If the reader is squeamish or especially sensitive to the realities of the natural world, I’d suggest that perhaps you move along to the horoscope section of the newspaper as this column might induce a bit of nausea in those so inclined.  I know that the events described certainly did to me.

At this late stage of the hunting game, I hadn’t yet bagged a deer.  I had passed up several bucks and never got a shot at those I wanted to harvest so, during muzzleloader season, I decided to take whatever was offered.

On the opening weekend of this season, I was lucky that within a half hour of climbing into my stand a group of does fed within range.   The shot was rather anticlimactic and the deer fell. As always, I was both grateful and humbled by the experience.  Everything seemed good.

I hadn’t practiced the operation in two years so I was a little rusty while field-dressing the deer but I plunged ahead with the mildly distasteful task.  Things progressed reasonably well and I daydreamed about all the tasty venison dishes that would grace my table in the coming year.  At this point, there was only a small bit of innards left in the deer, that portion lying in the pelvic region.

I tried to pull out the remainder of the organs but encountered resistance.  Pulling a little bit harder, I wondered if perhaps I should make a few more cuts with the knife.  Then, the world stopped.

The organs under pressure unexpectedly burst, send a massive spray of what is technically known as “juice” into my face, eyes, nose and various other orifices.  There are undoubtedly more disgusting things that might happen to a person but I believe this occurrence probably occupies two or three slots on the top 10 list.

I immediately dropped my knife, stripped off my hat and grabbed handfuls of snow in an effort to scrub the odiferous gore from my skin.  This act proved very refreshing, much like having broken glass mashed into your face.

After what seemed like six weeks of wiping and gagging, I tried to finish gutting the deer.  This took much longer than anticipated as the work sequence went something like this: cut, gag, cut, choke, cut, dry heave, cut, ect.  Dragging the deer back to my car was also painfully slow as I was forced to pause between each step in order to retch.

Finally reaching the car, I used a semi-frozen package of wet wipes to clean out my eyes, ears, mustache and nasal cavity but decided against swishing hand sanitizer around in my mouth.  The drive home was uneventful but a bit chilly as I hung my head out the window in spite of the invigorating temperature in the single digits.

I thought the deer had extracted its total revenge on me until a phone call the next day.  My hunting buddy Ken, who hadn’t been with me that day, called to ask where I had field-dressed the animal.  I told him the story but he didn’t laugh.

“We have a problem,” he said.

He went on to explain.  First, keep in mind that we are fortunate to hunt on the private estate of some very wealthy but incredibly cordial and kind people.   I point this out simply to properly frame the crisis

It seems that the owners of the estate had let their two dogs out for a romp.  While frolicking, the pair apparently left the yard and ventured into the surrounding woods. As you have probably already guessed, the pedigreed canines found the greatest gift known to the dog world: a fresh gut pile.

The little fellows weren’t just content to roll in the entrails.  Exhibiting the enthusiasm for which dogs are known, they gleefully dragged the majority of the innards back to their doghouse.  When the lady of the house went outside to retrieve her “kids”, the resulting vocal gymnastics brought the hired hand running with a shotgun, fearing an escaped circus tiger was munching on his employer.

Though the incident upset our host, I must admit a bit of laughter after the fact when considered that the dogs were probably tremendously proud of their efforts.  It is easy to imagine them saying, “Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy!!! Look at what we found, mom!  We saved you some of the good parts!  Here, would you like a spleen??”

Ken pointed out that the only way the situation could have gotten worse was if the main house had one of those swinging dog doors.

So, with one shot, I bagged a deer, set the world record for consecutive dry heaves and almost gotten us thrown off our hunting property.

As I’ve mentioned many times before: “Don’t try this at home, kids.  I’m a trained outdoor professional.”

Yeah, right.

Bookmark It

Hide Sites