It started during bow season. I was seeing a lot of rubs. For you non-hunters a rub is when a buck scrapes the bark off one side of a tree to attract does and mark his territory. Not to be confused with a scrape which is a rubbed patch of earth that a buck pees on to mark his territory and attract does. Rule of thumb is a lttle buck will make little rubs on little trees, but only a big buck will tear up a big (3 or more inches diam.) tree. I was seeing big trees gouged.
So yesterday in a sloppy soup of snow, sleet and rain I decided to still hunt. I started out behind the church. Taking a slow, steady loop, I sat and walked, walked and sat. I went behind the two new houses and cut close to the Russian's with the new cinder block bomb shelter or White Castle. I came out by where Elijah's trailer used to be. Crossing the road, I cut behind the cemetery, where Bird had pushed the 8 to me last year. I was seeing big rubs all the way, but no deer. By noon I was in the back corner of the horse farm. I have permission to hunt this, but try to stay out during gun season. Too many other hunters. But the weather was so crappy I figured that I would be the only one crazy enough to be out. I was right.
I crested the hill and slid down the back side towards the river. I wasn't even paying attention, when I noticed a deer laying down the hill 10 yards in front of me. It was a buck. He was facing down the hill and never heard me. To walk up on any deer is a coup. To walk up on a buck, so close, is unheard of (for me at least). I hit the ground and peeked up. He was a nice four pointer. Not legal. When I peeked he caught me and scooted down the hill as silent as an owl. Now I was paying attention. Why couldn't he have been a big buck? I was carrying my Browning 12 ga. pump slug gun with open sights. In this weather I didn't want to carry my scoped .243. I'd killed bucks with this gun, with bad eyes. It was more of a challenge than the rifle. 50 yards was my max.
About half way down the ridge I hit a logging trail and turned right. The corner of the river was just below me and I was headng towards the road. Not 50 yards down the road I spotted a deer under a little hemlock. IT WAS A MONSTER BUCK! I'd walked up on two bucks in one day! Even with my bad eyes I could tell this was a nice buck. I shouldered the shotgun as he stood. I fired. He kicked and twisted like a fish, all four feet off the ground. Then he headed straight up the ridge, That's right, UP the ridge. I lost him immediately. I had never shot at a buck this big. All indications were it was a good hit. I chambered another shell and headed slowly down the road. I was sure he'd be piled up just up the hill. Yeah right.
The first couple of minutes of searching for blood didn't concern me. I'd hit plenty of deer and not found blood at the hit, only to find a dead deer 20 yards away. A half hour in and 200 yards up the hill I began to worry. Two hours later I was crestfallen. I kept playing it over in my head. He kicked. He hunched. He twisted. I know I hit this deer. No blood. No Hair. I came home and called Savage. I got his machine. I grabbed the .243 and went back. By dark I gave up.
In the aftermath of this terible event I consulted with the old man, Bird, and of course Savage Lynch. "Sorry Ost." he said,"I think you missed him. Must've shot right over his back." Of all the lousy scenerios this was the best. I couldn't deal with wounding and not finding this deer. I went back today and listened for crows and checked for any trace of hair. Nada. The old man said his old man always said that most deer are missed by shooting over their backs. He was a wise old coot. Savage said he heard of a guy that shot at a deer and four other deer hit the ground out of shear fright. I feel better knowing it was a clean miss. But I still feel like shit knowing I blew a chance of a lifetime. You have no idea how this affects a hunter. Now I'm really going to get serious.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
SEASON UPDATE
The last day of bow season was a bust. I hunted the afternoon out at WSS. It was rainy and warm. I saw one doe and six turkeys. Then on my way home, waiting to turn onto Rt.52, I saw a deer attempting to cross the road. Traffic was coming in both directions and this deer was not waiting. I laid on the horn to no avail. A car hit it broadside. I got out of my truck to see if the driver was ok. A woman, holding a cell phone, was shakey but unharmed. The deer did not fair as well. It was a spike buck and he was hurt bad. I had no gun and did not want to release an arrow into a flopping deer in the dark, on the side of a rainy highway. I grabbed my knife and headed for the buck. WHAT THE FUCK WAS I THINKING? Luckily the deer read my mind, struggled to its feet and disappeared into the woods. I had to remember I was no Savage Lynch.
