The bullet went through just behind the shoulder, right where it was supposed
to go. There wasn’t much of an entry or exit wound but the internal damage
was done. When the chest cavity was opened it was hard to tell the lungs from
the heart,it was just a soupy mess of blood and tissue with occasional bits of
bone from a few broken ribs. The knife was sharper than expected, it easily cut through the cartilage between the ribs and up to the neck. The worst part was reaching up and grabbing the windpipe.
​
It wasn’t the first deer I had to field dress, but it was the first one I’d done without someone watching. It probably took longer than it should have, because I was being extra careful not to puncture any of the internal organs. I’ve been told sometimes it’s easier to cut the throat on the outside, that way the wind pipe is already severed when you reach up into the body cavity and pull it out. Other people say you can just pinch it off, which is what I did. I could feel my elbow half submerged in the warm soupy blood that filled the chest cavity as the steam of the cool morning air fogged my glasses. I felt my way up to the inside of the neck and found the windpipe. I reached up as far as my hand would go then pulled and pinched until it came free. Then it was all a matter of pulling all the innards out in one nice neat bunch. It was easier said than done, especially since the lungs and heart were so pulverized, but I managed.
I also noticed as I unzipped her belly with my knife that milk oozed out from her. I was afraid when I opened her up she was pregnant, but thankfully she wasn’t. I didn’t see any other deer with her, although I didn’t wait around to find out before I shot her. She was big enough and I went ahead and took the opportunity.
​
She had put up a fight and did not go easily into that dark night. She actually stood up and kicked the air doing some kind of morbid death dance before falling a few feet from where I shot her. I unloaded my rifle and climbed out of the deer stand and walked to her body. It looked like she was still breathing, but in a labored shuttering way. By the time I loaded another round in my rifle to finish her off she’d stopped moving.
​
When I lifted the doe to drain some of the blood out I must’ve picked her up wrong because I noticed blood had run down the whole front of my pants. Buzzards were already circling when I began dragging her back to the camp. Her tongue was dragging in the leaves and I noticed the milky film that covered her eyes as she stared off into oblivion.
​
I made a pot of coffee and waited for my dad and uncle to come back once it got too late in the day to hunt. Although it was a little cold, the sleeves to my sweater were rolled up and I was sweating from the morning’s work. My arms were stained in blood and so was the front of my pants, but I sipped the coffee and waited for the rest of the hunters.
​
It always amazed me: the human capacity to kill. When I was in high school, we went spot-lighting and indiscriminately killed anything that crawled, from rabbits and skunks, to ‘coons and fox. At the time I didn’t feel bad about killing those things, although looking back, I kind of do. Mostly the rabbits, they weren’t bothering anyone. Now as I hung up the large doe and I looked into those dead milky eyes, I felt a little remorse but I was glad we were going to at least butcher and eat her and I couldn’t wait.
​
It’s a lot of work to clean and butcher a deer. Physically, the easiest part is pulling the trigger. Later that night I saw three more deer and had them in my sights, but the day’s work kept me from pulling the trigger. It wasn’t that I would’ve felt bad about killing them, I just would’ve rather waited until the next day to clean them.
​
The next morning another little doe walked into my sight. It was almost too easy. I looked through the scope and waited for her to stop and bend down to eat some grass, and then BLAM. I got out of the deer stand and walk toward my latest kill, pretty pleased with myself and glad I’d got a second deer before the hunt was over. Then I noticed something that made me regret what I’d done. I notice the hooves were rather large compared to the small frame of the deer. I also noticed on the head of the doe were two little bumps gently pushing the skin upward. I lifted one the legs and realized it wasn’t a doe but a small buck, old enough for its spots to be gone, but not old enough for its antlers to have pushed through the skin.
​
I didn’t know what to do at first. I didn’t want to go tromping off into the woods to find my dad and ask him what to do and maybe scare off one of his kills. I also didn’t want to just leave the poor bastard to rot. I stood staring at the little buck and the same milky film that covered his eyes and wondered what kind of trophy he could’ve grown up to be if I hadn’t cut him short. After some contemplation and a prayer, I decided there was no use letting him go to waste. If it was an illegal deer then we could bury it later in the day, but if it was eatable I might as well get to work. My biggest worry was a game warden walking up as I worked and taking away more than just my latest kill.
​
The bullet had done more damage to this little guy than the big doe. Both his shoulders were broken and bits of his lungs and bright red blood were spattered all over him, even on his head near his aborted antlers. The exit wound was much larger too. If we did butcher him, half his ribs were useless and most of his shoulders would have to be thrown away. I also realized both deer had come out of the same area of wood. I made the conclusion I must’ve killed mother and son. My uncle even asked me if I waited around to see if the doe had any companions. I said she looked big enough, and she was, and I didn’t want to give her a chance to leave. I bet if I had waited I would’ve seen her little son trailing along behind her, but now he lay broken and butchered less than a hundred yards from where I’d dropped his mom.
He was much easier to clean, but much more fragile. I accidentally broke one of his legs just by twisting it. He was also much easier to drag back to the camp although I didn’t want to see his tongue dragging in the leaves or see the milky glaze over his big brown eyes.
​
I also wasn’t covered with as much blood this time but I probably looked more miserable for doing what I had done. My dad was the first to come back and look at the carcass hanging in a tree. He looked it up and down and had a slight look of disappointment in his face. “Good job,” he said with a slight smile.
“Nice little doe.”
​
“There’s only one problem,” I said. “It’s a buck.”
​
He looked again at the deer with a puzzled look on his face. “So it is. Well, it is what it is. Those little ‘uns make pretty good stew meat.”
​
“What do you think we should do?” I asked,
​
“Cut ‘em up, what do you think we should do?”
​
“But I thought…”
​
“Did you think you shot an illegal deer?” At this time my uncle had returned and was looking at the deer.
​
“Well, I’ll be…” he said, “I thought I heard that .243 go off. That’s a nice little buck isn’t it? Those little ‘uns make pretty good stew meat.”
​
I began to be a little embarrassed. “Heck no that’s not an illegal deer,” said my dad. “Hell I’ve gone hunting with the intention of killing something that size just so I could have about fifty pounds for stew or sausage.”
​
“Illegal? Hell,” said my uncle. “Ain’t got no spots, ain’t got no antlers, through the rifle scope looks like a doe. Nothing you can do about that but pull the trigger and get to work.”
​
My dad and uncle chuckled a little. “The only problem we got now is making room in the coolers for this little guy.”
​
I felt a little better. At least we were taking this one home. I still couldn’t look into his milky eyes. My only comfort for killing him was at least he didn’t have to be without his mother for longer than a day. I still wonder what kind of trophy he would’ve grown up to be. Next time I’ll just have to be more careful.
Button Buck
