Deer season. The burr in my saddle, and my husband's reason for living. She is his sultry mistress. He waits months for her arrival and spends weeks preparing for her. Because with her arrival comes the chance at him. The Big Hoss. November, December, and January pass too quickly, and he must wait a long 9 months for another shot. He will stalk those horns as long as it takes. Yet, no sooner than the flesh of the trophy begins to cool, he will again head to the woods in search of the next one. The bigger one. The biggest one ever.
The sun will set on this hunting season in a few short days. Women across the state will rejoice. They are no longer widows, taking up the slack for their absent spouse. And he will begin the long wait for next fall. Until he can again shimmy into the branches of a tall oak and dream of the arrival of the next taxidermy bill.
Mixed reviews to the end of deer season at the Dixon house.