Opening day of gun brought more rain and 60 degree temps. Shitty weather for deer hunting. I never saw a deer all day. Bird and Ginger hosted our traditional Opening Day Night Betheroo Birthday Party. Shewo came up and I cooked wild turkey and the backstrap of that doe I got last week. Mmmmmmmm! Many were in attendance, but sorely missed were Milawyer and his parents Vic and Georgia. Vic got a "honker" and was wiped out and Milawyer was in the process of extracting large sums of money from some nameless corporation back in West Virginia. A great time was had by all.
The morning of the second day brought high wind and cooling temps. I moved from my high stand down at GNJohns to a spot behind the cemetery where it was more protected. Through the thick woods I could see a doe darting back and forth. The rut was still on. Then I saw a big body and horns. It was the high six I'd seen during bow season, but he was too far and moving too fast. The doe circled and came right for me. I saw another deer behind her, raised the gun, and fingered the safety. The lead doe made me, stopped and started to head bob. Then what I thought was the buck stepped out giving me a shot. Fuck! It was another doe. The buck had vanished.
On Monday I hunted hard all day and never saw a deer. Yesterday I got in the GNJohn stand early. It had snowed Monday night and you could see movement a mile away. Aside from spooking four does off of Ray Gilkey's lawn I never saw a thing. At about 8:30 I decided to climb down and head for the mountain behind the old white Denniston house. Just before I crested the top I spotted 3 does feeding way off in the woods. I set up against a tree where I could see above and below me. I wasn't there 20 minutes before I heard crunch-crunch coming behind me. It was a buck. He crossed 10 yards in front of me and headed down the hill at a steady clip, oblivious to everything. I tried to get the scope on him to see if he had brow tines. He was a good sweeping four. At about 50 yards I was able to stop him with a bleat. He turned his head and I saw a brow time. I put the cross hairs on his front shoulder and squeezed the trigger.
He hunched. He kicked. He ran. Then I lost sight of him. After waiting about 10 minutes I followed his tracks in the snow. I saw where he spun. But no blood. I dropped my bag and tried to follow his tracks, but lost the trail in the briars. Still no blood. How could I have missed this deer? I circled the area for a half hour and was just about to give up when....there he lay against a tree. He hadn't gone 30 yards. He was a six with two broken brow tines. Phew! The wave of relief is indescribable. Aside from my aching neck and shoulders, and a near heart attack dragging the buck out, it was a perfect morning. Stay tuned.
Opening day of gun brought more rain and 60 degree temps. Shitty weather for deer hunting. I never saw a deer all day. Bird and Ginger hosted our traditional Opening Day Night Betheroo Birthday Party. Shewo came up and I cooked wild turkey and the backstrap of that doe I got last week. Mmmmmmmm! Many were in attendance, but sorely missed were Milawyer and his parents Vic and Georgia. Vic got a "honker" and was wiped out and Milawyer was in the process of extracting large sums of money from some nameless corporation back in West Virginia. A great time was had by all.
The morning of the second day brought high wind and cooling temps. I moved from my high stand down at GNJohns to a spot behind the cemetery where it was more protected. Through the thick woods I could see a doe darting back and forth. The rut was still on. Then I saw a big body and horns. It was the high six I'd seen during bow season, but he was too far and moving too fast. The doe circled and came right for me. I saw another deer behind her, raised the gun, and fingered the safety. The lead doe made me, stopped and started to head bob. Then what I thought was the buck stepped out giving me a shot. Fuck! It was another doe. The buck had vanished.
