what I am today…a very queasy meat eater.

In a world without hot dogs and bacon I would be a vegetarian; I really don’t care much about any other meat product.   I eat meat….but not if it is in ANY recognizable body part.

I eat chicken, but only in pieces-parts.   I would starve before I could choke down a leg or a wing.  I don’t make ‘whole’ chicken or turkey.  Sorry…that looks like an autopsy to me.  But skinned chicken breasts don’t look like anything, and I haven’t a clue where a pork chop might be located on the pig.  Needless to say I am the woman who never looks at the diagram in the meat market.

A few years ago my phobia was put to the test.  I had assumed responsibility for some radio stations in another market; my first outing to meet the public with some of my staff would be at the local county fair.

Arriving at the kickoff event I was taken to a big tent where tables were set up and a big spread of food was laid out.  I was introduced to the crowd from the front of the room and the gentleman who presented me to the group said, “And now we will let the guest of honor be the first through the line.”

I thank him, smiled, and with plate in hand I started through the food line.   People had lined up behind me and we were chatting as I moved along.

At some point someone behind the food table got my attention; I turned to answer the person and there, stretched out among garnishes and fruit was a huge hog.  The man was asking me if I wanted ham.   I couldn’t tell him the hog with the apple in its mouth was making me feel faint….that would have been rude.  Of course so would ending up face down in the Jell-O mold, I suppose.

I thanked him, said no, and doubled down on the scalloped potatoes.

So here is my culinary line in the sand:  I am tolerant of shredded, ground, diced meats that look like nothing from which they were harvested.   I am squeamish to the point of distraction and I do not apologize for that fact.  I am not strong enough to be a vegetarian, but I am a very persnickety carnivore.

And so, as I drove out of the driveway that morning I had a strong suspicion the pretty deer in my yard was about to find a final resting place in someone’s freezer.    The only thing I knew for sure was it certainly would not be mine.

There are some things that just haunt a person…..locking eyes with the food chain is one of those.

 

                                                          Life is Good