A thin layer of crisp snow crunched under the hooves of a number of deer I noticed along the road to Iola Monday evening, all on missions to find soybeans or corn left from fall’s harvest. A poor substitute for some was grass robbed of its green by winter’s harsh cold.
One herd of 15 or so had their heads down sniffing through snow crystals for beans in a field close enough to the road to barely see them. Atop Humboldt hill a stately buck gazed from a patch of sparse brush, a monarch of the wild. Nearer Iola, a quartet of does shied near KIKS’s studio; just south of Elm Creek nine more dared motorist as they trotted across the road.
I’ve taken after deer for nigh on 50 years, and often have attached a tag to a buck, but today just watching their capers is as much a reward; why I haven’t fired a round in seven or eight years. Invariably I find a reason to keep my rifle’s safety locked – too late in the day, too far away, too much trouble to load. The truth? I just don’t seem to have the heart to lay one down anymore. It was that way during the past season. The only buck I would have challenged strolled from timber on the first day, and I was sure a better one would come along later. You know the rest of the story.
Fact is, I’m not sure I have it in me to dispatch much of anything anymore, save ticks, those disgusting ants that invade our kitchen once or twice a year and the squirrels that ravage our crop of pecans from two front-yard trees. The last meal for nine of the bushy-tailed rodents were .22 shorts.
Perhaps part of it’s having, for the first time, an indoor dog, our disheveled mutt Angus. Aging as are wife Beverly and I, I wonder each time he fails to cavort like a pup if something is amiss, and if he shows even a remote sign of being bothered by arthritis I am quick to load a piece of cheese, one of his favorite snacks, with an 81-mg aspirin. In minutes he’s back up and dancing his little circle that tells us he’s a happy dog.
I’ve also come to think more about the hardships wild animals have to endure.
Can you imagine sleeping outdoors when the nighttime temperature dips into single digits? Or having to forage for food, particularly when caloric intakes spike and their internal heating systems demand more fuel to cope.
Livestock face the same rigors, but do have advantage of their farmer friend toting hay or grain to a feeding point and kind enough, with ax in hand, to slash ice covering a pond.
Farmers, of course, have an economic motive, but I suspect a good many look at their cattle as more than just so many hundreds of pounds of beef eventually meant for market.
My mellowing somewhat may be laid at Angus’ door, but I also have an affinity for wild things that goes beyond any opportunistic rationalization.