On Monday I hunted hard all day and never saw a deer. Yesterday I got in the GNJohn stand early. It had snowed Monday night and you could see movement a mile away. Aside from spooking four does off of Ray Gilkey's lawn I never saw a thing. At about 8:30 I decided to climb down and head for the mountain behind the old white Denniston house. Just before I crested the top I spotted 3 does feeding way off in the woods. I set up against a tree where I could see above and below me. I wasn't there 20 minutes before I heard crunch-crunch coming behind me. It was a buck. He crossed 10 yards in front of me and headed down the hill at a steady clip, oblivious to everything. I tried to get the scope on him to see if he had brow tines. He was a good sweeping four. At about 50 yards I was able to stop him with a bleat. He turned his head and I saw a brow time. I put the cross hairs on his front shoulder and squeezed the trigger.
He hunched. He kicked. He ran. Then I lost sight of him. After waiting about 10 minutes I followed his tracks in the snow. I saw where he spun. But no blood. I dropped my bag and tried to follow his tracks, but lost the trail in the briars. Still no blood. How could I have missed this deer? I circled the area for a half hour and was just about to give up when....there he lay against a tree. He hadn't gone 30 yards. He was a six with two broken brow tines. Phew! The wave of relief is indescribable. Aside from my aching neck and shoulders, and a near heart attack dragging the buck out, it was a perfect morning. Stay tuned.
Monday, November 17, 2008
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
NOT LIKE ON TV
I started seeing deer at first light. Three does were under the apple tree. Two more came from the woods. Another bunch came across the road, dog barking. By 7:30 am I bet I'd seen 15 does. One skulking through the woods at a steady clip looked like a buck, but I never saw horns. Then, off to my right a decent sized doe was heading for my stand. I clipped my release on the bow string and waited. By the time the doe was standing right under my feet, another had appeared in front of me and two more behind me. I leaned to my left, hugging the tree, drew back and fired. The deer crashed through some brush to my left and took off up the hill. 50 yards out it stopped, slowly turned and headed back to me, now farther out. I saw blood coming from her side. I had hit her way too far back. But she was quartering away, so I felt confident I'd hit vitals. The deer laid down, head up. She was too far for a second shot. I waited for her to die.
45 mins. later, she got up, stumbled, got up again and disappeared into the pines. Fuck! Wounding a deer is bad enough. Losing a wounded deer is every hunters nightmare. I decided to back off and call Savage Lynch. He said the hit sounded good and that most likely if I just let her lay, she'd die. Nonetheless he was willing to drive up the mountain with his dogs Bonnie and Duchess. Bonnie could use an easy one. We found the bed and as soon as the dogs got on the trail a doe jumped up. It was my deer. Fuck again. She crossed the road and ran across a big lawn. I knocked on the door to get permission to follow the deer. The increasingly horrified look on the woman's face, as I explained my dilema, said it all. "YOU WOUNDED ONE OF MY DEER?" Tears were welling up in her eyes. Luckily her husband stood behind her, calming her and assuring her that it was the ethical thing to do. Now I felt worse.
It didn't take Savage and the dogs long to spot the deer under an apple tree not 10 yards off the lawn. I'd warned the woman that she may hear a shot. Savage pulled his scoped .357 from it's holster, as I held the dogs. He shot. He missed. He shot again and hit it in the ass. "She was curled up." he explained. "I was aiming for her head. I put 6 shots in a pie plate at 100 yards." I believed him. But he couldn't hit shit at 10 yards. "Give me your knife." he said. My old man explained that it was a Lynch thing. "Now you know what I've been putting up with for 60 years with his father."
When I went back to thank the PETA woman, her eyes were red and swollen. "I've been crying all this time." she moaned. I told her she'd done the right thing. She said she didn't know how I could hunt. She wasn't angry. Just perplexed. I didn't know what to say to comfort her. I thanked her again and left. It's part of the deal when you hunt. Once you let that arrow fly you are committed. A miss is a miss. But a hit means a kill one way or another, if possible. If it wasn't for Savage and his dogs I easily could have lost that deer. It wasn't pretty but it was successful. Tomorrow is the 13th. I still have a buck tag. Lets hope I can put the arrow where I want it.
