The hills are alive with the sound of gunfire. Yes, it’s that time of the year when a man’s fancy turns to Deer Hunting!

Wayne is a deer-hunting nut. So are most of his buddies. They get bitten by the hunting bug around July, and by mid September, they have developed a severe case of buck fever.

Each year I look forward to it much the same way that most of us look forward to old age and income tax time. I love it when I’m awakened at four in the morning by the booming sound of male voices, as they gather round the kitchen table, drinking coffee and preparing for the hunt. I adore the sound of marching hunting boots rattling the windows and tracking dirt all over the floor.   And it’s such fun slicing my way through the thick blanket of testosterone to get to the bathroom. These normally sane and sensitive men have become like savages, dressed in war paint and doe urine.

What is it about the sport that would make someone go outside an hour before daybreak, in minus degree weather that’s cold enough to freeze your nose hair, hike ten miles up the side of a mountain, climb up a tree and sit there frozen half to death until evening? I suppose only a deer hunter could explain it. Of course, since I’m not a hunter, it makes about as much sense to me as standing in front of a moving train.

And would someone please explain to me about the clothes they wear. I mean what’s with wearing the five-thousand dollar camouflage pants, shirts, gloves and coveralls  that’s supposed to make them blend in with the tree bark, and then covering it up with a blazing neon orange vest.

I once told Wayne that I might like to go with him on one of these wild deer chases but he adamantly refused.   “Absolutely not!” he exclaimed, horror stricken at the very idea. “I’m not taking you into those woods and then have you make me turn around and take whatever I shoot to the vet for treatment.

“You mean you might actually see an animal this year!” I replied, only half joking.

Now, I never said that Wayne is a Great White Hunter. I just said he likes to go hunting.  Suffice it to say that I’m just thankful we are living in an age where we can buy food at the grocery store to ward off starvation throughout the long winter months.

I’m not belittling his hunting prowess, but I will tell you that I saw a couple of white tail bucks in our back yard the other day and they were rolling on the ground laughing and pointing a hoof at our house. Wayne wasn’t home at the time. He was in the woods hunting. I guess they must have seen him sitting in the tree…what with that big orange vest and all.

Actually he did get a beautiful eight-point a couple of years ago. He swore to me that “yes!” he really did shoot it himself, and that NO! it wasn’t ‘road kill’. And of course, that made me about as happy as a cat with a tin can tied to its tail! I now have a deer head mounted on one wall in my living room. It goes so well with my Victorian furnishings, my exquisite art collection and the creamy lace draperies! Not to mention the soft brown-eyed stare as the deer watched me choke on the last bite of  its front leg. I love the taste of venison, but it sort of takes away from the dining experience when you look up and find it watching you.

Wayne and his buddies are planning another big hunt this weekend. I’m going shopping and hope to fill the freezer with pork chops and beef. You know, the kind of meat they make in the meat department at the grocery store.

But, who knows what might happen? Wayne is all excited about the hunting trip. He seems to think that this will be the year he gets the big one — the one he always sees, but can never get a clear shot at.

So, if one of the reindeer is missing from Santa’s  sleigh team this year, it may be hanging on my wall…right next to Bambi.

I just hope it isn’t Rudolph. Oh, my stars and garters! How that red nose would clash with my pink sofa!

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Tags: camouflage clothing, deery hunting, doe urine, hunting boots, Rudolph the red nose reindeer, white tail deer