Something I haven’t thought of yet

“If you bring back a deer,” I said, “you will eat a deer.”

These were my words to my darling husband when he first told me about going deer hunting this weekend.

“Can I text you a picture if I get one?” he asked.

I recoiled, inwardly shuddering at the thought of his kneeling behind the bloody carcass of some creature, holding it up by its antlers.

“Sure,” I said, “that will be very manly.” I was unable to resist a little proverbial poke.

He beamed and went off to bustle about, readying his rifle, taking stock, no pun…

Over the next few weeks, we shopped at the Sportsman’s Warehouse and Dunhams for waterproof boots, an orange vest, an orange hat, a hunting license, the right size duffel. Larry switched to all unscented toiletry products and aired his clothes outside, wafting items through the brisk air. He bought a hunting magazine.

I didn’t remind him that he’s the one always trying to feed the tame herd in our cemetery, but he must have thought of it, because he asked, “Do you think I’ll be sad if I kill one?”

I’m embarrassed to say, I almost laughed—sadly, cautiously, curiously.

“I would expect so,” I answered.

Truthfully, I don’t know how he’ll feel—any more than he does. And I don’t know if I’ll like venison. I hadn’t thought of it, but maybe I will.