45 mins. later, she got up, stumbled, got up again and disappeared into the pines. Fuck! Wounding a deer is bad enough. Losing a wounded deer is every hunters nightmare. I decided to back off and call Savage Lynch. He said the hit sounded good and that most likely if I just let her lay, she'd die. Nonetheless he was willing to drive up the mountain with his dogs Bonnie and Duchess. Bonnie could use an easy one. We found the bed and as soon as the dogs got on the trail a doe jumped up. It was my deer. Fuck again. She crossed the road and ran across a big lawn. I knocked on the door to get permission to follow the deer. The increasingly horrified look on the woman's face, as I explained my dilema, said it all. "YOU WOUNDED ONE OF MY DEER?" Tears were welling up in her eyes. Luckily her husband stood behind her, calming her and assuring her that it was the ethical thing to do. Now I felt worse.
It didn't take Savage and the dogs long to spot the deer under an apple tree not 10 yards off the lawn. I'd warned the woman that she may hear a shot. Savage pulled his scoped .357 from it's holster, as I held the dogs. He shot. He missed. He shot again and hit it in the ass. "She was curled up." he explained. "I was aiming for her head. I put 6 shots in a pie plate at 100 yards." I believed him. But he couldn't hit shit at 10 yards. "Give me your knife." he said. My old man explained that it was a Lynch thing. "Now you know what I've been putting up with for 60 years with his father."
When I went back to thank the PETA woman, her eyes were red and swollen. "I've been crying all this time." she moaned. I told her she'd done the right thing. She said she didn't know how I could hunt. She wasn't angry. Just perplexed. I didn't know what to say to comfort her. I thanked her again and left. It's part of the deal when you hunt. Once you let that arrow fly you are committed. A miss is a miss. But a hit means a kill one way or another, if possible. If it wasn't for Savage and his dogs I easily could have lost that deer. It wasn't pretty but it was successful. Tomorrow is the 13th. I still have a buck tag. Lets hope I can put the arrow where I want it.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
11/11 2X2
Let me just say that some of my favorite people were born on 11/11. Ray Gilkey, Emma Lee, and Iman (one of my two Black godchildren), to name three. Happy Birthday! Now lets get down to business. Enough politics. Enough real estate woes and Hatfield and McCoy feuds. Enough talk of economic down turn and government bail out. The rut is in full swing. It's time to spend all day in a tree and shoot that big boy. Fuck the rest of it.
This morning I went back to my stand behind Elijah's. I've moved it closer to the action, between two houses, in a brushy field with apple trees. Even though I live near big stretches of woods, I've decided to get up close and personal on these deer this year. It's safe with a bow, I have permission and I've got a bird's eye view of all the action. The problem is that most of the deer are still too far for a shot. I barely feel comfortable at 30 yards. That's my max. I have to get them in. This morning that changed.
I'd seen 6 distinctly different bucks in this spot. Most were legal, but small. But I did see one high six that I wanted to take. Hunting this spot I listen for the dog across the road barking. 9 out of 10 times this means deer are coming. The dog barked and a minute later I saw a big bodied deer walking towards me. From 50 yards I could see a white rack. It looked like the six. I clipped my release and waited. He was coming right for me, nice and easy. At 15 yards I saw a sweeping rack, with a good spread and.....4...... what? only 4 points! He strolled right under my stand. I could've jumped on him. I wanted so badly to grow brow tines on this buck. Three or better on one side is the law in this county. I'm trying my damndest to comply. I had to let him walk. No bragging rights on shooting, even a big 4 pointer. It's still early.
Savage Lynch swears by the 13th as peak of the rut. He's probably right. All I know is for the next week I'm in the woods. Gun opens on Saturday. Fuck the crazy neighbors. Fuck the building inspector and fuck the new President and his new puppy. I'm so over the Obama years. I'd love to talk supermodels, but for now that's a foreign subject. You'll have to settle for hunting. It's light by 6am.
This morning I went back to my stand behind Elijah's. I've moved it closer to the action, between two houses, in a brushy field with apple trees. Even though I live near big stretches of woods, I've decided to get up close and personal on these deer this year. It's safe with a bow, I have permission and I've got a bird's eye view of all the action. The problem is that most of the deer are still too far for a shot. I barely feel comfortable at 30 yards. That's my max. I have to get them in. This morning that changed.
