Deer Hunting

¶ … Morning, and I'm riding in the back of my Dad's old Jimmy, dust-covered and bone-cold in the darkness. We're making our way past out of the driveway, and I'm still groggy from the alarm's harsh call. Ten minutes ago I was warm and snug in my down comforter, dreaming some senseless dream about Anna Green, from 4th period.

She was smiling at me from across the hall, dressed in a pink sweater, and asking me about my baseball game on the weekend in a soft voice that purred in the empty hallway. Uncle Roy pounds on the plexi-glass door between the cab and the topper. "You awake in there, kid?" he shouts, his gravely voice teasing and warm, and muffled from the sound of rocks crunching under the big truck's tires.

"Better catch a few winks while you can - can't have you falling asleep, and miss your first chance to shoot some big buck." Rusty's beside me, smelling like warm, wet dog, and looking up at me with soft brown eyes. I pat him on the head; it's nice to have company back here - it's going to be a long haul. We make our way past the McKinney's Hardware, past the IGA, then past the Shell station on the corner of town.

It feels like we're sneaking away, furtive and concealed, as everyone else sleeps in their warm beds. A settle down into the rough grey blanket under my feet. Rusty lays his head on my lap, his greying muzzle pushed tight against me, warm dog breath reassuring against my stomach. I wonder if Uncle Roy's right, and if I'll finally get my chance to bag a big buck today. I'd been out half a dozen times with my Dad, and I'd seen maybe six does, but no bucks.

I'd even got a shot off at one of the does, but she was fast, and probably gone before I even pulled the trigger. Dad jostles me awake, "Hey, sleepy, have a nice little nap back here?" Rusty's already out of the topper, tail wagging and eagerly looking into the bushes for squirrels. "Rusty, stay close!" My Dad's annoyed, and sighs quietly. "That damn dog's going to scare off all the deer again." stretch my cramped legs, and crawl out into the early morning.

It's just before dawn, and it's quiet outside. All I can hear is the pant, pant, pant of Rusty's breath, and the rustle of Dad and my uncle unloading the truck. Dad presses the gun into my arms, with a serious look. "Do you remember what we talked about?" he says. "That thing never gets pointed anywhere but at the ground or at a deer, understand." He's serious, and I see the wrinkle in the middle of his forehead deepen when I don't answer straight away. "Yes, Dad, I know.

We've done this before, remember?" I smile at him quickly, so he doesn't think I'm being smart. "Upmph," he grunts, "Good." Uncle Roy pushes off into the bush. I can't see any sort of trail in the cold grey darkness, but he seems to know exactly where he's going. We walk, quiet, in single file for about 10 minutes, Rusty sniffing along behind my heels. Uncle Roy stops, suddenly, in front of the wooden blinds. We crawl in underneath. It's musty, and damp; it must have rained yesterday out here.

Rusty squeezes in beside Dad.