I'd seen 6 distinctly different bucks in this spot. Most were legal, but small. But I did see one high six that I wanted to take. Hunting this spot I listen for the dog across the road barking. 9 out of 10 times this means deer are coming. The dog barked and a minute later I saw a big bodied deer walking towards me. From 50 yards I could see a white rack. It looked like the six. I clipped my release and waited. He was coming right for me, nice and easy. At 15 yards I saw a sweeping rack, with a good spread and.....4...... what? only 4 points! He strolled right under my stand. I could've jumped on him. I wanted so badly to grow brow tines on this buck. Three or better on one side is the law in this county. I'm trying my damndest to comply. I had to let him walk. No bragging rights on shooting, even a big 4 pointer. It's still early.
Savage Lynch swears by the 13th as peak of the rut. He's probably right. All I know is for the next week I'm in the woods. Gun opens on Saturday. Fuck the crazy neighbors. Fuck the building inspector and fuck the new President and his new puppy. I'm so over the Obama years. I'd love to talk supermodels, but for now that's a foreign subject. You'll have to settle for hunting. It's light by 6am.
Monday, November 10, 2008
"YOU'RE PANICING, MIKE."
Some people have shrinks. Other's confide in men or women of the cloth. Still others tell all to someone close, taking solace in the words of wisdom of a friend, spouse or family member. For me, I rely on the tried and true perspective of my honeydipper- Morris Cooper. No one can calm my nerves and relax my furrowed brow like an experienced septic man.
Not wanting to incriminate myself, I can't tell you what particular septic system I'm talking about. Lets just say it's in the western part of the county. I made the calculated risk to purchase an old farm house on a postage stamp size piece of property with an old spring well and barely discernable septic. Being a good citizen I got the place engineered. But being engineers they designed a system for a small municipality. Fuck that. So I called up Morris and asked if he could put in a bare bones, workable "upgrade of an existing system"? "No problem." he said in his trademark growl.
Then, after he put it in, all hell broke loose. The asshole, hillbilly satanist, neighbors dropped a dime to the building inspector. I dealt. Then a camera appeared, trained on the house. I dealt again. But what really made me start to twitch was the new system immediately filled with water. I called Morris. He reassured me that this happens all the time. I felt better. But two weeks later the water is still gurgling out of the waste pipe. Prozac does not fix this. So I called Morris again. In a doctorly tone he told me "You're panicing, Mike. Give it some time. Things will settle down. That new ground has to set. Every thing's gonna be OK." And, Goddamnit I believe him. Worse case scenerio we have to put in a curtain drain in the Spring. In with the good. Out with the bad. Yes, I still wish my neighbors would die in a fiery car crash but I trust in my honeydipper. My shit is his bread and butter.
Not wanting to incriminate myself, I can't tell you what particular septic system I'm talking about. Lets just say it's in the western part of the county. I made the calculated risk to purchase an old farm house on a postage stamp size piece of property with an old spring well and barely discernable septic. Being a good citizen I got the place engineered. But being engineers they designed a system for a small municipality. Fuck that. So I called up Morris and asked if he could put in a bare bones, workable "upgrade of an existing system"? "No problem." he said in his trademark growl.
Then, after he put it in, all hell broke loose. The asshole, hillbilly satanist, neighbors dropped a dime to the building inspector. I dealt. Then a camera appeared, trained on the house. I dealt again. But what really made me start to twitch was the new system immediately filled with water. I called Morris. He reassured me that this happens all the time. I felt better. But two weeks later the water is still gurgling out of the waste pipe. Prozac does not fix this. So I called Morris again. In a doctorly tone he told me "You're panicing, Mike. Give it some time. Things will settle down. That new ground has to set. Every thing's gonna be OK." And, Goddamnit I believe him. Worse case scenerio we have to put in a curtain drain in the Spring. In with the good. Out with the bad. Yes, I still wish my neighbors would die in a fiery car crash but I trust in my honeydipper. My shit is his bread and butter.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
44 HALF BLACK
The shining eyes of Obama youth are upon us. In a world changed over night, a future promises your children and grandchildren a chance to say I was there when... As for me, I started last night with a phone call to the folks to see if they voted. "After chemo." my mother said. Priorities. Then the old man got on the line and told me how he voted for McCain because Obama only thought about himself. He's usually perceptive about this kind of crap, but this time I felt he was way off. What he took as self centered, I take as ego and confidence. And for a guy who didn't exactly like the Navy, he's way too impresed by McCain's military experience. As if to say crashing planes and being a POW makes for good Presidential training. I got disgusted and told him to put mom back on the line. She voted for McCain also, but for some reason it didn't bother me as much. She told me she just liked underdogs. I gave her a pass.
Then I went over to Slick's for a election results party. We kept flipping between CNN and Fox. It was painful. But at last my eye medicine arrived and all looked better. As Obama started to look like a shoein, I asked if John Stewart was on? Bam! It had just started. My TV clock was ticking away. Colbert and Stewart were in full effect. It was official. Two little Black girls were about to take up residence, with their parents, in the White House. In January 2009 the 44th, half black, half white, President of the United States will be sworn in. In the meantime, everyone is holding their breath. Yes we can.
I came home, flipped on ch. 13 and watched McCain's concession speech and Obama's acceptance speech. If that stiff armed old coot had been half as relaxed and gracious during the campaign as he was leaving it, I would've voted for him. By the time Obama got to the call and response portion of his "Yes we can." speech, I had had enough. Will the dashiki's and red bowties appear? Is Obama the selfless, compassionate leader he appears to be? Or is he some sort of meglomaniac, leading an adoring throng of lemmings off the cliff? I'd guess somewhere in between. I have a dream. We give him a chance.
Then I went over to Slick's for a election results party. We kept flipping between CNN and Fox. It was painful. But at last my eye medicine arrived and all looked better. As Obama started to look like a shoein, I asked if John Stewart was on? Bam! It had just started. My TV clock was ticking away. Colbert and Stewart were in full effect. It was official. Two little Black girls were about to take up residence, with their parents, in the White House. In January 2009 the 44th, half black, half white, President of the United States will be sworn in. In the meantime, everyone is holding their breath. Yes we can.
I came home, flipped on ch. 13 and watched McCain's concession speech and Obama's acceptance speech. If that stiff armed old coot had been half as relaxed and gracious during the campaign as he was leaving it, I would've voted for him. By the time Obama got to the call and response portion of his "Yes we can." speech, I had had enough. Will the dashiki's and red bowties appear? Is Obama the selfless, compassionate leader he appears to be? Or is he some sort of meglomaniac, leading an adoring throng of lemmings off the cliff? I'd guess somewhere in between. I have a dream. We give him a chance.
Monday, November 3, 2008
PRESIDENT MUMIA ABU JAMAL
Back in the 20th century I was crossing the Denniston Ford bridge, on my way up the hill to my shack, when I heard a man on the radio speaking the truth. Because he was articulating some very perceptive and complex thoughts on politics in America I took note, and turned up the volume. I had never heard this man before. I sat in my driveway, the car running, listening to this voice. I said to myself- Now here's a man that should be President. When he ended, another voice came on and told me who the voice was. Live from death row- Mumia Abu Jamal.
On this election eve, I reset my deer stand to a spot just behind where Elijah's trailer used to sit. I didn't see anything tonight but I have high hopes for the morning. There's a couple of apple trees and a few fresh scapes. The bucks are heating up. But I digress. We were talking politics. We are poised to elect the first Black President of the United States. If we don't we're all fucked. But if we do, where are we? Barack Obama is no Mumia Jamal, but he's all we have at this point. This man is articulate, empathetic, astute, and politically a pure genius. But.....
Millions of dollars have been spent to elect this man. Barrack Hussain Obama is a Christian accused of being a Moslem. Has he made any effort to embrace his Moslem brothers? No. Against the war in Iraq, Obama plans to escalate the war in Afghanistan. Does he have an exit strategy for Afghanistan? No. Has Obama taken any of these millions of dollars and given them to Haiti or Congo, or Dafur, or any other country, cause or issue, black, white or otherwise? No. Will President Obama pardon Mumia Abu Jamal? Who knows. Pray for Obama.
On this election eve, I reset my deer stand to a spot just behind where Elijah's trailer used to sit. I didn't see anything tonight but I have high hopes for the morning. There's a couple of apple trees and a few fresh scapes. The bucks are heating up. But I digress. We were talking politics. We are poised to elect the first Black President of the United States. If we don't we're all fucked. But if we do, where are we? Barack Obama is no Mumia Jamal, but he's all we have at this point. This man is articulate, empathetic, astute, and politically a pure genius. But.....
Millions of dollars have been spent to elect this man. Barrack Hussain Obama is a Christian accused of being a Moslem. Has he made any effort to embrace his Moslem brothers? No. Against the war in Iraq, Obama plans to escalate the war in Afghanistan. Does he have an exit strategy for Afghanistan? No. Has Obama taken any of these millions of dollars and given them to Haiti or Congo, or Dafur, or any other country, cause or issue, black, white or otherwise? No. Will President Obama pardon Mumia Abu Jamal? Who knows. Pray for Obama.
Saturday, November 1, 2008
IT'S A BOY!
I don't have photos yet, but as soon as I do I'll let you see them. They sexed my neice Dr. Katestandingstraightandtall's little nugget and it's a male child. I couldn't be more tickled. Not that a girl wouldn't have made me just as pleased, but as Bird put it, our nephews Tappa-Kegga-Wade, Bayonet Esak, and Blinky are such disappointments, it will be nice to start fresh and mold Little Booger into something we can all be proud of. Bird is already buying deer dragging wagons and child sized wood splitters. I have cuddly coyote skins and rattling horn rattles for him. His parents Dr. K and her husband Nurse What'shisname? assure both the grandparents and more importantly, the granduncles and aunts that we will all participate in raising the golden child. We may have to keep the little sack of germs away from my parents until 1/2 way through happy hour. After that, both the GGs will be pickled enough that no germs can get through.
Now the only looming issue is location-location-location. The storage locker in Syracuse is too small to properly raise a child. Oh! And the naming. Everyone says that Little Booger is not suitable. They even frown at LB. Personally I don't see it, but hell, I'm flexible. My next choice would be Osterhout. Being a traditionalist Dr. K took Nurse ?'s last name as her own when they got married, leaving Osterhout like an abandoned cat caught in the crawl space. Naming the kid Osterhout would seem like a logical solution to this. Osterhout What'shisname? has a nice ring to it.
As far as moving closer to the grandparents and ME, this once again seems like a no brainer. I have a very flexible schedule and a first aid certificate from my hunting guide's license, just in case the kid swallows any bullets. Me and Little Osti can hang out, play with the cats and.....I'm sure we'll think of something to keep occupied. The parents can work and go about their business confident that the BOY! is well cared for. Plus I have plenty of runway model friends who would love to accessorize with a rugrat for a day or so. The kid's got a bright future. March is just around the corner. Bring it on.
Now the only looming issue is location-location-location. The storage locker in Syracuse is too small to properly raise a child. Oh! And the naming. Everyone says that Little Booger is not suitable. They even frown at LB. Personally I don't see it, but hell, I'm flexible. My next choice would be Osterhout. Being a traditionalist Dr. K took Nurse ?'s last name as her own when they got married, leaving Osterhout like an abandoned cat caught in the crawl space. Naming the kid Osterhout would seem like a logical solution to this. Osterhout What'shisname? has a nice ring to it.
As far as moving closer to the grandparents and ME, this once again seems like a no brainer. I have a very flexible schedule and a first aid certificate from my hunting guide's license, just in case the kid swallows any bullets. Me and Little Osti can hang out, play with the cats and.....I'm sure we'll think of something to keep occupied. The parents can work and go about their business confident that the BOY! is well cared for. Plus I have plenty of runway model friends who would love to accessorize with a rugrat for a day or so. The kid's got a bright future. March is just around the corner. Bring it on.
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